7. In Which a Dinner Is Endured and a Line Is Nearly Crossed – Ashford House, Berkeley Square, London
IN WHICH A DINNER IS ENDURED AND A LINE IS NEARLY CROSSED
CHARLOTTE
ASHFORD HOUSE, BERKELEY SQUARE, LONDON
Marguerite's dinner was exactly as elegant as I'd expected and precisely as torturous as I'd feared.
The dining room at Ashford House gleamed with candlelight. The table was set with Marguerite's finest china—delicate porcelain painted with roses. Crystal glasses caught the light. Silver gleamed against white linen.
Twenty guests, Marguerite had said. Just intimate.
I counted twenty-three. And somehow, through what I was certain was careful orchestration rather than chance, I'd been seated directly next to Lord Dunmore.
With Edward directly across from me.
I was going to murder someone. Possibly Marguerite. Possibly myself.
"Lady Charlotte," Dunmore said warmly as I took my seat. "What extraordinary good fortune. I was hoping we might have the opportunity to speak at length tonight."
"How lovely," I managed.
Across the table, Edward's eyes met mine. There was sympathy there. And something else. Something that made my chest tight.
He'd been absent on Sunday. I'd noticed. Of course, I'd noticed. After a week of Edward appearing at every event, rescuing me with increasing frequency, his sudden absence had been conspicuous.
I'd told myself it didn't matter. That I was relieved, actually, because people were beginning to notice. Because Eleanor had made pointed comments. Because the pattern of rescue and stolen moments was becoming dangerous.
I'd lied to myself spectacularly.
Because the truth was simpler and more terrifying: I'd looked for him. At Lady Pemberton's card party on Sunday afternoon, I'd scanned the room expecting to see Edward in some corner, ready to extract me from tedious conversation.
He hadn't been there.
And I'd felt his absence like a physical thing.
But he was here now. Across from me. Close enough to touch if the table weren't between us. Far enough that touching was impossible.
Perfect torture.
"The soup is excellent," Dunmore announced, tasting the first course. "I believe it's a consommé? The clarity is quite remarkable. You see, the technique for achieving that transparency requires careful straining and?—"
I picked up my spoon and prepared to endure.
Dunmore continued. The soup became about clarification methods. The fish course became about the proper preparation of sole. By the time the roast arrived, Dunmore had provided detailed commentary on every aspect of the meal's preparation.
I smiled. Nodded. Made appropriate sounds.
And across the table, Edward watched.
I felt his gaze like a touch. Every time I glanced up, his eyes were there. Not obviously staring—he was too careful for that. But watching. Present. Aware of every moment I endured Dunmore's endless observations.
"Don't you agree, Lady Charlotte?" Dunmore asked.
I had no idea what he'd just said. Something about seasonings, probably.
"Absolutely," I said.
Dunmore beamed. Launched into another tangent.
Edward's lips twitched. Just barely. Just enough for me to see.
Our eyes met.
Held.
Something passed between us. Understanding. Conspiracy. The same current that had been building all week with every rescue, every stolen moment, every time he said my name like it meant something.
I looked away first. Had to look away. Because Marguerite was watching from the head of the table with an expression of satisfaction that suggested she thought the dinner was going exactly as planned.
And it was.
Just not the plan she thought.
"Lady Charlotte," Dunmore said as the dessert course arrived—some elaborate creation involving syllabub and preserved fruits. "I was wondering if you might enjoy a turn in the garden after dinner. The evening is quite fine, and I believe the moonlight would be most pleasant."
Every person within earshot turned to look at us.
Marguerite was practically glowing.
Aunt Mary had that expression that meant she was mentally recording this for future reference.
Papa, at the other end of the table, looked resigned.
And Edward had gone very still.
A walk in the garden. With Dunmore. At night.
It was a proposal waiting to happen.
Everyone knew it. The entire table knew it. Dunmore probably knew it, though with him it was difficult to tell whether he was planning to propose or simply discuss the garden's landscaping in exhaustive detail.
I should refuse. Should plead fatigue, a headache, or any of a dozen acceptable excuses.
I couldn't refuse.
Because refusing would be rude. Because Marguerite had gone to such effort. Because a duke's daughter did not publicly reject a duke's heir without very good reason.
Because I was trapped.
"That would be lovely," I said.
Dunmore beamed. "Splendid! The gardens here are quite remarkable. The variety of plantings is extensive, and I believe Marguerite has recently added some very fine specimens of?—"
"I'll chaperone."
Edward's voice cut across the table. Calm. Casual. As though he'd just offered to pass the salt rather than inserting himself into what everyone clearly expected to be a private conversation.
