13. In Which a Gentleman Tries to Be Noble – Ashford Hall, Nottinghamshire to London
IN WHICH A GENTLEMAN TRIES TO BE NOBLE
EDWARD
ASHFORD HALL, NOTTINGHAMSHIRE TO LONDON
Iwatched Charlotte ride away from Ashford Hall at mid-morning.
Not in boy's clothing. Mrs Thornton had found a proper riding habit—one of Marguerite's from years ago, altered hastily to fit. The boy's clothes were bundled and hidden in Charlotte's saddlebag. Evidence destroyed.
Or at least concealed.
James, the stable master, rode with her. Proper escort. Chaperone. The appearance of propriety, even though we both knew it was far too late for that.
Charlotte sat sidesaddle on Apollo, who'd been rested and fed and was ready for the journey back to Ashbourne Park. She looked nothing like the dishevelled stable boy who'd appeared in the churchyard yesterday morning.
She looked like the Duke of Ashbourne's daughter.
Except for the way she looked at me before she left.
Like I was something precious. Something worth forty miles of reckless riding and scandal.
Like I was hers.
I stood on the front steps of Ashford Hall and watched until she disappeared from view.
Then I went inside and tried to convince myself I'd done the right thing.
The library at Ashford Hall had always been my sanctuary.
Dark wood. Floor-to-ceiling shelves. The smell of old books and furniture polish. As a child, I'd hidden here. As a young man home from university, I'd retreated here.
Now I paced it like a caged animal.
Every argument against pursuing Charlotte was real. Legitimate. Impossible to dismiss.
She was seventeen, almost eighteen. I was twenty-three. Five years wasn't much—except that I'd known her since she was six years old. I'd watched her grow up. Bossed around by a child with a notebook who thought she could organise the world.
The fact that I now wanted to be organised by and kiss that same woman felt wrong in ways I couldn't articulate.
Juliet was my sister. Charlotte's mother. Every conversation we'd have about this would be layered with impossible dual loyalties.
Lucas was—Lucas. My brother-in-law. The Duke of Ashbourne. The man who'd treated me like family when I'd needed it most. Who'd talked to me about Oxford and life and everything Father couldn't say because his grief was too raw.
Now I wanted his daughter.
That felt like betrayal.
And the family—God, the family. Father and Marguerite. Mary, Caroline, Margaret. They'd all been planning Charlotte's Season with such care. Arranging candidates. Hosting teas. Coordinating dinners.
They'd spent weeks trying to match Charlotte with appropriate gentlemen.
And I'd kissed her in a churchyard while she wore boy's clothing.
That was the opposite of appropriate.
I stopped pacing. Stood at the window looking out at the grounds.
But.
The word kept intruding. Pushing past every logical argument.
But she'd ridden forty miles to find me.
But she'd sat beside my mother's grave and told me I'd lived, not killed, and said it like the difference was simple.
But she'd looked at me yesterday in the library and said, "I love you" with absolute certainty.
But when I'd kissed her, she'd kissed me back like she'd been waiting for it as long as I had.
I pressed my palms against the window frame.
Every rational part of my brain said this was impossible. Wrong. A disaster waiting to happen.
But Charlotte had ridden across two counties in boy's clothing, and I couldn't pretend that didn't matter.
She'd proven it wasn't just rescue. Wasn't just escape from Dunmore.
She'd chosen me.
And I?—
I had no idea what to do with that.
Mrs Thornton found me in the library that evening.
"My lord. Dinner is ready."
"I'm not hungry."
"Nevertheless." Her voice was firm. The voice that had managed me as a child and apparently still worked. "You need to eat."
I followed her to the dining room. Sat at the table that was far too large for one person. Ate whatever had been prepared without tasting it.
Mrs Thornton supervised the service with her usual efficiency. But when the footman left, she didn't.
She stood by the sideboard. Watching me with eyes that had seen forty-plus years of Ashford family drama.
"Mrs Thornton. Was there something else?"
"Lady Charlotte left safely this morning."
"I know. I watched her leave."
"With James as escort. Proper and appropriate."
"Yes."
"Of course, her arrival was rather less proper."
I set down my fork. "Mrs Thornton?—"
"I'm not judging, my lord. I'm merely observing.
" She moved to refill my wine glass. "Lady Charlotte has been visiting Ashford Hall since she was a child.
I've watched her grow up. And yesterday morning, when she appeared in the churchyard wearing boy's clothing—" She paused.
