Chapter 28
Lady Amelia stood rigid near the fountain, one gloved hand pressed dramatically to her breast.
Gasps traveled outward in uneven waves. Heads turned. Fans snapped shut.
Edward followed her gaze. And the world narrowed.
Beneath the arbor, half-shrouded in climbing ivy and lantern shadow, William had Charlotte backed against one of the stone pillars. His hand was not merely at her wrist—it was clamped around it. Possessive. Controlling.
His other hand was at her jaw. His mouth was on hers.
It was not a hesitant near-kiss. Not an ambiguous proximity. It was unmistakable. Deliberate.
Edward saw the tension in her body at once. The way her shoulders were rigid. How her free hand pushed weakly at his chest. The way her head was angled away rather than toward him.
She was not yielding. She was struggling.
William’s grip tightened for a fraction of a second, enough that Edward saw her wince even from across the lawn.
Then, as the crowd surged forward and the murmur turned to outrage, William broke the kiss himself.
He stepped back in measured increments, releasing her wrist with theatrical reluctance. His expression arranged itself into startled offense, as though he had been caught in an unfortunate but shared indiscretion.
Charlotte’s lips were flushed, her breathing uneven. She looked less like a woman caught in romance and more like one fighting for composure.
But to the untrained eye—especially one eager for scandal—the scene was already written.
“How dare you!” Lady Amelia cried, her voice trembling with theatrical outrage. “In my garden!”
Whispers caught fire at once, darting from mouth to mouth like sparks through dry grass.
Edward felt the blood drain from his face.
Charlotte turned then.
There was no guilt in her expression. No flustered embarrassment. Only devastation held tightly in check. Her eyes found his across the scattering crowd—bright, wounded, but dry. She would not give them the satisfaction of tears.
There was no plea in her gaze.
Only trust.
And a quiet, unspoken question that struck him harder than any accusation.
Do you believe me?
The silence that followed Lady Amelia’s outcry lasted no more than a heartbeat, yet Edward would remember it as something vast and airless. Conversation died mid-breath. Every eye turned toward the arbor.
Charlotte’s composure broke first.
“He forced me,” she said, her voice unsteady as she pulled free of the tightening circle around them. “Edward—he forced himself on me.”
The murmurs that followed were sharp and hungry.
William raised his hands in a show of injured dignity. “Now, Charlotte, that is hardly fair. We were speaking privately. You were distressed. I sought only to comfort you.”
“You seized my wrist,” she replied, tears spilling now despite her effort to contain them. “You would not let me go.”
Edward felt the rage arrive with startling clarity. It was not loud or wild. It was cold and controlled, a tightening across his chest that made everything else fall away.
William turned to him with infuriating composure. “If appearances have been misconstrued, I am prepared to do what honor demands. I will marry her.” His gaze skimmed the gathered guests. “We were nearly betrothed once. It would preserve her reputation.”
Edward’s vision darkened.
“You will not speak another word,” he said quietly. Those nearest leaned in, straining to hear the threat beneath the restraint.
William’s smile faltered.
Edward did not request permission from his hostess, nor did he explain to the onlookers. He stepped to Charlotte’s side, his hand firm at her elbow, and turned toward the path.
“Christopher,” he said sharply.
Christopher appeared at once from the edge of the lantern light, having already read the situation with alarming clarity.
“Julian,” Edward instructed. “Bring him. Immediately.”
Christopher did not hesitate. He hurried toward the fountain where Julian stood bewildered among the murmuring guests.
Edward did not look back at William. He did not look at Lady Amelia. He kept his gaze forward and guided Charlotte through the parted crowd, the weight of gossip pressing against his shoulders like a physical force.
Julian hurried toward them moments later with Christopher close behind him.
“Papa?” Julian asked, confusion tightening his small voice. “What happened?”
“Nothing that concerns you,” Edward said evenly. “We are leaving.”
Charlotte kept her eyes lowered, and they departed without another word.
The carriage ride was silent but for the steady rhythm of wheels over gravel.
Julian sat between them, small and rigid, sensing what he could not understand. Edward’s gloved hands rested on his knees. Charlotte turned toward the window, tears slipping soundlessly down her face as the darkness blurred beyond the glass.
Julian noticed first.
“Miss Fenton?” he asked softly. “Are you crying?”
She tried to answer but could not.
