12. In Which a Gentleman Flees and a Lady Pursues – Ashford House, Berkeley Square, London to Ashford Hall, Nottinghamsh #2
Then I saddled Apollo myself. Led him out quietly. Mounted astride, the breeches giving me freedom I'd never had in sidesaddle.
And rode.
The roads from Ashbourne Park to Ashford Hall were quiet. I knew the way—we'd travelled between the estates my entire life. Through Derbyshire into Nottinghamshire. The landscape I'd grown up with.
I pushed Apollo hard but not cruelly. Fast enough to make time. Not so fast, I'd hurt him.
Dawn broke as I crossed from Derbyshire into Nottinghamshire. The sky went from black to grey to pink. Birds began singing. The world woke around me.
I was exhausted. My hands ached from gripping the reins. My legs burned from riding astride. My hair was escaping the cap despite my best efforts.
I didn't stop.
Ashford Hall appeared on the horizon mid-morning. The familiar gates. The long drive. The house I'd visited dozens of times growing up.
I didn't go to the house.
I knew where he'd be.
I rode straight to the churchyard.
The small stone church sat on the edge of the estate. The Ashford family plot beside it. I'd been here for christenings, for services when we visited.
I slid off Apollo. Tied him to the gate. My legs nearly gave out—three plus hours of hard riding in breeches, muscles screaming.
I steadied myself. Pushed through the churchyard gate.
And saw him.
Edward sat with his back against a headstone, his knees drawn up, his head in his hands. He looked broken. Lost. Nothing like the confident man who'd challenged me in the garden two nights ago.
He heard the gate. Looked up.
For a heartbeat, he just stared. Like he was seeing a ghost.
Then recognition hit.
"Charlotte?"
I walked toward him. My legs were shaking. I was covered in road dust, hair falling around my face, dressed in boy's clothing that barely fit.
I looked nothing like the Duke of Ashbourne's daughter.
I looked exactly like what I was: someone who'd ridden hours through two counties to find him.
"What the hell are you wearing?" His voice was rough with shock. He stood, unsteady. "How did you—Charlotte, what?—"
"I rode." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "From Ashbourne."
Edward's face went white. "That's over forty miles. You rode alone—do you have any idea how dangerous—what if something had happened—you could have been thrown, hurt, lost?—"
"You left."
The words stopped him.
"You left," I said again. My voice cracked.
"You challenged me in the garden. Told me to prove this wasn't just rescue. To refuse Dunmore on my own terms. And then you left. You fled to Nottinghamshire, and I couldn’t—I heard Grandpapa say where you’d gone, and I couldn't just stay in London pretending I didn't know. "
I looked at the headstone he'd been sitting against.
Elizabeth Margaret Ashford
Beloved wife and mother
October 24, 1803
Understanding crashed over me.
"Your mother," I said quietly.
"Yes."
I sat down on the bench next to the grave, in my boy's breeches and coat, as improper as anything I'd ever done.
"Tell me," I said.
"Charlotte—"
"Tell me. Whatever you came here to say to her. Say it to me."
Edward looked at me—at someone who'd just ridden across two counties, who was sitting in a churchyard demanding he bare his soul.
He sat beside me. Our shoulders touching.
"She died giving birth to me," he said quietly. "October 1803. I was born, and she was gone. Simple as that."
"That's not?—"
"It is simple. Cause and effect. If I hadn't been born, she'd be alive. Father would still have his wife. Juliet would still have her mother. The entire family would be better. Intact. Not broken by my existence."
"You didn't break anything."
"I killed her."
"No." My voice was fierce. Certain. "You didn't kill her. You LIVED. That's not the same thing, and I will fight anyone who says otherwise, including you."
Edward's breath caught.
"She died in childbirth," I continued. "That's tragedy. That's the cruel randomness of the world. That's not murder. That's not your fault. You didn't choose to be born. You didn't cause her death. You simply lived."
"It doesn't feel like simply living."
"I know. But Edward—" I turned to face him. "You've spent twenty-three years carrying guilt for something you didn't do. Believing you're a burden when you're not. And I won't let you keep doing it. I won't let you believe that wanting things—wanting me—is proof you don't deserve to be happy."
"How did you?—"
"Because I know you. Because I see you. Because you told me in the garden that this terrified you, and I'm here anyway.
" My hand found his chest. Over his heart.
I could feel it pounding. "You're not a burden, Edward.
You never were. And your mother—" I looked at the headstone.
"She would want you to live. Really live.
Not just exist while carrying guilt that was never yours to carry. "
Edward's hand covered mine. Pressed it harder against his chest.
"I don't know how to do that," he said. His voice was raw.
"Then learn. With me."
We sat there. My hand on his chest. Edward's hand covering mine. Both of us breathing hard.
"What the hell are you wearing?" Edward asked again. But his voice was different now. Wonder, not shock.
"Richard Jr's old clothes. They barely fit."
"You rode forty miles. Alone. In boy's clothing."
"Yes. I made it in a bit over three."
"Why?"
"Because you left. Because you challenged me to prove this wasn't just a rescue, and then you ran before I could. Because—" I stopped. Took a breath. "Because you asked me in the garden what I wanted, and I want you to know the answer."
"What's the answer?"
"You." My voice was steady now. Certain. "I want you. Not as rescue from Dunmore. Not as an escape from the Season. You. Edward. The man who rescues me from snuffbox lectures and challenges me in dark gardens and sits in churchyards carrying guilt that isn't his. All of it. I want all of it."
Edward's hand moved from mine to my face. Cupped my cheek. His thumb brushed across my cheekbone.
"You rode forty miles to tell me that."
"I did."
"That's insane."
"Probably."
"If anyone finds out?—"
"I don't care."
"Charlotte—"
"I don't care," I said again. Fiercer. "I don't care about propriety or scandal or what anyone thinks. I rode here because you needed to know. You asked me to prove it. So I'm proving it."
Edward stared at me.
Then he kissed me.
Not gentle. Not careful. Desperate and raw and everything we'd been holding back for weeks.
His hand fisted in my hair, destroying what was left of the plait, the cap falling away. My hands gripped his coat, pulling him closer. We were kneeling in a churchyard beside his mother's grave, and neither of us cared.
This was nothing like the almost-kiss in the garden. That had been on the edge, controlled, both of us holding back.
This was free fall.
Edward's mouth on mine. My hands in his hair. The taste of him, the feel of him, the way he made a sound when I bit his lip that went straight through me.
We broke apart, gasping.
"What the hell are you wearing?" Edward said for the third time, but now he was laughing. His hand was still in my hair, his forehead pressed against mine.
"I already told you."
"It's terrible."