21. In Which a Lady Manages Her Own Affairs – Lady Hartley’s Musicale, Mayfair, London #2
Edward pulled me closer. We were in a music room at Lady Hartley’s musicale, with people starting to file in for the performance, and we were sitting too close, my hand in his, my eyes red from crying.
Anyone could see us. Anyone could notice.
I didn't care.
"I have a plan too," I said. "To prove this is real."
"Eleanor mentioned."
"Of course she did." I wiped my eyes with my free hand. "Four steps. Stop being rescued. Rescue you. Tell you who you are. Choose you publicly."
"How's it going so far?"
"Step one is complete. Step two, I'm working on." I looked up at him. "I haven't figured out what to rescue you from yet. You're very good at managing yourself."
"I'm terrible at social calls. I mentioned it once—how much I hate them, how I never know what to say. You said you'd teach me how to manage them." He paused. "That offer still stands?"
I blinked. "You want me to rescue you from social awkwardness?"
"I want you to teach me something you're good at. Something I'm terrible at. I want to let you help me, the way I've been helping you. I want—" He stopped. "I want to not be the strong one all the time. I want to let you save me from something, even if it's just uncomfortable tea conversations."
"That's not—" I stopped. "That's actually brilliant."
"Is it?"
"Yes. Because it's vulnerable. It's admitting you're not perfect at everything. It's trusting me to see you struggle with something and not think less of you." I smiled through the tears. "When do you want to start?"
"Tomorrow? Tea at Lady Montague’s. She's invited half the ton, and I've been dreading it for days."
"Tomorrow then. I'll show you every trick I know for surviving tedious social calls." I paused. "But Edward—you have to actually let me help. Not just pretend to need it."
"I genuinely need it. I'm genuinely terrible at this." He smiled. "You'll see tomorrow. It's painful to watch."
The quartet began tuning in earnest. People were settling into seats around us. The musicale was about to begin.
"We should probably stop holding hands," I said.
"Probably."
Neither of us let go.
"Edward?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For the book. For remembering. For seeing me."
"Thank you for being brave enough to let me."
The music started. Some piece I didn't recognise, probably Italian, definitely complex.
I should have been listening. Should have been appreciating the skilled musicians, the beautiful melody, the carefully curated program.
Instead, I sat with Edward's hand in mine and thought about tomorrow. About teaching him to navigate social calls. About proving to Mama and Papa and ourselves that this was real.
About choosing him. Every day. Even when it was hard.
Especially when it was hard.
The musicale continued around us. People listened politely. Applauded at the appropriate moments. Whispered behind fans about who was wearing what and who had been seen with whom.
None of it mattered.
What mattered was this: Edward had given me a book because he remembered a passing comment from months ago. I had handled Dunmore myself because I needed to prove I could. Tomorrow, I would teach Edward something I was good at, and he would let me help him.
We were building something. Not on rescue. Not on need. On seeing each other. Really seeing each other.
And that—that was worth fighting for.
The performance ended. We filed out with the crowd, not touching now but aware of each other with every step.
In the entrance hall, I saw Dunmore leaving with his father. He caught my eye for just a moment. Nodded once. A gesture of acknowledgement. Perhaps even respect.
I nodded back.
Then he was gone, and I was standing with my family—Mama and Papa watching me with concerned eyes—and Edward across the room, maintaining proper distance, looking at me like I was the answer to a question he'd been asking his whole life.
"Charlotte?" Mama asked quietly. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine, Mama."
"What did you say to Lord Dunmore?"
"The truth. That I'm not going to marry him." I took a breath. "That I'm in love with someone else."
Mama's eyes widened slightly. "You told him about Edward?"
"I told him I'm in love. I didn't have to say the name. He already knew."
Papa appeared at Mama's elbow. "What's this about Dunmore?"
"Charlotte refused him," Mama said quietly. "Directly. Tonight."
Papa looked at me. Really looked. At his daughter, who'd just done the hard thing. The brave thing. The honest thing.
"Well," he said finally. "I suppose that's decided then."
"Papa—"
"We'll discuss it at home. All of it. But Charlotte—" His voice softened. "I'm glad you were honest with him. That took courage."
I nodded. Unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
We left Lady Hartley’s musicale together. Papa handed Mama into the carriage. I followed last, glancing back once to see Edward watching from the doorway.
He raised his hand slightly. A wave. A promise.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow I would teach him to survive social calls. Would rescue him from his own awkwardness. Would show him that I saw him—all of him—not just the confident rescuer but the uncertain man underneath.
Tomorrow I would prove it was real.
Tonight I would write in my notebook:
Step One: Complete. Managed Dunmore alone. It was hard. It hurt him. But it was honest.
Step Two: Tomorrow. Lady Hartley's tea. Teaching Edward social survival.
And maybe—maybe—we were finally getting somewhere.