Edward spoke before she was forced to do so.
“She is unwell,” he said, his tone calm but edged with steel. “The air did not agree with her.”
Julian frowned. “Is it because of that man?”
Edward’s jaw tightened.
“It is not your concern,” he said evenly when Julian looked between them again. “You are safe.”
Julian hesitated, sensing more than he understood, but he nodded and fell silent.
The remainder of the journey passed without further words.
Charlotte did not sob. She did not reach for him. She sat turned toward the darkened window, tears slipping soundlessly down her face as the carriage rolled through the night. Julian watched her once or twice, then folded into himself, small hands clenched in his lap.
Edward remained still, fury and calculation warring beneath his composure.
When Ashford’s gates finally came into view, relief did not come with them. Only resolve.
The carriage stopped.
Edward stepped down first, then turned and assisted Julian. Charlotte followed last, pale beneath the lantern light.
Inside the hall, Edward crouched slightly to meet his son’s eyes.
“Go on,” he said gently. “Find Mrs. Channing. Tell her I wish you settled for bed at once.”
Julian glanced at Charlotte. “Is she coming?”
“In a moment,” Edward replied.
Julian hesitated—only briefly—then obeyed, disappearing down the corridor.
The front doors closed, and silence settled around them.
Only then did Charlotte break. She stepped toward Edward suddenly, as though whatever restraint had held her together inside the carriage had snapped.
She took his hands in both of hers.
“Please believe me,” she said, her voice low but urgent, thumbs brushing over his knuckles in frantic emphasis. “It was a plot. He was waiting for me. He said things—about you. He wanted you to see it.”
Edward closed his fingers around hers without hesitation.
“I believe you,” he said at once. There was no question in his voice. “There was never a doubt.”
Her breath hitched, relief and anguish colliding in her expression.
“He said you were involved,” she continued, tears threatening again. “In the carriage accident. That your family—he wanted me to doubt you.”
Fury surged hot and immediate.
“I had never heard your father’s name before you came to Ashford,” Edward said fiercely. “I swear to you, Charlotte, I knew nothing of your family. Whatever happened in Hawthorne Hollow had nothing to do with me.”
She searched his face, as though weighing every word.
Then she nodded.
“I know,” she whispered.
The trust in those two words struck deeper than any accusation could have.
“He thrives on ruin,” Edward went on, his anger sharpening into clarity. “If he can discredit you while casting suspicion upon me, he gains leverage over us both.”
He hesitated only a moment before continuing, “There was a letter. Anonymous. It accused my family of involvement in the crash. I dismissed it at first as a cruel prank. Then I learned who you were, and I began to investigate. I did not wish to alarm you without proof.”
Her eyes widened.
“You were searching.”
“Yes.”
“For me?”
“For the truth,” he replied. After a beat, more quietly, “And for you.”
Her grip tightened.
“If William—or anyone—is responsible,” she said, steel threading through the grief now, “I will see them answer for it.”
He had expected her to crumble.
Instead, she hardened.
Her thumbs continued tracing small, unconscious patterns over his knuckles. Edward became acutely aware of the warmth of her skin, the fragile intimacy of the moment. She was steadying him as much as herself.
Slowly, reluctantly, he withdrew his hands.
This was the entrance hall. Servants could appear at any moment. Emotion could not overtake reason.
But the instant her hands slipped from his, the absence felt sharp.
He wanted to take them back. He wanted to tell her that protection was no longer sufficient. That he did not merely intend to defend her reputation. That he wanted her beside him—openly. Permanently.
Now was not the moment.
“Go and rest,” he said quietly. “We will face what comes tomorrow.”
She held his gaze one second longer, then inclined her head and moved toward the stairs.
Edward did not move until she had disappeared from sight.
Only then did he turn toward the study.
He crossed to the window and stared out into the darkness beyond Ashford’s grounds.
What did William gain from this?
A ruined reputation. A forced marriage. Leverage.
Or something older—some grievance Edward had yet to uncover.
Even if he proved William’s guilt, the gossip had already taken root. By morning, the story would be embroidered beyond recognition.
Edward pressed his palm against the cold glass.
He did not yet know how he would restore Charlotte’s standing. He did not yet know how he would dismantle William without igniting further scandal.
He knew only this with absolute certainty:
William had declared war.
And Edward would not allow him to win.