Chapter 25 #2
Amelia pressed on before either could demur. “It would be unkind to refuse. We shall expect you.”
There were witnesses. Members of the ton. Smiling faces and raised brows.
Declining would be a statement.
Edward inclined his head. “Very well.”
Lady Victoria gave her agreement a breath later.
Charlotte smiled as required. Inside, she felt cornered.
The walk resumed, though the ease had fractured.
They turned back toward Ashford not long after. The path narrowed, damp leaves slick beneath their feet.
Charlotte’s thoughts churned. Lady Victoria’s composure. Lady Amelia’s calculated invitation. Edward’s praise.
She did not see the root until it was too late.
Her foot slipped. The world tilted.
A hand caught her wrist—firm, immediate.
Edward.
His grip steadied her before she could fall. His other hand came instinctively to her waist, anchoring her fully upright.
For one suspended second, she was entirely held.
Her breath caught.
His hand was warm through the thin fabric of her sleeve. She could feel the strength in it, the restraint in the way he did not pull her closer than necessary.
“Careful,” he murmured.
Their eyes met.
Not employer and governess. Not duke and servant.
Something far more intriguing flickered between them—concern, awareness, something almost tender.
Charlotte felt it like heat along her skin. Then she remembered where they were.
She stepped back at once. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
Formal. Controlled.
Lady Victoria had stopped walking.
She was watching. Not with accusation, but with what appeared to be understanding.
That, somehow, was worse.
A moment later, she gathered Arthur gently and announced that she ought to return before supper preparations called her away.
There was no reproach in her tone. No visible displeasure.
Only distance.
Ashford felt different the moment they stepped inside.
The laughter from the walk had barely faded when Charlotte saw him.
Christopher stood near the hearth in the entrance hall, his posture deceptively relaxed—but his expression was not. He was speaking quietly with Clara Bennet, their proximity closer than propriety allowed, though neither seemed to notice.
Or perhaps they noticed and no longer cared.
When Christopher saw Edward, he straightened at once.
“Your Grace,” he said, the levity absent from his tone. “A word.”
Edward did not hesitate. One look passed between the two men—silent, heavy—and they strode toward the study without explanation.
Charlotte felt her pulse quicken.
Clara watched them go, something like worry flickering across her face.
“They look grave,” Charlotte murmured.
Clara nodded slowly. “He would not come at this hour without reason.”
The study doors closed, and the house seemed to hold its breath.
For a moment, neither woman spoke. Then Clara’s fingers brushed Charlotte’s sleeve.
“There is something I must tell you,” she said, voice softer now. Not anxious. Not afraid.
Hopeful.
Charlotte turned toward her fully. Clara’s cheeks were flushed—not with embarrassment, but with something warmer.
“We are in love,” she said simply.
The words landed gently—and yet with enormous weight.
Charlotte blinked. “You and—?”
“Christopher.” Clara did not even try to hide her smile now. “He told me today. Properly. Not in jest. Not in half-measures.”
Charlotte felt a rush of relief and disbelief all at once. “Clara …”
“He means to leave,” Clara continued, her voice trembling slightly with conviction. “After this is settled. After Liam is dealt with. He says he will not remain bound to a life that does not belong to him.”
Charlotte stared at her.
“He has funds,” Clara added quickly. “From an aunt in France. Modest, but enough. He says we could live quietly there. Respectably. Away from scandal. Away from …” She gestured vaguely at the house, the world beyond it.
“Away from rules that were never made for us.”
The words struck deep.
Charlotte searched her friend’s face for doubt.
She found none.
“He would take you?” she asked softly.
Clara nodded. “He swore it.”
Charlotte swallowed. She was happy for her. Truly. Clara deserved warmth. Choice. A life not lived in the margins of someone else’s household.
And yet—
“France is far,” Charlotte said thoughtfully.
Clara’s smile faltered just slightly. “So is safety, if we remain.”
Silence settled between them. Charlotte’s thoughts turned unbidden toward the closed study door.
Liam.
William.
Whatever name he chose to wear.
This was no longer just a social embarrassment or a broken engagement resurfaced in poor taste. It was whispered accusations. Smuggling. Gambling. Her parents’ deaths. Edward’s brother’s name dragged into shadow.
This was her life.
Her family. Her truth.
She lifted her chin.
“What are they planning?” she asked quietly.
Clara hesitated. “Christopher did not say much. Only that things are moving faster than expected.”
“That does not comfort me.”
“No,” Clara admitted.
Charlotte folded her hands together, steadying herself.
“They cannot treat this as solely Edward’s concern,” she said, more to herself than to Clara. “It concerns my parents. My name. My future.”
Clara studied her closely. “You intend to involve yourself.”
“I intend,” Charlotte said slowly, “not to be protected into ignorance.”
Her voice surprised even her.
She had spent so long surviving quietly. Accepting what was handed to her. Adapting. Renaming herself. Fitting into corners.
No longer.
“I will not remain in the background of my own story,” she added, softer but firmer still.
Clara’s expression shifted—admiration mingling with worry.
“Be careful,” she whispered.
Charlotte’s gaze drifted once more toward the study door.
Outside the windows, the afternoon light had begun to fade.
And for the first time since William had reappeared, Charlotte did not feel only fear.
She felt resolve.