Chapter 3 #2
Perhaps Lord Everwyck had been right. Perhaps she’d consumed too many books, too many fanciful stories that had convinced her love could be more than duty and toleration. Had she built her expectations on illusions?
“Thank you,” Jane said. “Truly. But I must begin to think about my future… or what little of it remains.”
Olivia sat straighter. “Not so long ago, I was in a similar place. And everything worked out.”
Jane glanced at her, wondering if her friend truly believed that—or if she was simply offering hope because that’s what friends did.
Lord Westmere gave Olivia’s hand a gentle squeeze before taking his seat. “I’m afraid I have work to tend to this afternoon, but I’m free this evening. Would you care to accompany me to Vauxhall Gardens?”
Olivia’s face lit up instantly. “I’d love that.” She turned to Jane with a hopeful smile. “Will you join us?”
Jane stiffened, almost recoiling from the idea. Her hand lifted automatically in protest. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“You can’t hide out here forever,” Olivia said, the gentle note in her voice sharpened by concern. “It would be good for you to get some fresh air. It might lift your spirits.”
“I… uh…” Jane faltered. She didn’t want to be ungrateful, but the thought of Vauxhall Gardens—of being seen, whispered about, recognized—was enough to send her heart racing. “I appreciate the invitation, but I just don’t know…”
Lord Westmere spoke up. “We don’t want to pressure Jane into anything she isn’t ready for. Do we, Olivia?”
Olivia sighed, relenting. “No. Of course not.”
Jane sent Lord Westmere a grateful glance. “Thank you. I shall think on it.”
“What if we simply take a tour of the gardens after breakfast?” Olivia asked.
“That I can agree to.” It wasn’t much, but it was something. A first step.
She knew Olivia meant well. She was doing her best to draw Jane out from under the weight of shame and uncertainty—but the truth was, Jane wasn’t even sure what she needed. Every option seemed equally terrifying. Every path forward felt uncertain, unsteady.
But at least she wouldn’t have to face it alone.
Not yet.
Alistair sat at the long, rectangular table, savoring the rare quiet of the morning as he read through the newssheets. The scent of fresh toast and tea drifted upward, but he ignored it for the time being. He preferred starting the day in silence, but naturally the peace didn’t last.
The moment his sister swept into the dining room, the air shifted.
“Good morning,” Charlotte greeted, far too cheerfully for any reasonable hour. That alone made him lower the newssheets. She was never this lively before noon.
“What do you want?” he asked, leveling her with a flat look.
Her eyes went wide with faux innocence. “Nothing.”
He didn’t believe that for a second. “Hmm,” he muttered and resumed reading, though he kept one ear trained on her.
Charlotte settled across from him and reached for the teapot. “Although…”
There it was.
“… I was hoping you would accompany me to Vauxhall Gardens this evening,” she said.
“No,” came his quick response.
Unperturbed, she lifted her teacup and gave a demure shrug. “I figured you would say that, so I shall ask Mrs. Glasner.”
He snapped the newssheets down. “Absolutely not. Mrs. Glasner is half-blind and has a foot that turns inward. She is not an adequate chaperone.”
Charlotte sipped her tea as though his rising temper was of no concern. “Then I suppose you have no choice but to come with me,” she said sweetly, batting her lashes.
Alistair looked heavenward. He was weary of this game. She asked, he refused, she manipulated, and he ultimately relented. Every time. She was maddening. Worse, she knew it.
He preferred evenings at home, a quiet fire, a novel, and perhaps a brandy.
Charlotte, on the other hand, seemed determined to go to every social event in High Society, and Vauxhall Gardens was the place to be seen.
Anything could happen there. He’d be mad to allow Charlotte to go with Mrs. Glasner.
“I’ll take you,” he grumbled.
She clasped her hands together and beamed with triumph, though the act was too perfect to be genuine. She’d planned this from the start. “Thank you, Guildford.”
He sighed heavily at that name. She only used it when she wanted to annoy him, tease him, exasperate him.
