10. In Which a Gentleman Stops Pretending – Various locations throughout London #2
I had no idea what Dunmore had just asked.
"Absolutely," I said.
Dunmore looked pleased and continued.
Mary, from across the table, caught my eye and smiled. Mouthed "thank you."
She thought I was being kind to Dunmore. Inclusive. She had no idea I was deliberately monopolising him to keep him away from Charlotte.
The dinner continued. Six courses. Dunmore discussed snuffboxes through all of them. By the time dessert arrived, I knew more about decorative metalwork than I'd ever wanted to know.
But Charlotte had made it through dinner without once having to engage with Dunmore directly.
Small victories.
After dinner, the gentlemen retired for port. Dunmore immediately cornered Matthew to discuss his collection. I escaped to the window.
Lucas appeared at my elbow. "You're very patient with young Dunmore."
"He's not a bad person."
"No. Just enthusiastic about very specific things." Lucas took a drink. "Though I notice you've been quite protective of Charlotte around him."
My shoulders tensed. "Have I?"
"Three dances this Season. Attending events you normally avoid. Sitting between them at dinner and absorbing a forty-minute snuffbox lecture so Charlotte doesn't have to." Lucas's voice was mild. "Mary thinks you're being a good uncle. Caroline thinks it's sweet."
"And you?"
Lucas looked at me. Really looked at me, with the particular intensity of a man who had spent years managing a dukedom and could read people like Mary read ledgers.
"I think," he said carefully, "that you've been very present this Season. More so than anyone expected."
"I'm being social."
"Are you." It wasn't a question.
We stood in silence. Through the wall, I could hear Dunmore's voice rising with enthusiasm about some acquisition or another.
"She doesn't want him," I said quietly.
"I know."
"Then why?—"
"Because Penworth is my father-in-law's oldest friend.
Because a ducal match would be advantageous.
Because Charlotte hasn't explicitly refused.
" Lucas turned his glass in his hands. "Because sometimes doing the right thing for your child means letting them make their own choices, even when you're not certain what those choices will be. "
He left me standing by the window with those words and my guilt.
The week continued. More events. More rescues. More moments were stolen between the performances of the Season.
A musicale at Lady Montague’s: I positioned myself next to Charlotte during the performance. Dunmore tried to provide whispered commentary about the soprano's technique. I accidentally stepped on his foot. He relocated.
An afternoon at the British Museum: Charlotte was examining antiquities with Margaret. Dunmore appeared with detailed information about Roman snuffboxes (apparently they existed). I created a distraction involving a museum guard and a supposed question about Greek pottery. Charlotte escaped.
A garden party at Ashbourne House: Dunmore cornered Charlotte by the roses. I appeared with lemonade and a fabricated message from Juliet. Dunmore, ever obliging, went to find Juliet while Charlotte and I disappeared into the conservatory.
We sat among the orchids. Charlotte kicked off her shoes—a small rebellion against propriety. I loosened my cravat.
"This is becoming a pattern," Charlotte observed.
"Is it?"
"You. Rescuing me. Me. Letting you."
"Would you prefer I stop?"
Charlotte looked at me. "No."
The word hung between us. Simple. Honest. Dangerous.
"The family thinks I'm being protective," I said.
"Are you?"
No.
I was being selfish. I was being possessive. I was monopolising Charlotte's time because the alternative—watching her with Dunmore, watching her perform happiness with someone else—was unbearable.
"I don't know anymore," I admitted.
Charlotte drew her knees up to her chest—another break with propriety that she'd never allow in public. "I keep waiting for you to tell me to stop this. To tell me I'm being ridiculous. To say that I should just accept Dunmore because he's suitable and kind and everyone wants it."
"I would never tell you that."
"Why not?"
Because you deserve better. Because you deserve someone who sees you—really sees you—not just as the Duke of Ashbourne's daughter or a suitable duchess. Because you deserve someone who makes you laugh the real laugh, not the Society one.
Because I want to be that person, and I know I shouldn't.
"Because you're Charlotte," I said instead. "You don't do things just because everyone wants them."
"I used to." Her voice was quiet. "I used to manage everyone. Plan everything. Make sure all the pieces fit together perfectly. But this—" She gestured vaguely at the conservatory, at us, at the whole impossible situation. "This doesn't fit any plan I've ever made."
"Maybe that's not a bad thing."
Charlotte looked at me. Really looked at me, in the way she had since I'd come back from the Continent. Like she was seeing someone new. Someone she hadn't expected.
"Edward," she said.
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For coming when I send for you. For being in the room. For—all of it."
For being someone who sees you, I thought. For being unable to stay away even when I know I should.
"Always," I said.
The word felt like a promise. Like a confession.
Charlotte's eyes went dark. She opened her mouth to say something.
Juliet's voice echoed from the garden. "Charlotte? Are you in the conservatory?"
Charlotte scrambled for her shoes. I straightened my cravat. By the time Juliet appeared in the doorway, we were perfectly proper.
"There you are," Juliet said. "Lord Dunmore was asking after you. Something about showing you a new acquisition?"
Charlotte's expression went carefully blank. "Of course. I'll be right there."
Juliet left. Charlotte stood, shoes on, mask back in place.
"Charlotte—"
"I know." She looked at me. "I know."
She left. I stayed in the conservatory, surrounded by orchids and the scent of her perfume.
And I admitted, finally, what I'd been avoiding for weeks.
I wasn't protecting my niece.
I was falling in love with her.
Possibly had already fallen.
And I had absolutely no idea what to do about it.
That night, alone in my room at Ashford House, I stood at the window and looked out at London.
I'd spent eighteen months on the Continent running from guilt I couldn't name. I'd come home for Charlotte's Season, expecting to help Juliet manage and then disappear back to my quiet life.
Instead, I'd become obsessed with a seventeen-year-old woman who was supposed to be my niece. Who called me to rescue her from snuffbox lectures. Who looked at me like I was something other than family.
Who made me feel, for the first time in my life, that wanting something for myself wasn't proof I didn't deserve it.
I was in trouble.
Deep, catastrophic, irreversible trouble.
And the worst part? I didn't want to stop.
The co-conspiracy had started as rescue. As kindness. As the right thing to do.
It had become something else entirely.
Every stolen moment. Every shared look. Every time Charlotte's hand brushed mine, or she laughed the real laugh, or she looked at me like I was the only person in the room.
It was intimacy. It was partnership. It was everything I'd never let myself want.
And it was going to destroy me.
Because Charlotte was going to have to make a choice. Soon. Dunmore's patience wouldn't last forever. The family's pressure would increase. Eventually, she'd have to decide.
And when she did—when she chose to refuse Dunmore or, God help me, chose to accept him—everything would change.
I just didn't know if I could survive either outcome.
I went to bed and didn't sleep.
Tomorrow there would be another event. Another opportunity to intercept Dunmore. Another stolen moment with Charlotte.
Another step deeper into something I couldn't stop and shouldn't want.
But I'd go anyway.
Because Charlotte had said "no" when I asked if she wanted me to stop.
And I'd said "always" when she thanked me for coming when she called.
And neither of us, apparently, knew how to lie to each other anymore.