Dunmore blinked. "Oh. Well. That's very kind, but I'm sure we don't need?—"
"I insist," Edward said pleasantly. "Charlotte is my niece, after all. And Marguerite would never forgive me if I let her wander the gardens without proper supervision."
He said 'niece' like the word tasted wrong.
Marguerite looked between us with an expression I couldn't quite read. "How thoughtful, Edward. Though I'm sure Lord Dunmore is perfectly capable of?—"
"Of course he is," Edward agreed. "Nevertheless. Propriety."
There was nothing Marguerite could say to that. Nothing anyone could say. Because Edward was right—technically, a young lady walking alone with a gentleman in the garden, even at a family dinner, required a chaperone.
Even if everyone knew the chaperone was supposed to be conveniently absent when the proposal happened.
Dunmore looked slightly confused but accepting. "Of course! The more the merrier. Though I must say, Retford, you'll want to see the new plantings near the east wall. There's a particularly fine variety of climbing roses that?—"
Edward smiled. Said nothing.
Our eyes met across the table again.
Thank you, I thought.
Always, his expression seemed to say.
We finished the dinner. Made appropriate conversation. Waited while the gentlemen had their port and the ladies retired to the drawing room for the requisite twenty minutes of pretending we enjoyed being separated from interesting conversation.
Aunt Caroline cornered me immediately.
"Charlotte! A walk in the garden with Lord Dunmore! How romantic!"
"Edward is chaperoning," I pointed out.
"Oh, I'm sure he'll be very discreet. Very proper. He knows what's expected." Caroline dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. "I remember when Alexander first walked with me in a garden. It was magical. The moonlight, the flowers, the?—"
"Spiders?" I suggested. "Damp grass? Mosquitoes?"
"You're being difficult."
I was being realistic. But I smiled and let Caroline dream her romantic dreams.
When the gentlemen rejoined us, Dunmore appeared at my elbow immediately.
"Lady Charlotte! Shall we?"
Edward was three steps behind him.
We made our way through the French doors onto the terrace. The evening was indeed fine—warm for April, with a full moon that turned the garden into something from a painting. Torches lined the pathways. The scent of early roses drifted on the breeze.
It was, objectively, quite romantic.
It was also utterly surreal, because Dunmore was providing commentary on the garden's layout while Edward walked precisely three steps behind us like the world's most dedicated chaperone.
"You see the symmetry?" Dunmore was saying. "The formal design here reflects the Continental influence, particularly the French style popularised by Le N?tre. The parterres are quite lovely, and if you notice the topiary?—"
We walked. Dunmore lectured. Edward followed.
I was going to scream.
"Lord Dunmore," I interrupted gently. "Perhaps we might simply enjoy the moonlight?"
"Oh! Yes. Of course. How thoughtful." Dunmore looked around as though seeing the garden for the first time. "It is quite lovely, isn't it? Though I must say, the moon itself is fascinating. Did you know that its phases are caused by the orbital position relative to?—"
"Dunmore." Edward's voice was mild. "I believe Lady Charlotte suggested enjoying it rather than explaining it."
"Right. Yes. Quite right." Dunmore fell silent for approximately thirty seconds. Then: "Though the science is quite remarkable, really. The gravitational effects alone?—"
"Dunmore."
"Apologies."
We continued walking. Reached the east wall where the climbing roses grew. The moonlight caught the pale blooms, turning them silver.
It was beautiful.
Dunmore opened his mouth, clearly preparing to discuss rose cultivation.
Edward cleared his throat.
Dunmore closed his mouth. Looked between us. And something seemed to dawn on him—some realisation that he was perhaps not reading the situation correctly.
"I say," Dunmore said slowly. "Perhaps I should check on Father. Make sure he's settled in the drawing room. Charlotte, would you mind terribly if I—that is—Retford, you'll stay with her, won't you?"
"Of course," Edward said.
Dunmore brightened. "Splendid! I'll just—I'll be back momentarily?—"
He hurried off toward the house.
Leaving Edward and me alone in the garden.
Under the moonlight.
With the scent of roses and the complete absence of proper chaperonage.
We stood in silence for a long moment.
"That was tactical," I said finally.
"Was it?"
"You made him so uncomfortable he fled."
"I simply enforced the silence you requested."
"You scared him off."
"Did I?" Edward moved closer. Not touching. Not quite. But close enough that I could feel the warmth of him. "Strange. I thought I was being helpful."
"You're always helpful."
"Is that a complaint?"
I turned to face him. "Should it be?"