While it was his given name, he had chosen at the age of five to use Alistair, his middle name, because his father’s name was Guildford.
And he didn’t ever want there to be confusion about who was who.
“I’ve asked—no, demanded—repeatedly that you stop calling me that.
” He shook his head as she chuckled at him.
He raised the newssheet again, determined to retreat behind its pages, but one heading caught his eyes and made him freeze.
Former Lieutenant Mark Austen found dead in alleyway.
A sharp breath caught in his throat.
“What is it?” Charlotte asked, her voice suddenly serious.
“A member of my company,” he said quietly. “Mark Austen. He’s dead.”
Her brow furrowed. “How did he die?”
Alistair scanned the article again, his mouth going dry. “He was stabbed. Found in an alleyway yesterday. They suspect a robbery gone wrong.”
She set down her teacup. “How awful.”
He folded the newssheets with stiff fingers and lowered them to the table. “He survived the war. Was a good soldier and a better man. He deserved more than to die in some godforsaken alley.”
Charlotte’s eyes softened. “I’m sorry.”
“He lived through battles most men couldn’t fathom. And this… this is how it ends for him.”
She was quiet for a moment, then added, “Is it not strange that two people in the same company were attacked in a similar fashion?”
“I thought the same thing, but it is probably just a coincidence.” At least he hoped it was a coincidence.
With a wave of her hand, she responded, “It is a good thing that I carry a muff pistol in my reticule now.”
“That is reckless. You’ll injure yourself—or worse.”
“‘Oh, ye of little faith,’” she quipped.
He gave a half-laugh. “Quoting scripture now, are we?”
“I attend church,” she said with a shrug. “Why shouldn’t I?”
“It’s better than those dreadful novels you devour. I’ll never understand the mania women have for reading lately.”
She gave him a look. “I’ve always loved reading. It’s far more entertaining than stabbing myself with embroidery needles.”
He shook his head. “Women are supposed to enjoy needlework.”
“Says who? I think it’s a conspiracy devised by men to keep women docile and occupied, so they don’t start voicing their opinions.”
He arched a brow. “Is that what you truly believe?”
“I don’t know what I believe anymore,” she said, then met his gaze with unflinching resolve. “But I do know I won’t have my voice silenced by you. Or anyone.”
Alistair took a bite of his food, chewing thoughtfully. “I’m glad you have opinions. I only wish you weren’t so stubborn. It’s a dangerous combination.”
Her teasing expression faded, and she grew quiet. “I worry I’m too much like Father.”
He set down his fork. “You are nothing like him. He was cold. Distant. And entirely too cruel for my liking.”
“I wouldn’t know since I was ignored entirely.”
Alistair’s stomach twisted. “Being ignored might’ve been better. At least you were spared the brunt of his wrath.”
“One of my old governesses, Miss Wilde, told me Father was disappointed from the moment I was born a girl.”
He winced. “That may be true,” he admitted, “but it says more about him than it ever said about you.”
Charlotte glanced down at her lap. “You had a way out. You could leave. You bought a commission into the Army and escaped.”
“I did escape,” he said grimly. “And he tried to drag me back. Ordered it, in fact, but I refused.”
Alistair hadn’t spoken of it in years—how unbearable the house had become after Mother died. How suffocating. The grief, the rage, the expectations.
Charlotte moved her food around her plate. “At least you have memories of Mother.”
“She adored you,” he said. “Dotingly so.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Father said I killed her.”
He froze. “You did not.”
“Her health declined after giving birth to me. If not for me—”
“Charlotte, stop.” His voice was firm. “She wanted a daughter more than anything. She was happy when you were born. You were not the cause of her death.”
She tried to smile, but it faltered. “It doesn’t change what happened.”
“Charlotte…”
“It’s all right,” she said, pushing her plate away. “Can we speak of something else?”
He nodded, but the heaviness in his chest remained. So much of her fire, her wit, her need to prove herself—it all made sense now. And he refused to let anyone, even the memory of their father, diminish her worth.
