Chapter 2 #2
“When I was presented to the queen. You laughed loudly when my name was read aloud. It was mortifying the way everyone stared at me after that.”
He looked at her, stunned. “That is why you dislike me?”
“That,” Charlotte said curtly, “and many other reasons. You vex me in more ways than I can count. Would you like me to create a list?”
Lord Luca’s lips twitched. “I am flattered you think about me so often.”
Charlotte halted mid-step and she turned to face him fully. “I hardly give you a thought,” she retorted, though her pulse betrayed her with its sudden quickening. He did not need to know that she had, in fact, thought of him—most often with irritation.
“It sounds,” he drawled, “as though you do.”
Her mouth tightened. “Then I am sorry I gave you the wrong impression.”
He stepped closer, the gravel crunching beneath his boots, the air between them tightening with awareness. “And I apologize,” he said, “for laughing when your name was read at Court. I assure you, it was not directed at you.”
For a heartbeat, her breath caught. That moment—her presentation before the queen, her gown so carefully chosen, her nerves strung taut as a bowstring—had been forever tainted by his stifled laughter in the gallery.
She had never forgotten it. And now here he was, speaking of it as though it were nothing at all.
Not quite ready to forgive, she tilted her chin. “Thank you for that, my lord. But that is not why you are here. Is it?”
His smile faded, replaced by a seriousness that unsettled her. “No,” he admitted. “I wanted to speak to you about Mr. Fairchild.”
Her breath stilled in her throat. Mr. Fairchild. The very name sent unease skittering along her spine. She forced her expression to remain composed, though her insides twisted. “And why,” she asked carefully, “would you do that?”
His eyes locked with hers. “Because we both know your secret.”
Charlotte’s heart thudded painfully. “And what secret is that?” she asked, fearing his response.
Leaning closer, he replied in a hushed voice, “That you are the infamous Mr. Fairchild. You can deny it all you want, but we both know it is true.”
Luca watched as Miss Winslow took a hurried step backward, her face draining of color. For all her usual poise and sharp wit, she suddenly looked cornered, almost fragile.
“What is it that you want, my lord?” she asked, her voice clipped and guarded.
“Nothing, but—”
She cut him off, suspicion flashing in her eyes. “Do you intend to tell my brother?”
He exhaled through his nose. “No, but—”
“Are you here to blackmail me, then?” Her voice pitched higher, each word tight with fear and defiance.
Luca sighed, feeling the situation unraveling faster than he could rein it back.
This was not the opening he had rehearsed in his mind.
He took a deliberate step forward, gently setting his hands on her shoulders.
He could feel the tension coursing through her frame.
She was braced for attack, not conversation.
“If you would just let me speak, I will explain it,” he said in a calm, collected voice.
To his relief, she stilled, those sharp blue eyes studying him, weighing whether to trust him with silence. When she did not immediately interrupt, he released her, stepping back to give her space. This was not at all how he had wanted things to unfold, but he knew the time for evasion had passed.
“I want to hire you,” he said plainly.
Her brows lifted, suspicion giving way to curiosity. “You are offering me a job?”
“I am,” Luca confirmed. “A position at The London Gazette. Writing for the Society page.”
Her lips parted, then curved into the faintest frown. “But I already write for The Morning Post.”
“I am well aware.” He allowed a hint of a smile. “But I was hoping you might consider coming to my newssheets instead. I will pay you double what The Morning Post offers.”
Her frown deepened, as though insulted by the implication. “It isn’t about the money. It never was.”
That caught him off guard. “Then what is it about?” he asked.
She turned away, and her profile, framed by the soft light, looked achingly young, yet her voice carried a weary resolve. “I wanted to make a difference. But somewhere along the way, I have failed.”
“You have not failed. You are one of the top gossip journalists in all of London.”
With a shake of her head, she replied, “I never intended to write gossip articles. When I was first offered the position, I thought it would be a stepping stone—an opening to write about matters that truly concern Society.”
“What do you wish to write about?”
“War. Politics. Social events that shape the nation.” She sighed, her shoulders drooping slightly. “But I have never been given the chance. Each time I submit an article outside of gossip, it is rejected without hesitation.”
Luca studied her intently, a mixture of admiration and bafflement stirring within him. “Why would you want to write on such heavy topics?”
“Why wouldn’t I? Men write those articles every day.”
He spread his hands, attempting reason though he knew the words sounded clumsy even as he spoke them. “But you are a woman.”
Her eyes flashed with disdain, and she drawled, “What an astute observation, my lord. Pray tell, what other obvious facts can you share?”
Heat touched his neck, and he lifted his hands in surrender. “I did not mean to offend. I merely wish to understand.”
She took a step closer, her presence fierce despite her delicate frame. “Have you ever been told what to think or feel?”
“No,” he admitted, the single word feeling suddenly weighty.
Tilting her chin, she replied, “Women are expected to behave a certain way or else we are branded ‘difficult.’ We can be ruined for the slightest infraction. Imagine your entire life altered because of one careless remark or a dance with the wrong gentleman.”
“I cannot imagine. But you are the diamond of the Season.”
“Do you think that makes it easier?” Her voice sharpened, laced with an ache he had not expected. “Everyone watches me, studies me, waits for me to fail.”
He arched a brow, trying to mask the strange sympathy welling within. “You look as if you enjoy the attention.”
“I don’t,” she countered swiftly, “but it is a necessary evil. The more I attend these events, the more gossip I gather for my articles.”
“Then why do it at all?” he asked. “You clearly do not need the money.”
She hesitated, her silence more telling than words. At last, she said, “Because you look at me and see only a woman. I want to do more than what is expected of me. If I must write a thousand columns of gossip to finally be permitted one article of substance, then so be it.”
Her conviction struck him like a blow. Luca felt a flicker of admiration kindle into something else—an idea. “What if I hired you with the promise that you could write those more serious articles?”
She huffed a laugh, short and bitter. “I have heard such promises before, my lord.”
“Just hear me out,” Luca said, keeping his tone even.
Miss Winslow arched one perfect brow, her lips twitching with impatience. “Very well. I am listening.”