7. In Which a Dinner Is Endured and a Line Is Nearly Crossed – Ashford House, Berkeley Square, London #2
We were standing very close now. Close enough that I could see the particular green of his eyes in the moonlight. Close enough to catch the scent of whatever soap he used—something clean and cedar.
Close enough to be completely inappropriate.
"Charlotte," Edward said quietly.
"Edward."
Not Uncle Edward. Never Uncle Edward anymore. Just Edward, who rescued me, watched me, and said my name like it mattered.
"We should go back inside," I said.
"We should."
Neither of us moved.
"People will talk," I added. "If we're out here alone."
"People are already talking."
"Are they?"
"You danced with me at the Pemberton ball. I've attended every event you've attended for the past week. I've extracted you from conversations with increasingly flimsy excuses." Edward's voice was quiet. Careful. "Yes, Charlotte. People are talking."
"And does that bother you?"
"Should it?"
I looked up at him. At Edward, who was five years older, Mama’s brother, and absolutely, completely forbidden.
And who was looking at me like I was the only person in the world.
"I don't know," I admitted. "I don't know anything anymore. A month ago, I had plans. Systems. Lists. Everything organised."
"And now?"
"Now I can't stop thinking about you."
The words escaped before I could stop them. Hung in the air between us like something dangerous and impossible to take back.
Edward went very still.
"Charlotte—"
"I know. I know it's inappropriate. I know you're family.
I know I'm seventeen and you're twenty-three, and everyone expects me to marry Dunmore or someone like him.
I know all of it." I took a breath. "But I can't stop thinking about you.
About the way you rescue me. About the way you say my name. About?—"
Edward kissed me.
Just—kissed me. His hand came up to cup my face, his mouth found mine, and the world narrowed to that single point of contact.
It wasn't my first kiss. Lord Hartley had stolen one at a garden party two years ago, before I'd developed my current standards for acceptable behaviour.
This was nothing like that kiss.
This was everything.
Edward kissed me like I was something precious. Like he'd been thinking about it as much as I had. Like the week of rescues and stolen moments had been leading to exactly this.
His other hand settled at my waist. I gripped his coat, pulling him closer. The roses, the moonlight, the distant sounds from the house—all of it faded to nothing.
There was just Edward. Just this.
Just—
"Charlotte!"
We broke apart.
Marguerite stood on the terrace, backlit by the light from the drawing room. I couldn't see her expression. Couldn't tell if she'd seen what had just happened.
"Yes?" I called back, trying to sound normal. Trying to sound like my entire world hadn't just shifted on its axis.
"Lord Dunmore is looking for you, dear. And I believe your mother was hoping you'd play something on the pianoforte."
"Of course. I'll be right there."
Marguerite went back inside.
I looked at Edward.
He was staring at me with an expression I couldn't read. Horror, possibly. Regret. Or maybe the same shocked certainty I was feeling.
"Edward—"
"I shouldn't have—" He stepped back. Put distance between us. "That was—I apologise. That was inappropriate and I?—"
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't apologise. Don't tell me it was a mistake. Don't—" I stopped. Took a breath. "Just don't."
We stood there in the garden, two people who had just crossed a line we couldn't uncross.
"We should go inside," Edward said finally.
"Yes."
"Charlotte—"
"Please. Can we just—can we go inside?"
Because if he apologised again, if he told me it was inappropriate or wrong or something that couldn't happen again, I was going to do something catastrophic like cry.
Edward looked like he wanted to argue. To explain. To make sense of what had just happened.
Instead, he offered his arm.
I took it.
We walked back to the house in silence.
Dunmore met us at the terrace door. "There you are! I was hoping—Lady Charlotte, are you quite well? You look rather flushed."
"Just the evening air," I lied.
"Ah. Well. I was wondering if we might continue our discussion about the rose varieties? I have some very interesting observations about the grafting techniques used for?—"
"Lady Charlotte has promised to play for us," Marguerite interrupted smoothly, appearing at Dunmore's elbow. "Come, dear. Everyone's waiting."
She steered me toward the music room.
I glanced back. Edward stood on the terrace, watching me go. His expression was complicated—want and guilt and something that might have been despair.
I played. Mama's favourite Mozart sonata. My fingers moved through the familiar phrases while my mind replayed every second of that kiss.
Edward had kissed me.
In Grandpapa’s garden, under the moonlight, with my supposed suitor searching for me inside.
He'd kissed me like he meant it.
And then he'd apologised.
I finished the sonata to polite applause. Played an encore because someone requested it. Smiled and accepted compliments and played the role of an accomplished debutante.
All while thinking about Edward's mouth on mine.
When the evening finally ended, when the guests departed, and Mama and Papa were saying their goodbyes to Marguerite, I looked for Edward.
He was gone.
Left, according to Marguerite, just after my performance. Claimed fatigue from travel. Made his excuses and fled.
Of course, he had.
In the carriage ride home, Eleanor looked at me with too-knowing eyes.
"You're different," she observed.
"I'm tired."
"You're different," she repeated. "Something happened."
Everything happened, I thought. The world shifted. Edward kissed me. And now I don't know how to go back to before.
"Nothing happened," I said.
Eleanor didn't believe me. But she was eleven, and even she knew when not to press.
That night, in my room, I sat at my escritoire with my notebook.
The Moroccan leather was smooth under my fingers. Inside: all my careful plans. My ranked list of suitable gentlemen. My strategies, contingencies, and systems for managing my Season.
All of it useless now.
Because Edward had kissed me.
And I couldn't marry Dunmore. Couldn't marry anyone else. Couldn't go back to before, when marriage was a puzzle to solve rather than a matter of the heart.
I turned to the page where I'd written Edward's name in the margin. Stared at it in the candlelight.
Then, very carefully, I wrote four more words beneath it.
He kissed me tonight.
And closed the book before I could cross that out too.