8. In Which a Gentleman Confronts His Worst Self – Ashford House, Berkeley Square, London
IN WHICH A GENTLEMAN CONFRONTS HIS WORST SELF
EDWARD
ASHFORD HOUSE, BERKELEY SQUARE, LONDON
Iwoke the morning after Marguerite's dinner with the absolute certainty that I was the worst kind of man.
The kind who kissed his seventeen-year-old niece in a garden.
The kind who fled the scene like a coward.
The kind who was now lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and reliving every second of that catastrophic lapse in judgment.
Charlotte's confession: I can't stop thinking about you.
The moonlight on her face.
The way she'd looked at me—not like I was family, but like I was someone she wanted.
And then I'd kissed her.
Just—kissed her. Without thinking. Without considering consequences. Without remembering that she was seventeen and I was twenty-three, and she was Juliet’s daughter, and we were in Marguerite's garden where anyone could see.
I'd kissed her like I had the right.
I didn't have the right.
I rolled out of bed and tried not to think about how Charlotte had kissed me back. How her hands had gripped my coat. How she'd made a small sound when my mouth found hers that had nearly undone me completely.
I failed spectacularly.
This was a disaster.
I'd crossed a line I couldn't uncross. I'd taken advantage of Charlotte's trust. I'd behaved in a way that would make Lucas—who had welcomed me into his home, who had treated me like family—want to call me out.
Worse: I'd apologised. And Charlotte had told me not to.
Which meant she didn't regret it.
Which meant I'd made everything infinitely more complicated.
I dressed. Went downstairs. Found Papa in the breakfast room reading his correspondence.
"Good morning," he said, looking up. "You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep."
"Mm." Papa’s eyes were too knowing. "Feeling better this morning?"
I'd claimed fatigue when I'd left last night. Fled Marguerite's dinner, claiming exhaustion.
"Yes. Much better."
"Good. You left rather suddenly last night."
"I was tired."
"So you said." Father set down his correspondence. "You seemed distracted during dinner as well. Barely said a word."
Because I'd been too busy watching Charlotte. Too busy reliving that kiss in the garden. Too busy trying to figure out how to exist in the same room as her without crossing every possible line again.
"Did I? I hadn't noticed."
"Edward." Father's voice was gentle. "You've been acting strangely all week. And last night?—"
I said nothing. Focused on my breakfast with the kind of intensity that suggested eggs and toast were the most fascinating things I'd ever encountered.
Papa waited. He was exceptionally good at waiting.
"Edward," he said finally. "Is there something you need to tell me?"
Yes.
I kissed Charlotte. I've been following her around London for weeks. I'm in love with her, and I don’t know how to stop, and last night I crossed every possible line, and I can't take it back.
"No," I said. "Nothing."
He looked at me for a long moment. Then he folded his newspaper with the kind of deliberate care that meant he was choosing his words carefully.
"When I was courting Marguerite," he said, "I made every mistake imaginable. I was too forward. Too cautious. I pushed when I should have waited and waited when I should have acted. Do you know what finally worked?"
"What?"
"Honesty. I told her exactly how I felt. I stopped trying to be strategic and simply told her."
"That's very helpful advice for courting," I said carefully. "If one were courting someone."
"Is one?"
"No."
"Pity." Papa returned to his newspaper. "Because if one were, honesty would be far more effective than whatever one is currently doing."
I finished my breakfast in silence.
And spent the rest of the day avoiding everyone.
Tuesday, I stayed home.
I had correspondence to handle, I told myself. Estate business to review. Books to read.
I was lying.
The truth was simpler: I couldn't face anyone. Couldn't risk running into Charlotte at some event. Couldn't trust myself not to do something even more catastrophic than kissing her in a garden.
So I hid.
Like a coward.
At three o'clock, there was a knock at the study door.
"Come in."
Simmons entered with a silver tray. "A note for you, my lord. From Her Grace, the Duchess of Ashbourne."
