Charlotte's breath caught. Oh. Oh, Miss Ashford, you're in love with him. I don't know what I am. Emma's voice cracked slightly. I haven't seen him in 18 years. He's a stranger now. But somehow, somehow he still feels like the only person in the world who knows me. That's love, Charlotte said gently. Or the beginning of it, at least. Then it's a love with an expiration date. Most loves are. We just don't usually know the date in advance.
Charlotte touched Emma's arm, a brief gesture of solidarity. For what it's worth, I think you're brave. Most women would have walked away the moment they heard about Lady Beatrice. Maybe they're smarter than I am. Or maybe they've never felt what you're feeling. Charlotte glanced toward the dance floor where couples were forming for another waltz. Life is short, Miss Ashford, and passion is rare. If you have a chance at it, even for 6 weeks, I say take it. Propriety be damned.
Before Emma could respond, Charlotte drifted away, absorbed back into the glittering crowd. Emma stood alone again, her mind churning. Propriety be damned. Easy words. Dangerous words. The kind of words that led to scandal and ruin, but also perhaps the kind of words that led to life. Miss Ashford. Emma turned. Charles stood a few feet away, his expression carefully neutral. But his eyes, his eyes were anything but neutral. They burned with barely contained intensity, sweeping over her face as if confirming she was real.
Your grace, Emma said, her voice steadier than she felt. Would you? He hesitated, his jaw tightening. Would you walk with me? Where? The terrace. It's quieter. Emma glanced around. A dozen pairs of eyes were already watching them. If she left the ballroom with him again, the whispers would become shouts. The speculation would harden into certainty. People will talk, she said quietly. Let them. Charles extended his hand, palm up, an offering, a choice. Unless you'd prefer to stay here and be stared at like an exhibit in a museum.
Emma looked at his hand, at the long fingers, the faint calluses that suggested he did more than sit in drawing rooms, at the vulnerability in that simple gesture. She took his hand. His fingers closed around hers, warm even through the layers of gloves. He led her through the crowd, not rushing, not hiding, just walking with the quiet authority of a man who'd stopped caring what others thought.
The terrace was empty, the cold keeping the other guests inside. The moment they stepped through the doors, the temperature dropped sharply. Emma shivered, her breath misting in the frigid air. Charles immediately shrugged out of his tailcoat and draped it over her shoulders. The fabric was still warm from his body, carrying the scent of him, cedar and rain, and something darker. You'll freeze, Emma protested. I'll manage.
He moved to the stone balustrade, his hands gripping the edge. The moonlight caught the hard line of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. He looked like a man at war with himself. Emma joined him, standing close but not touching. Below them, the garden stretched out in shadow, bare trees, frozen fountains, pathways lost to winter. I'm sorry, Charles said suddenly. For what? For dragging you into this. For being selfish enough to ask you to stay when I know how it looks, what people will say about you.
I'm not a child, Charles. I made my own choice. A choice I shouldn't have offered. But you did, and I accepted. Emma turned to face him, forcing him to look at her. We made an agreement. 6 weeks. I intend to honor it. His eyes searched hers, dark and troubled. Even if it ruins you. I was already ruined the day my father destroyed our name. What more can they take from me? Your chance at a future. A respectable marriage. A place in society.
Emma laughed, the sound bitter. You think I ever had those things, Charles? I'm the daughter of a traitor and a cheat. No respectable man would have me even if I begged. My future was decided 18 years ago. That's not true. Isn't it? Look at how they stared at me tonight. Look at how Lady Beatrice spoke to me. I'm a curiosity at best, a scandal at worst. There's no redemption for people like me. Charles's hands curled into fists on the balustrade. You deserve better than that. Perhaps. But deserving and receiving are rarely the same thing.