Chapter 27
Charlotte stood near the wall and tried not to look.
The drawing room was crowded, conversation rising and falling in polished waves. Julian had already slipped away with Arthur toward the garden doors, their laughter bright and oblivious. There was no reason for her attention to stray.
And yet it did.
Her gaze found Edward before she could stop it. Lady Amelia stood at his side with practiced proximity, her smile luminous, her fan moving in soft, deliberate arcs. Charlotte forced herself to look away, only to glance back a moment later.
Lady Amelia had withdrawn. Lady Victoria stood there instead.
Their exchange appeared quieter, more measured. Charlotte could not hear the words, but she saw the way Lady Victoria regarded him—steady, perceptive—and how Edward inclined his head in response. Two women. Two possibilities. Both suitable.
Her throat tightened.
Jealousy was an unbecoming thing. She had no claim on him. No promise. No right to the flicker of resentment that burned so sharply in her chest. And yet it flared anyway, unwelcome and undeniable.
The air felt suddenly too warm, too perfumed, too close.
Julian’s laughter carried faintly from outside, and that sound steadied her enough to move. She slipped toward the garden doors without announcement, telling herself she required only a breath of cooler air, a moment to gather composure.
The night greeted her with relief, lantern light casting gold against frost-touched ivy. She walked along the gravel path, skirts whispering softly, determined to quiet the restlessness inside her.
She should not care who stood beside Edward. She had learned already what hope could cost.
The arbor came into view, shadowed and half-hidden beneath climbing vines. Charlotte stepped beneath it without thinking.
A hand seized her wrist.
The force of it dragged her sideways, her back striking the cold stone of a pillar. Pain flared sharp and breath-stealing.
William stood before her.
She recognized him instantly, even in lantern shadow, even with his expression sharpened into something darker than charm.
“Unhand me,” she said at once, her voice low and controlled.
He did not.
His grip tightened, fingers digging into the delicate bones of her wrist. He stepped closer—far closer than any unmarried man had a right to be. She could smell wine on his breath.
“You look well,” he murmured, as though greeting her in a drawing room rather than pinning her against stone.
“Release me.”
“You must listen to me.” His tone softened, but his hold only hardened. “You are being deceived.”
She stilled, not from belief but from calculation. “By whom?”
“By him. Thornton.”
Her heart gave a sharp, incredulous beat.
“He was not the man you imagined,” William continued, his face so near she could see the faint sheen in his eyes. “Your father’s affairs were not simple misfortune. There were transactions. Dangerous men. His brother was involved. You think Thornton stands above it? He stands upon it.”
“You lie,” she said evenly.
His jaw flexed. The mask slipped a fraction.
“You are naive,” he said, the softness draining from his voice. “He gains from your ignorance. He always has. You think he shelters you from charity? He shelters you from truth.”
“I trust him more than I have ever trusted you.”
The words struck.
The quartet began to play, music rising beneath the trees as guests drifted outward, drawn by sound and lantern light.
William’s grip tightened until pain flared white-hot up her arm.
“You will regret that loyalty,” he said quietly.
She twisted, trying to wrench free. “Let me go.”
Instead, he stepped in, caging her fully against the pillar. He slid his free hand to her jaw, fingers pressing hard enough to force her chin upward.
Panic surged through her.
“Do not,” she warned.
He kissed her.
There was no hesitation in it. No confusion. No mistake.
She shoved his chest, twisted her face away, her free hand striking uselessly against his shoulder. The stone bit cold into her spine as his mouth pressed harder, possessive and deliberate.
Even as she struggled, she felt the shift—the careful positioning, the calculated angle of his body toward the garden path.
He was not losing control. He was staging it.
The music swelled. Footsteps approached along the gravel.
Then a scream tore through the night.
High. Piercing. Perfectly timed.