9. In Which a Campaign Intensifies and Rescue Becomes Necessity – Ashford House, Berkeley Square, London #2
"I don't care what everyone else thinks."
I looked at him. At Edward, who had appeared in Marguerite's drawing room like an answer to a prayer I hadn't known I was praying. Who had lied to Grandmama’s face to extract me from Dunmore's latest monologue. Who was looking at me now with an intensity that made it hard to breathe.
"Why did you come back?" I asked quietly.
"You sent for me."
"You've been avoiding me for two weeks."
"I was trying to—" Edward stopped. "It doesn't matter. You needed rescue."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have right now."
We sat in silence. The garden was beautiful—late spring giving way to early summer, roses beginning to bloom. Through the windows, I could see Marguerite and the aunts in the drawing room. Dunmore gesturing enthusiastically, probably still discussing the swan snuffbox.
"They're planning the wedding," I said.
"What?"
"Not officially. But I heard Marguerite and Catherine discussing St. George's versus the Penworth chapel. Aunt Mary has started researching settlements. Aunt Caroline cries every time someone mentions orange blossoms."
Edward's jaw tightened. "You haven't agreed to anything."
"I haven't refused anything either." I pulled my gloves back on, needing something to do with my hands. "How do I refuse without humiliating him? Without disappointing Grandpapa and Marguerite and insulting Penworth and causing a rift between families who've been friends for decades?"
"You tell the truth."
"Which is what? 'Sorry, Lord Dunmore, you're perfectly nice, but I'd rather throw myself into the Thames than spend the rest of my life hearing about snuffbox hinges'?"
"If necessary."
I laughed despite everything. "You make it sound simple."
"It is simple. You don't want him. That's enough."
"For you, maybe. But I'm the Duke of Ashbourne's daughter. I have responsibilities. Expectations. I can't just?—"
"Can't what? Choose for yourself?" Edward's voice was sharp. "Charlotte, you've spent five years arranging everyone else's happiness. Don't tell me you're going to sacrifice your own because it's expected."
"I'm not sacrificing anything. I'm just—trying to find a way through this that doesn't hurt everyone."
"Everyone except you."
"That's not?—"
"Isn't it?" Edward turned to face me fully. "You're miserable. I can see it. Everyone can see it except the people too busy planning the wedding to notice the bride doesn't want to be there."
"You don't understand."
"Then explain it to me."
I wanted to. Wanted to tell him that the real reason I couldn't marry Dunmore had nothing to do with snuffboxes and everything to do with Edward sitting two feet away, and I couldn't stop thinking about what would happen if he moved closer.
But I couldn't say that.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
"I should go back inside," I said instead. "Before someone notices."
"Charlotte—"
"Please. I just—I need to think."
Edward looked like he wanted to argue. To push. To make me admit whatever truth I was avoiding.
Instead, he stood. Offered his hand to help me up.
I took it. His hand was warm. Solid. He pulled me to my feet, and for a moment we stood too close, his hand still holding mine.
"I'm not going anywhere," Edward said quietly. "If you need rescue—from Dunmore, from the family, from any of this—send word. I'll come."
"Even though you've been avoiding me?"
"I haven't been avoiding you. I've been trying to do the right thing."
"What's the right thing?"
Edward's thumb brushed across my knuckles. Once. Deliberately.
"I have no idea anymore."
We walked back to the house. Proper distance between us. Perfect propriety.
But I could still feel where his thumb had touched my hand.
In the drawing room, Marguerite looked up with satisfaction. "There you are! Lord Dunmore was just saying he'd love to properly show you his collection. Perhaps next week? A visit to Penworth House?"
Visiting a gentleman's collection. In his home. The implications were clear.
I opened my mouth to refuse.
Edward spoke first: "I'm afraid Charlotte's quite busy next week. Family commitments. But I'm sure something can be arranged for later in the Season."
It was another rescue. Another lie. Another moment stolen from the future everyone else had planned.
Marguerite looked between us. Something flickered in her expression—understanding, perhaps, or concern.
But she smiled. "Of course. Later in the Season, then."
I stayed for another hour. Drank tea. Made conversation. Smiled at Dunmore's description of yet another acquisition.
And all the while, I was thinking about Edward's hand on mine. His voice saying "I'm not going anywhere."
The fact that, for the first time in two weeks, I could breathe.
That evening, I sat in my room at Ashbourne House with my notebook.
I opened to the page where I'd been tracking the Season's candidates. The page that had, weeks ago, been full of careful rankings and detailed notes.
Now there was only one name. Written in the margin where no one would see it unless they were looking.
Edward.
I stared at it. Then, carefully, I wrote beneath it:
He came when I called. He always comes when I call.
I closed the notebook before I could write what I was actually thinking:
I'm in love with him. I've been in love with him for weeks. And I have absolutely no idea what to do about it.