"That was not the action of a young lady making a casual social call. "
"No. It wasn't."
"It was the action of a young lady who'd made a rather dramatic decision."
I looked at her. At this woman who'd served our family for decades. Who'd known my mother. Who'd helped Father through his grief. Who'd welcomed Marguerite with grace.
Who was now watching me with something that looked like concern.
"She rode forty miles," I said quietly. "Alone. In her brother’s clothing. To find me."
"I gathered as much."
"And I—" I stopped. "I don't know what to do about it."
Mrs Thornton was quiet for a moment. Then: "Do you care for her?"
"More than I should."
"That's not what I asked."
"Yes. I care for her. I—" The word caught in my throat. "I love her. Which is impossible and inappropriate and?—"
"Why?"
The question stopped me.
"Why is it impossible?" Her voice was gentle. "You're not blood relations. Step-family, yes, but that's not uncommon. The Duke of Portland married his step-niece. The Earl of Harrington married his step-daughter's cousin. Society gossips, certainly, but it's hardly scandalous."
"Charlotte is seventeen."
"She'll be eighteen in August.”
"I've known her since she was six."
"And she's not six anymore." Mrs Thornton moved to clear the dishes. "My lord, if I may be frank?"
"Have I ever been able to stop you?"
Her lips twitched. "No. Here is what I observed yesterday: Lady Charlotte rode across two counties, alone, in boy's clothing, to find you. That is not the action of a child. That is the action of a woman who knows her own mind and has made a decision about what she wants."
"She's too young to make those decisions."
"She managed an entire Season. She's been matchmaking for her aunts for five years. She runs half of London Society without anyone noticing." She paused at the door. "I think Lady Charlotte is quite capable of knowing her own mind. The question is whether you're capable of believing her."
She left.
I sat alone in the dining room with my half-eaten dinner and her words echoing.
Whether I was capable of believing Charlotte.
That was the question, wasn't it?
Not whether I loved her—I did, desperately, impossibly.
Not whether she loved me—she'd ridden forty miles to prove it.
But whether I could accept that I deserved to be loved. That wanting her wasn't proof of my unworthiness but simply wanting.
I didn't have an answer.
I stayed at Ashford Hall for two more days.
Paced the library. Walked the grounds. Sat by my mother's grave and tried to feel some kind of certainty.
Nothing came.
Just the constant war between what I wanted and what I believed I deserved.
On the third day, I rode back to London.
Not because I'd made a decision. But because staying at Ashford Hall was cowardice. Running again. And Charlotte had told me to stop running.
So I went back.
But I didn't go to Ashbourne House.
I went to Ashford House. To Father and Marguerite. To my own rooms. To the routine of London mornings and solitary rides.
I told myself I was giving Charlotte space. Time to talk to Juliet. Time to process everything that had happened.
I was lying.
I was avoiding her because seeing her would make this real. Would force me to decide. And I still didn't know how to reconcile wanting Charlotte with believing I didn't deserve to have her.
So I avoided her.
"You're avoiding the Ashbournes," Father observed at breakfast three days after my return.
"I'm being considerate."
"Are you." It wasn't a question.
I focused on my coffee. "Charlotte needs time with her family. After—everything."
"After she rode to Ashford Hall to find you?"
I nearly dropped the cup.
Father's expression was mild. "Did you think Juliet wouldn't tell me? She's my daughter, Edward. And Charlotte is my granddaughter. When Charlotte disappeared from Ashbourne for an entire day and returned claiming she'd been at Ashford Hall, Juliet had questions."
"What did you tell her?"
"The truth. That you'd been at Ashford Hall. That Charlotte must have had her reasons for visiting." Father set down his paper. "Though I suspect Juliet has pieced together more than I told her."
Wonderful. So Juliet knew. Which meant Lucas probably knew. Which meant?—
"The family is talking," I said.
"The family always talks. But Edward—" Father's voice was serious now. "If you care for Charlotte, avoiding her isn't protecting her. It's abandoning her."
"I'm not abandoning her. I'm being responsible."
"By hiding?"
"By not making this worse than it already is."
Father was quiet for a moment. "You know, when your mother died, I convinced myself that loving anyone again would be a betrayal. That wanting happiness was selfish. I spent fifteen years alone because I couldn't believe I deserved to move forward."
"That's different."
"Is it? Or are you doing the same thing—deciding you don't deserve happiness because wanting it feels like proof of your unworthiness?"
I didn't have an answer.
Father stood. Paused at the door. "Marguerite saved me.