Alistair shifted in his chair, wincing as the dull ache in his side flared again.
The bruises along his ribs were persistent devils, stubbornly refusing to fade, unlike the fading yellow and green mottling along his jaw and cheek.
He was tired of hurting. Tired of being reminded—every breath, every twist—that he’d been bested.
Charlotte studied him across the breakfast table, her expression uncharacteristically thoughtful.
“You look better,” she said at last. “The swelling’s gone down, and the bruises are lightening—at least somewhat.”
He grunted, not entirely comforted. “My ribs didn’t get the message. The doctor said it will be weeks before they’re fully healed.”
“You should be resting more.”
“I rest plenty,” he lied, setting down his teacup with exaggerated care. He hated the weakness. The way his body betrayed him every time he coughed or laughed or bent too quickly.
Charlotte, of course, wasn’t finished. “Have you spoken to Lady Jane since the… incident?”
He stiffened. There it was. The question he’d been avoiding.
“No,” he said. “And I think it best I stay away. For now.”
Her brow arched. He knew that look. It was the same expression she used before pulling apart one of his arguments like unraveling a loose thread.
“And why is that?”
“I must think of your reputation.” It was flimsy, but it was all he had.
Charlotte scoffed. “What poppycock! Lady Jane saved your life. You owe her.”
“I do owe her,” he agreed. “But how does one repay a debt like that? There’s nothing sufficient—”
“You could marry her.”
His fork paused mid-air. “I beg your pardon?”
Charlotte folded her hands primly on the table, her tone infuriatingly calm. “She’s ruined. No one will marry her now. You could save her, just as she saved you.”
The fork clattered against his plate as he set it down, the weight of her words pressing against his temples. “That is absurd.”
“Is it?” she asked, too mildly. “You could do far worse.”
He snatched the linen napkin from his lap and tossed it onto the table. “The idea is preposterous. I need a wife who is above reproach.”
Her chin lifted. “Why?”
“Because marriage is not a whim. A man of my position must choose carefully.”
“Lady Jane has always been kind to me,” Charlotte shared. “Even when others were not.”
Alistair rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “There are many factors to consider in selecting a wife. Her family, her reputation, her dowry—”
“And love?”
He blinked. “What?”
Charlotte met his gaze evenly. “And what of love?”
He barked a humorless laugh. “Love? I said nothing about love.”
“But why not?” she asked, brows drawing together. “Do you not want to love your wife?”
“I don’t believe in love,” he said, sharper than he intended. “But I do believe in affection.”
Charlotte stared at him, stunned. “What? How is that even possible?”
He rose from the table, shoving his chair back more forcefully than necessary. The pain lanced through his side, but he ignored it. “I’m not having this conversation with you. Whom I marry is my decision.”
She leaned back, her arms crossed. “What if you choose someone awful?”
“I won’t.”
“You might. Many debutantes hide their true natures just to secure a man with a title.”
He turned and narrowed his eyes at her. “And you know this how?”
Charlotte pressed her lips into a thin line. “Trust me. Everyone wears a mask. Even you.”
That gave him pause. “What are you hiding?” he asked.
“More than you could ever know,” she murmured. “I have to.”
The vulnerability in her tone tugged at something inside him—something too tangled to name. But he didn’t press. Not now.
Instead, he reached for his tea and took a final sip, letting the warmth of it clear away the chill her words had left behind.
“As informative as this conversation is,” he said, “I have work that requires my attention.”
Charlotte nodded once. “Very well. But we’re still set for Vauxhall this evening?”
“Yes,” he said tightly, “but I have no intention of staying until dawn.”
“We shall see,” she replied with a glint of mischief.
“I’m being earnest, Charlotte.”
She gave him a pacifying smile. “I know. That’s what makes it so amusing, Guildford.”
Alistair muttered a curse word under his breath and turned towards the doorway, trying not to limp. Charlotte was, without question, one of the most exasperating people he had ever known. Obstinate. Unrelenting. Entirely too clever for her own good.
And yet, he loved her—deeply, fiercely, without condition.