My father died 3 years ago, he said quietly. I became the Duke of Winterborne, and I learned very quickly that the title comes with expectations, responsibilities, debts, not the monetary kind, but the kind you owe to a legacy. To a name. He paused, his gaze distant. I learned that men like me don't get to choose our own paths. We inherit them. Emma's heart ached. She wanted to reach out, to touch his hand, to offer some kind of comfort, but she didn't dare. Not yet.
You sound like you hate it. I do. The admission came swift and sharp, as if he'd been holding it in for years. Every day I wake up in that house, surrounded by portraits of men who came before me. All of them expecting me to be something I'm not, something I'll never be. And what's that? Cold. Unfeeling. Perfect. He laughed, a sound devoid of humor. My father spent 30 years molding me into his image, beating the softness out of me, teaching me that emotion is weakness, and weakness is death.
His eyes found hers again, and in them she saw a pain so deep it stole her breath. He succeeded mostly, except for one thing. What? Emma whispered. You. The words settled between them like a confession. Like a wound laid bare. Emma's hands trembled. She pressed them together, fingers interlaced, trying to still the shaking. Charles, you were the one thing he couldn't take from me, he continued, his voice rough. The one memory he couldn't poison. Every time he told me I was worthless, every time he locked me in that study and made me recite lineages until my voice gave out, I thought of you. Of that night by the fountain, of the way you looked at me like I mattered.
Tears burned behind her eyes. Emma blinked rapidly, refusing to let them fall. You did matter. Did I? His smile was sad, broken. Then why did you never write? The question was a knife slipping between her ribs with surgical precision. Emma's breath hitched. I couldn't. My mother, she forbade it. She said any connection to England would only make things worse, that we had to disappear completely if we wanted to survive. And you listened. I was seven, Charles. I didn't have a choice.
You were 10, 12, 15, 20. Each age was a punctuation mark, a reminder of all the years that had passed. At some point, Emma, you had a choice, and you chose not to reach out. The accusation stung because it was true, partially at least. There had been moments, hundreds of them, when she thought about writing to him, when she'd sat at her grandmother's writing desk with paper and ink, trying to find the words. But fear had always stopped her. Fear that he'd forgotten. Fear that he'd moved on. Fear that she'd become nothing more than a childhood memory, too small and fragile to survive the weight of reality.
You're right, she said quietly. I was afraid. Of what? That you wouldn't remember me. That you wouldn't care. She forced herself to meet his gaze even though it hurt. That I'd write to you and get nothing back. And that silence would break something in me I couldn't afford to lose. Charles stared at her for a long moment. The anger in his eyes softened, replaced by something more complicated, something that looked almost like understanding. I would have written back, he said finally. Every time. I would have written back.
Emma's chest tightened. I know that now. Does it change anything? She wanted to say yes. Wanted to believe that knowing could undo 18 years of absence. But the truth was more complicated. They weren't children anymore. They were strangers wearing the faces of people they used to know. I don't know, she whispered. Charles nodded slowly, as if he'd expected that answer. He turned away from her, his gaze drifting to the fogged glass walls. By them. The ballroom blazed with light and laughter, a world neither of them belonged to anymore.
My father arranged a marriage for me, he said suddenly, his voice flat. Before he died. A contract with the Harrington family. Lady Beatrice Harrington. Emma's stomach dropped. Of course. Of course there was someone else. He was a duke, 30 years old, handsome, wealthy, titled. It would be stranger if there wasn't a woman waiting in the wings. When? she asked, surprised by how steady her voice sounded. The engagement will be announced in 6 weeks. The wedding 3 months after that.
6 weeks? Such a short time. Such an impossible stretch of days. Do you love her? Emma didn't know why she asked. Didn't know if she wanted the answer. Charles turned back to her, his expression unreadable. No. Relief flooded through her, swift and irrational. She had no right to feel it. No claim on him. But her heart didn't care about logic. Then why? Because it's what's expected. Because the Harrington dowry will save the estate. Because, he stopped, his jaw working. Because I'm tired of fighting, Emma. I'm tired of pretending there's any other path for me.