Chapter 6 The Proposition #2
“My father died when I was young,” he continues. “Suddenly. The title passed, and everything passed with it—estates, tenants, obligations. I went from being a son to being…a responsibility.”
“That sounds suffocating,” I say softly.
His eyes lift. Surprise flickers, as if he expects judgment and receives understanding instead.
“It is,” he says simply.
Outside, a clock chimes somewhere in the house—distant, precise.
“And your engagement?” I ask before I can stop myself.
The question is reckless. None of my business. A knife I have no right to touch.
James’s face closes a fraction. “Lady Victoria is…suitable.”
“That is not an answer,” I whisper.
He looks away. “It is the only answer I am permitted.”
Heat flashes through me—anger at a world that wraps cages in honor and calls them virtue.
“Do you want her?” I ask, barely more than breath.
Silence stretches.
Then James says, very quietly, “What I want is rarely the question.”
The same line as yesterday. The same prison.
A small cough from the nursery cuts through the tension like a blade.
I am on my feet before I realize I moved.
Augusta coughs again, then sighs, then settles.
I stand in the nursery doorway for a long moment, watching her chest rise and fall, and feel my own lungs finally remember how to work.
When I turn back, James is in the hall, watching me with an expression I cannot name.
“She is well,” I whisper.
He nods, relief flickering. “Then perhaps you will rest.”
“Perhaps,” I lie.
He hesitates, then says, “You did a brave thing tonight.”
The compliment lands like foreign currency—unexpected, difficult to spend.
“I did a necessary thing,” I whisper.
James’s gaze holds mine. His hand lifts, stops, hovers near my shoulder the way it did in the corridor at Ashbourne—considering kindness like it is contraband.
For a heartbeat, I think he will touch me.
He does not.
He steps back.
“Good night, Miss Hartford,” he says, voice rougher than it ought to be.
“Good night, Your Grace,” I whisper, and the words feel like a wall between us.
* * *
Dawn comes pale and indifferent.
Augusta wakes cranky, which is the best possible sign. She demands toast. She demands lemonade. She demands to know why an American cousin is loitering in her nursery.
Lady Pemberton stares at her daughter sitting up and scolding, and the relief hits her so hard she has to sit down.
“You saved my child,” she says to me, voice raw. “I will never forget it.”
In Mayfair, “never forget” is not always comfort.
“You need not repay me,” I say automatically.
Lady Pemberton smiles through tears. “Oh, I will. I shall tell everyone.”
By the time James sees Beatrice and me into Lady Pemberton’s carriage, London is already buzzing.
Ashbourne House greets me with Mrs. Finch’s tight mouth and a stack of calling cards on a silver tray.
“They have requests,” Molly murmurs, eyes wide.
Requests. For me.
Beatrice snatches the top card and reads it with delight. “Lady Markham wishes to pay her respects. And Mrs. Davies wishes to inquire after your…constitution.”
“Wonderful,” I mutter.
Mrs. Finch looks as though she is contemplating arson. “Lady Pemberton has done what she does best. She has made a spectacle.”
Before I can ask what I am meant to do with a spectacle, Dr. Thornbury appears in the corridor.
“Miss Hartford,” he says softly, and every instinct in me goes rigid.
He waits until Mrs. Finch is distracted—until Beatrice is pulled away by a servant—then steps in close enough that his voice becomes a private knife.
“You are playing a dangerous game,” he murmurs. “You struck a child in public and call it knowledge.”
“I saved her,” I say through my teeth.
Dr. Thornbury’s eyes glitter. “A fortunate accident. And now you dispense advice to ladies of quality.” His mouth curls. “You are either a quack or a witch, and either will be dealt with.”
“If you speak—if you interfere again—I will make certain the right people ask the right questions,” he continues, satisfied. “Lady Victoria, for instance, has a great interest in the Duke of Ashbourne’s…associations.”
James’s shadow falls across the hall.
“Dr. Thornbury,” James says, voice calm enough to be lethal.
Thornbury straightens, the knife becoming a bow. “Your Grace.”
James does not look at him for long. “Leave,” he says. “And do not address Miss Hartford again unless you are asked.”
For a heartbeat, Thornbury’s face shows what he truly is—small and furious. Then he inclines his head. “As you command.”
James’s gaze snaps to me. “What did he say?”
I swallow. “That I should stay silent. That if I do not, he will expose me.”
James’s expression hardens. “He cannot.”
He can.
Before I can say it aloud, Molly appears again, breathless. “Your Grace—Lord Weston has called.”
Beatrice materializes as if summoned by the words. “Oh good,” she says. “Now we have a second problem.”
