So you'll just marry her. Spend the rest of your life with someone you don't love. Yes. The word was final. Absolute. Emma shook her head, disbelief and anger warring inside her. That's not living, Charles. That's surrender. Maybe. He stepped closer. Close enough now that she could see the exhaustion etched into every line of his face. But at least it's a life I understand. A life with rules and expectations and no surprises. His eyes locked onto hers. Dark and intense. No ghosts walking back into conservatories and reminding me of everything I've lost.
The words were meant to wound, and they did. Emma straightened her spine, lifting her chin. Then I'll leave. I'll go back to the ballroom, make my excuses, and you'll never have to see me again. She turned toward the door. Don't. His voice stopped her again. Emma closed her eyes, her hand on the door handle. You can't keep doing this, Charles. Pushing me away and pulling me back. It's cruel. I know. She heard him move closer, felt the heat of him at her back. But I can't, I can't let you walk away again. Not yet. Not when I just found you.
Slowly, Emma turned. Charles stood inches away now, so close she could count the flecks of amber in his dark eyes. Could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. Could smell cedar and rain and something deeper, something that made her knees weak. What do you want from me? she whispered. His gaze dropped to her lips, lingered. His breathing grew uneven, his chest rising and falling with barely controlled restraint. I don't know, he said hoarsely, but I have 6 weeks to figure it out.
The clock chimed once, marking the quarter hour. 1857 had arrived, and with it a countdown neither of them could stop. Emma couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but stand there, trapped between the door and the man who'd just upended every carefully constructed wall she'd built over 18 years. 6 weeks. The words echoed in her mind like a death sentence or a promise. She wasn't sure which.
Charles hadn't stepped back, hadn't moved at all, actually. He remained close, too close by the standards of propriety, his eyes still fixed on her face with an intensity that made her skin flush hot beneath her gown. 6 weeks, she repeated softly, testing the weight of it. And then what? His jaw tightened. Then I marry Lady Beatrice. I fulfill my duty and life continues as it was always meant to without me. Yes. The finality in that single word should have hurt more than it did. Should have felt like rejection. But instead, Emma heard something else beneath it, something desperate and broken. He didn't want this life, but he'd resigned himself to it.
Then why tell me at all? she asked, her voice barely audible over the distant strains of music. Why not just let me leave? Let me disappear back to France or wherever else the wind takes me. Charles's eyes darkened. His hand lifted slowly, hesitantly, and for one breathless moment Emma thought he might touch her face, but he stopped himself, his fingers curling into a fist inches from her cheek. The restraint in that aborted gesture spoke louder than words. Because, he said roughly, I've spent 18 years haunted by what I didn't say, what I didn't do, and I won't make that mistake again.
What does that mean? It means, he stopped, his throat working as he swallowed hard. It means I need to know. Before I chain myself to a life I don't want, I need to know if you feel anything, anything at all, or if that little girl who promised to marry me died somewhere along the way. Emma's heart stuttered. The question hung between them, sharp and unavoidable. She could lie, could tell him that childhood promises meant nothing, that she'd moved on, forgotten, become someone else entirely. But she'd never been good at lying, especially not to him.
She didn't die, Emma whispered. She just learned not to hope. Something cracked in Charles's expression. The mask slipped just for a second, and she saw the raw vulnerability beneath it. The boy who'd hidden in gardens, the man who'd searched for her in every face. Then hope now, he said hoarsely, for 6 weeks. Hope with me. And then, then we let go. The words should have been enough. A clear boundary, a defined ending. But Emma felt the impossibility of it settling into her bones because she knew, God, she knew that 6 weeks wouldn't be enough. 6 years wouldn't be enough. Some things once started couldn't be neatly concluded.
This is madness, she breathed. I know. It will only hurt more in the end. I know. Then why? Because I'd rather have 6 weeks of something real than a lifetime of wondering what if. His voice dropped to a whisper, rough and broken. Wouldn't you? Emma closed her eyes. Every rational part of her screamed to walk away, to protect herself, to refuse this beautiful, terrible offer and save what little of her heart remained intact. But the irrational part, the part that had loved him when she was seven and never quite stopped, that part was already reaching for him.