My chest tightened. Juliet.
Had Charlotte told her? Had someone seen us in the garden? Was this the beginning of the reckoning I deserved?
I opened the note with fingers that wanted to tremble.
Dearest Edward,
I hope this finds you well. Charlotte mentioned you left Marguerite's dinner early due to fatigue. I do hope you're recovering.
I'm writing to invite you to dinner on Thursday. Just family—Lucas, the children, and me. We've missed you these past weeks, and Charlotte has been asking after you.
Do say you'll come.
With love,
Juliet
I stared at the note.
Charlotte has been asking after you.
Four words that made everything worse.
Because she shouldn't be asking after me. She should be furious. Should regret that kiss. Should be telling Juliet that her brother had behaved inappropriately and needed to be kept far away from her daughter.
Instead, she was asking after me.
I wrote back:
Dearest Juliet,
Thank you for the invitation. I'm afraid I have a prior commitment on Thursday that I cannot break. Perhaps another time.
Your loving brother,
Edward
I sealed it. Sent it with Simmons.
And tried not to think about the fact that I was now lying to my sister.
Wednesday brought another invitation. This one from Marguerite.
A musicale on Friday. Intimate gathering. Just a few friends.
I recognised the strategy. "Just a few friends" meant Charlotte would be there. Along with Dunmore. And probably several other perfectly suitable gentlemen who hadn't kissed her in gardens.
I declined.
Papa noticed.
"You're declining social invitations now?" he asked over dinner.
"I have other commitments."
"What commitments?"
"Estate business."
"You hate estate business."
"Perhaps I'm developing a taste for it."
He gave me a look that suggested he didn't believe a word of it. But he let it drop.
I made it through Wednesday. Through Thursday. Through Friday.
Each day is a little harder. Each day, the pull is a little stronger.
Because I wanted to see Charlotte. Wanted to know if she regretted that kiss. Wanted to apologise properly—or perhaps kiss her again, consequences be damned.
Wanted things I had no right to want.
On Friday evening, I sat in the library trying to read and failing utterly. The book sat open on my lap, unread. My mind replayed Monday night on an endless loop.
Charlotte's confession.
The kiss.
Her hands in my coat.
The way she'd told me not to apologise.
I was losing my mind.
A knock at the library door interrupted my spiral into madness.
"Come in."
Papa entered. Settled into the chair across from me without invitation.
"You're brooding again," he observed.
"I'm reading."
"You're on the same page you were on an hour ago. That's brooding."
I closed the book. "Was there something you needed?"
"No. I simply thought you might like company in your misery."
"I'm not miserable."
"Edward." Father leaned forward. "I've known you for twenty-three years. You've been miserable since you came back from the Continent. But this—whatever's been happening this past week—this is different."
I said nothing.
"You're avoiding the family," Father continued. "Declining invitations. Hiding in this library like it's a fortress. Something happened at Marguerite's dinner, and you won't tell me what."
"Nothing happened."
"Liar."
I stared at him. He rarely called me out quite so directly.
"Edward." His voice softened. "Whatever it is, you can tell me."
Could I?
Could I tell my father that I'd kissed Charlotte? That I was in love with her? That I'd been following her around London for weeks like some kind of obsessed fool?
That I'd crossed every possible line and couldn't bring myself to regret it?
"I can't," I said quietly.
"Can't or won't?"
"Both."
He studied me for a long moment. Then: "Is it about a woman?"
I said nothing. Which was, apparently, answer enough.
"Is she married?"
"No."
"Engaged?"
"No."
"Then what's the complication?"
Everything. She's seventeen. She's Juliet's daughter. She's family. She's Charlotte, whom I've known since she was six years old. She's supposed to marry someone suitable, and I’m supposed to be her uncle, and instead I kissed her in a garden and can't stop thinking about it.
"It's complicated," I said.
"Love usually is."