* * *
Weston bows over my hand as if my life has always included men doing that without irony.
“Miss Hartford,” he says warmly. “I came to inquire after the child.”
“Alive. Indignant. Demanding toast,” I say.
His smile softens. “Excellent.” Then his gaze sharpens with something more serious. “May I speak with you? Properly?”
Beatrice plants herself nearby with bright innocence. “I am an excellent chaperone. I hear nothing. I see nothing. I only judge.”
Weston’s mouth twitches. “Perfect.”
He lowers his voice. “You have made yourself visible, Miss Hartford. That brings admiration. It brings curiosity. And it brings men like Thornbury.”
I do not bother pretending. “He threatened me.”
Weston’s eyes darken. “Of course he did.”
He steps closer—not improper, just close enough to make an offer feel like a lifeline. “Allow me to be useful,” he says. “Let me sponsor you.”
I stare. “Sponsor me how?”
“In the way society understands,” Weston says smoothly. “Not as a physician. London is not prepared to applaud a woman and then allow her power. But as a natural healer—an American with unusual methods. A sanctioned curiosity.” His gaze holds mine. “My name opens doors. It also closes mouths.”
“And what do you want?” I ask, because bargains are never free.
His smile turns honest. “To learn. To understand how you think. To watch you work.” He tilts his head. “You would teach me your methods. In exchange, you would have a position—purpose—protection.”
Protection. Purpose.
I hear my own voice, steady despite the tremor in my ribs. “Yes,” I say. “On conditions.”
Weston’s brows lift, delighted. “Naturally.”
“You do not speak for me,” I say. “You do not parade me like a trained animal. And you do not touch my name without my consent.”
Weston’s smile is slow. “Agreed.”
Beatrice makes a tiny, triumphant sound.
Weston bows again. “Then I shall call tomorrow. We will begin.”
When he is gone, the house feels too quiet.
James meets me in the corridor, expression carved into control. “You accepted.”
“Yes,” I say, because lying would be pointless.
His control fractures. “You are making yourself his.”
“I am making myself safe,” I snap. “Or as safe as a woman can be when physicians whisper witch.”
James steps closer, voice low. “I can protect you.”
“You are engaged,” I say, and the words are the only shield I have left.
His eyes flash. “Do not.”
“Do not what?” I demand, voice shaking. “Do not point out that your duty has a name and a face and icy blue silk?”
Silence slams down. The air between us is thin as paper.
James’s gaze drops to my mouth.
Then he kisses me.
It is not polite. It is not careful. It is heat and frustration and everything we have refused to name.
For one stunned, impossible moment, I kiss him back—and the world goes away.
Then the world comes crashing in.
James pulls back as if burned. We stare at each other, breathless, horrified by what we have done and equally horrified by how much we wanted it.
“I am engaged,” he says hoarsely, as if saying it makes it less true.
“I know,” I whisper. The knowledge tastes like guilt.
He takes a step away, rebuilding the distance with sheer will. “Forgive me.”
“Do not,” I whisper. “Do not apologize like this is noble.”
His jaw clenches. “You will regret Weston.”
“And I will regret you,” I shoot back, softer than I mean to. “But regret is not a plan.”
James flinches. Then he turns and walks away, leaving me alone with my heart pounding and my mouth still warm from his.
That evening, I sit at a desk with shaking fingers and write a note to Lord Weston accepting what I have already accepted in my bones: I need a place in this world that is mine.
* * *
The next morning, London sends me a different sort of invitation.
Weston arrives early, coat dusted with fog and urgency. “There is fever in Whitechapel,” he says without preamble. “A clergyman has begged me for aid. A physician—Pierce, exhausted—has more patients than he can count.”
James appears behind me like a wall. “No,” he says flatly.
Weston’s brows lift. “Your Grace—”
“No,” James repeats. “It is too dangerous. She will not go.”
I look at the newspaper in Weston’s hand, at the neat print describing death as if it is weather. I think of Augusta’s cough. I think of lungs failing in rooms no one bothers to light with chandeliers.
“I am going,” I say quietly.
James’s face goes pale with anger. “Emma—”
My name again. A plea he hates himself for making.
“People are dying,” I say. “And I did not survive all this to curtsy while they do.”
Silence. Then James gives a single, furious nod.
“If you go,” he says, voice low and shaking with restraint, “you will not go alone.”
Weston’s smile is sharp. “Excellent. Then we are agreed.”
James’s gaze locks on mine. “Prepare yourself,” he says. “We leave for Whitechapel.”
My stomach turns with fear.
My heart turns with purpose.
And somewhere deep in my chest, terror and sarcasm pack their lodgings and come with me anyway.