11. In Which a Public Claim Is Made and Private Lines Are Crossed – The Theatre Royal, Drury Lane and Ashbourne House, L #3
"I did. She died giving birth to me. That's fact, not feeling."
"No. She died in childbirth. That's tragedy, not your fault. There's a difference." I pressed my hand harder against his chest. "And you deserve better than spending your whole life believing you're a burden. You're not. You've never been. And I?—"
I stopped. Because the next words were too big. Too true. Too dangerous to say out loud in my parents' garden with no chaperone and nothing between us except air and fear.
"You what?" Edward asked.
I love you. I'm in love with you. I have been for weeks, possibly longer, and I don't know what to do about it except stand here in the dark and hope you're feeling the same impossible thing.
"I need you to tell me what you want," I said instead. "Not what you think you should want. Not what's proper or appropriate or expected. What do YOU want?"
Edward's hand slid from my face to my neck. His thumb found my pulse point. I knew he could feel how fast my heart was beating.
"I want," he said slowly, carefully, like each word cost him something, "to stop pretending you're my niece.
I want to stop watching you perform happiness with Dunmore when I can see you dying inside.
I want to stop stealing moments in gardens and corridors and conservatories and pretending they don't mean anything. "
"What do they mean?"
"Everything." The word came out rough. "They mean everything. And that terrifies me because I don't know how to want something this much without it destroying me."
We stood there, hearts pounding, balanced on the edge of something we couldn't take back.
I should step away. Should go inside. Should let Edward be noble and protective and wrong about what we both deserved.
Instead, I leaned closer.
"Charlotte." Edward's voice was a warning. "If we do this—if we cross this line—there's no going back. Your family will have to know. Society will talk. Everything changes."
"I know."
"And you still?—"
"Yes."
"You're seventeen."
"I'll be eighteen in August. Three months."
"That's not?—"
"I know it's not long enough. I know all the arguments.
But Edward—" I looked up at him. "I've spent my entire life planning everything.
Managing everyone. Making sure all the pieces fit together perfectly.
And you're the one thing I didn't plan for.
The one person who doesn't fit any list I've ever made.
And for once in my life, I don't care about the plan. "
Edward's forehead dropped to rest against mine. "You're going to destroy me."
"Only if you let me."
We stayed like that. Foreheads touching. Hearts pounding. On the absolute edge of something catastrophic.
Then Edward stepped back.
Put distance between us.
The loss of contact felt like drowning.
"I need to leave," he said. His voice was shaking. "Before I do something—before we?—"
"Edward—"
"I need to think. We both do. This isn't—we can't just—" He stopped. Started again. "Charlotte, if we do this, if we pursue this, I need to know it's not just rescue. I need to know you're choosing me, not just choosing anything that isn't Dunmore."
"I am choosing you."
"Are you? Or are you choosing escape?" Edward's eyes were dark. Desperate. "Because I can't—I won't be your way out of a bad situation. I need you to want me. Not just need rescue. Want me."
"I do want you."
"Then prove it." His voice was rough. "Tell your family no. Refuse Dunmore. Make your own choice, not because I'm offering an alternative but because you want to. And if you still—if you can do that and still want me—then we'll figure out what comes next."
He walked away before I could respond.
Left me standing in the dark garden with my heart pounding and my world tilted completely off its axis.
I watched him disappear through the garden gate. Heard it close behind him.
And I stood there in the dark, knowing everything had changed.
Edward had laid it out clearly: I had to refuse Dunmore on my own terms. Not because Edward was offering an alternative. Not because I was desperate to escape.
Because I wanted to.
Because I deserved better than a future full of snuffbox lectures and performances.
Because Edward was right—I needed to prove this wasn't just a rescue.
I went inside. Climbed the stairs to my room. Sat at my escritoire with my notebook.
I opened to the page where I'd written Edward's name. Where I'd added: He came when I called. He always comes when I call.
Beneath it, I wrote one more line:
He wants to know I'm choosing him, not just choosing escape. So I need to choose. For myself. For real.
Tomorrow, I would tell the family no.
Tomorrow, I would properly refuse Dunmore.
Tomorrow, I would start making my own catastrophic decisions.
But tonight—tonight I sat in my room and let myself feel everything I'd been avoiding.
The way Edward had looked at me in the garden. The way he'd said, “This is right." The way he'd touched my face and I'd felt it everywhere.
The fact that I was in love with him.
Completely. Catastrophically. Irreversibly.
And tomorrow, I was going to prove it.