"I didn't say I was in love."
"You didn't have to."
We sat in silence. Outside, the sun was setting. The library filled with shadows.
"Edward," Papa said finally. "I spent fifteen years believing that part of my life was over.
That loving someone, wanting someone, being with someone—all of it was finished when your mother died.
And then I met Marguerite, and I realised I had a choice.
I could keep hiding. Keep protecting myself.
Keep being safe. Or I could take the risk. "
"And if the risk doesn't work?"
"Then at least you tried. At least you know." Father stood. "But staying here, hiding in this library, avoiding whatever—whoever makes you feel this way? That's not protecting yourself. That's just another kind of death."
He left me alone with those words and my cowardice.
Saturday morning brought a cream-colored envelope with an elegant seal.
Lady Warthington’s ball.
The kind of event Charlotte would absolutely attend.
I should burn the invitation. Should send my regrets. Should do anything other than what I was about to do.
Instead, I sat at my desk and wrote my acceptance.
Because I was weak.
Because the thought of going without seeing Charlotte was unbearable.
Because Papa was right—hiding was its own kind of death, and I was apparently not ready to die just yet.
I stayed away from family events. Declined invitations. Avoided anywhere Charlotte might be.
And spent every waking moment thinking about her.
About that kiss.
About the way she'd looked at me in the moonlight.
About the fact that she was asking after me, which meant she wasn't running away either.
Mary wrote, asking if I was well. I sent back a brief note claiming estate business.
Caroline wrote, inviting me to a card party. I declined.
Even Margaret wrote—Margaret, who barely noticed anyone's existence unless it involved botanical specimens or obscure facts. Her note was characteristically blunt: "You're being ridiculous. Whatever happened, hiding won't fix it."
I didn't respond.
Because Margaret was right, and I had no idea how to fix any of it.
The days crawled past. Each one a little harder. Each one the pull a little stronger.
Because despite everything—despite the age issue, the family connection, the complete impossibility of it all—I wanted Charlotte.
Not as a niece. Not as family.
I wanted her the way a man wanted a woman. The way Papa wanted Marguerite. The way I'd seen Lucas look at Juliet when he thought no one was watching.
I wanted Charlotte. And that wanting was going to destroy me.
Lady Warthington’s ball arrived like a judgment.
I dressed with more care than the occasion warranted. Chose my coat carefully. Made sure my cravat was perfect.
Told myself I was simply maintaining standards.
Knew I was lying.
The ball was already in full swing when I arrived. The Warthington residence blazed with light. Music spilled from open windows. Carriages lined the street.
I walked in like a man going to his execution.
The ballroom was crowded. Three hundred people, at least. Dancing. Talking. Performing the elaborate social ballet that was a London Season.
I scanned the room.
Found Charlotte immediately.
She was dancing with someone—Eastmore, probably, based on the set. She looked beautiful. Perfectly composed. Every inch the Duke of Ashbourne's daughter.
And she was looking directly at me.
Our eyes met across the ballroom.
Held.
Something passed between us. Recognition. Want. The memory of Monday night written in that look.
Charlotte missed a step in the dance. Recovered. But I saw it.
The set ended. Eastmore bowed. Charlotte curtseyed.
And then Dunmore appeared at her elbow.
Of course.
I watched him claim her for the next dance. Watched Charlotte smile and accept. Watched her perform the role of perfect debutante while shooting glances my direction that made my chest ache.
I should leave.
Should turn around and walk out before I did something catastrophic.
Instead, I stayed.
Watched Charlotte dance with Dunmore. With Eastmore. With Lord Philip Ashby, who appeared to be reciting something that made Charlotte's smile become fixed.
Watched her endure it all.
And knew, with absolute certainty, that I was lost.
Because I couldn't stop this. Couldn't stay away. Couldn't pretend I didn't want her.
I'd kissed Charlotte in a garden, and there was no going back.
The only question was: what happened next?