Yes, she whispered. Yes, I would. When she opened her eyes, Charles was staring at her as if she'd just given him something precious and fragile, something he didn't quite know how to hold without breaking. Then we have an agreement, he said quietly. What kind of agreement? 6 weeks. No promises beyond that. No expectations of a future we can't have. His gaze held hers, steady and sure. But for these six weeks, we're honest. Completely honest. No more running. No more hiding. Just truth.
Emma's throat tightened. And at the end, at the end, we say goodbye. I marry Lady Beatrice. You return to your life. And we don't look back. It was the most logical plan she'd ever heard. And the most heartbreaking. All right, she said softly. Six weeks of truth. Charles exhaled slowly as if he'd been holding his breath. His shoulders dropped a fraction, some of the tension bleeding out of him. But his eyes, his eyes still burned with something dangerous and unspoken.
I should take you back to the ballroom, he said. People will notice we're both missing. Let them notice. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. Spoken like someone who's forgotten how vicious London society can be. I haven't forgotten. Emma straightened her spine, lifting her chin in defiance of the judgment she knew awaited her. I just don't care anymore. You should. They'll tear you apart if they sense weakness. Then I won't show them any.
Charles studied her for a long moment, something like admiration flickering in his expression. You've grown strong. I had to. Exile doesn't leave room for softness. No, he agreed quietly. I suppose it doesn't. He offered her his arm, a formal gesture, proper and distant. But when Emma slipped her gloved hand into the crook of his elbow, she felt the tension in his muscles, felt the way he stiffened at her touch, as if even that small contact was almost too much to bear.
They walked toward the door together, their footsteps muffled by the damp stone floor. The conservatory felt different now, less like a sanctuary and more like a threshold, a place where endings became beginnings. Charles paused at the door, his hand on the brass handle. Emma. She looked up at him. Yes. Whatever happens in these six weeks, whatever we say or do, he hesitated, his jaw working. I need you to know that none of it changes what must happen at the end. I know.
I mean it. I can't. I won't break the engagement. Too many people depend on that alliance. The estate, the tenants, the legacy. Charles. Emma placed her free hand over his, silencing him. I understand. I'm not asking you to save me. I'm not asking for a fairy tale. I'm just asking for 6 weeks of honesty. That's all. He stared at her hand on his, his breathing shallow. You deserve more than that. Perhaps, but I'll take what I can get.
Something painful flickered across his face, but he nodded, accepting her words, even as they clearly wounded him. He opened the door. The ballroom hit them like a wave. Heat, light, noise, the overwhelming press of bodies and perfume and expectation. Emma blinked against the sudden brightness, her eyes adjusting slowly. The waltz had ended. Couples were dispersing, laughing, fanning themselves in the oppressive warmth. And then she felt it. The stares. Dozens of them, hundreds, maybe. Eyes turning in their direction, curiosity sharpening into speculation, whispers spreading like wildfire through the crowd.
The Duke of Winterborne with a woman alone. Who is she? Did you see where they came from? The conservatory together, scandalous. Emma's hand tightened on Charles's arm, her spine stiffening. She felt the weight of judgment settling over her like a suffocating blanket. Felt the names forming on lips she couldn't see. Ashford, the traitor's daughter, the exile. But Charles didn't flinch. Didn't release her or step away or offer any explanation. He simply walked forward, his posture rigid with aristocratic authority, guiding her through the crowd as if daring anyone to question him.
They were halfway across the ballroom when a woman stepped into their path. She was beautiful in the way expensive things were beautiful, polished, perfect, cold. Dark hair piled high in an elaborate coiffure, diamonds glittering at her throat and wrists. Her gown was deep emerald silk cut to emphasize her figure while remaining within the bounds of modesty. She smiled, but the expression didn't reach her eyes. Your grace, she said, her voice smooth as honey. I was beginning to worry you'd abandon the festivities entirely.