The Duke is an old friend of mine. Known him since he was a boy. Emma's heart skipped. Oh. Difficult childhood. Cruel father. The usual aristocratic tragedy. Thornhill's voice softened. I've watched him become exactly what he was taught to be. Cold. Controlled. Beautiful. He paused. But tonight, when he walked in with you, I saw something I haven't seen in years. What's that? Thornhill turned to look at her, his expression gentle. Life.
Emma's breath caught. She didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know if she should say anything at all. Be careful, Miss Ashford, Thornhill said quietly. London society is a battlefield, and you've just painted a target on your back. I'm beginning to realize that. Good. He straightened, preparing to leave. If you need an ally, you know where to find me. I have a soft spot for people brave enough to challenge the status quo. He walked away before Emma could respond, disappearing into the crowd.
She turned back to the dance floor. Charles was still there, still moving through the steps with mechanical precision, but his eyes, his eyes were searching the room, searching for her. When their gazes met across the distance, Emma felt it like a physical touch. A question. A promise. A warning. 6 weeks, she thought. 6 weeks of truth. It would have to be enough because after that she'd have to learn how to say goodbye.
The waltz ended. Charles escorted Lady Beatrice off the floor with the practiced courtesy of a man who'd been trained since birth in the art of obligation. Emma watched him bend slightly, murmuring something that made Beatrice smile, a sharp, satisfied smile that spoke of ownership more than affection. Emma's chest tightened. She looked away, her gaze drifting to the terrace doors. The glass panes were fogged with condensation, the winter night beyond invisible. She imagined stepping through them, disappearing into the cold dark, letting the frost numb everything she felt. But she'd promised him 6 weeks of truth, and truth meant staying.
Hiding again, Miss Ashford? Emma's spine stiffened. She turned to find a young woman standing beside her, perhaps 22 or 23, with auburn hair and sharp green eyes. Her gown was yellow silk trimmed with white lace, and her smile was curious rather than cruel. I'm not hiding, Emma said carefully. Just observing. A diplomatic answer. The woman laughed, a bright sound that drew a few glances. I'm Lady Charlotte Pembridge, and you're the reason half the ballroom can't stop whispering.
Emma's stomach sank. I'm not trying to cause trouble. Oh, I doubt that's true. Charlotte's eyes sparkled with mischief. No one emerges from a conservatory with the Duke of Winterborne by accident, especially not on the first night of the year. It wasn't. Emma stopped, realizing any explanation would only make things worse. We're old friends. Nothing more. Old friends who disappeared together for 20 minutes while the rest of us counted down to midnight. Charlotte raised an eyebrow. Forgive me, Miss Ashford, but that's not how London defines friendship.
Emma felt heat rise in her cheeks. What we did or didn't do is no one's concern but our own. Perhaps. But perception is everything here. And right now, every unmarried woman in this ballroom perceives you as competition. Every married woman perceives you as a threat. And Lady Beatrice. Charlotte glanced toward where Beatrice stood in a circle of admirers, holding court like a queen. She perceives you as a problem to be eliminated. I'm not competing for anything. Aren't you?
The question hung between them, sharp and knowing. Emma wanted to deny it, wanted to insist that she had no claim on Charles, no intention of disrupting his life. But the lie wouldn't come because in the conservatory something had shifted. Something had been acknowledged that couldn't be taken back. It doesn't matter what I want, Emma said quietly. The Duke is engaged. His future is decided. Engaged? Yes, but the announcement hasn't been made yet. Not officially. Charlotte leaned closer, lowering her voice. There's still time for things to change.
They won't. How can you be sure? Because he told me so. Charlotte studied her for a long moment, her expression softening. He told you about the engagement? Yes. And you're still here? Yes. Why? Emma's throat tightened. The answer felt too raw, too honest for a stranger. But something in Charlotte's eyes, a kindness beneath the curiosity, made her want to speak. Because 6 weeks of something real is better than a lifetime of what if, Emma said softly, echoing Charles's words.