Not because she made me forget your mother, but because she made me believe I was allowed to live.
Really live, not just exist in grief." He looked at me.
"Charlotte rode forty miles to tell you the same thing.
The question is whether you're brave enough to believe her. "
He left.
I sat alone at the breakfast table and thought about courage.
About the fact that Charlotte had been brave enough to ride across two counties.
And I couldn't even manage to visit Ashbourne House.
A week passed.
I attended no events. Accepted no invitations. Stayed away from anything that might put me in Charlotte's orbit.
Which meant I wasn't running interference on Dunmore.
I didn't think about that. Didn't let myself imagine Charlotte trapped at musicales and teas with Dunmore discussing his latest snuffbox acquisition.
Except I did think about it. Constantly. The image haunted me—Charlotte performing the role of Perfect Future Duchess while I hid in my rooms and called it nobility.
Mary came to visit on the eighth day.
"You're avoiding Charlotte," she said without preamble.
"I'm giving her space."
"Nonsense. You're hiding." Mary sat in the chair across from me with the determined expression that meant she wasn't leaving until she'd said her piece. "Edward, I don't know what happened at Ashford Hall. I don't need to know. But whatever it was—Charlotte came back different."
My chest tightened. "Different how?"
"Quieter. More withdrawn. She's attending events again, but she looks—" Mary paused. "Lost. Like she's performing a role and forgetting her lines."
God.
"And Dunmore?" I asked.
"Is everywhere. Without you running interference, Marguerite has doubled down on the match. There's talk of an announcement."
No.
"Charlotte hasn't agreed to anything," I said.
"Not yet. But she also hasn't refused. And every day you stay away is another day Dunmore assumes he's won.
" Mary leaned forward. "Edward. I don't know what you two are to each other.
But I know Charlotte. And the Charlotte I saw last week is not the Charlotte who's attending teas and smiling at Dunmore's snuffbox lectures. "
"What do you want me to do?"
"Whatever you should have done before you ran away."
Mary left.
I sat in the library at Ashford House and admitted the truth.
I'd been trying to be noble. To protect Charlotte by staying away. To endure my feelings quietly while she made her own choices.
But what I'd actually done was abandon her.
Left her exposed to Dunmore and Marguerite and the full force of the matchmaking campaign while I hid in my rooms and called it honour.
That wasn't noble.
That was cowardice.
Charlotte had ridden forty miles to prove she wanted me. And I'd repaid that courage by disappearing.
I stood. Paced to the window.
Outside, London continued. Carriages. Pedestrians. The Season in full swing.
Somewhere out there, Charlotte was attending an event. Smiling. Performing. Slowly suffocating under the weight of everyone's expectations.
And I was here. Hiding.
I should go to her. Should tell her I loved her. Should stop pretending that avoiding her was protecting her when all it did was leave her alone.
But.
The word haunted me.
But what if Father was right? What if this was just another version of my old guilt—believing I didn't deserve happiness so thoroughly that I sabotaged it?
But what if Mrs Thornton was right? What if Charlotte knew her own mind, and I was refusing to believe her?
But what if Mary was right? What if every day I stayed away was another day Charlotte thought I'd changed my mind?
I stood at the window until the light faded.
Then I made a decision.
I would go to her.
Not tonight—it was too late. But tomorrow. I would go to Ashbourne House. Talk to Juliet first, like an adult, then find Charlotte and tell her?—
Tell her what?
That I loved her? She knew that.
That I was sorry for disappearing? That was just the beginning of what I needed to apologise for.
That I wanted to be with her despite every logical argument against it? That I was done being noble and ready to be honest?
Yes.
All of that.
Tomorrow I would stop hiding.
Tomorrow I would be brave enough to match Charlotte's courage.
Tomorrow.
But tonight—tonight I sat in the library at Ashford House and thought about a woman who'd ridden across two counties to tell me she loved me.
And about how I'd spent the last week proving I wasn't worthy of that love.
Tomorrow I would do better.
I had to.
Because the alternative—a lifetime of watching Charlotte married to Dunmore, because I was too afraid to fight for her—was unthinkable.
So tomorrow.
Tomorrow I would stop being noble and start being honest.
Tomorrow, I would choose courage over guilt.
Tomorrow I would tell Charlotte that she was right—I did deserve to be loved. And I loved her. And if that meant scandal and difficult conversations and the family's disapproval—then so be it.
Tomorrow.
But first, I had to survive tonight.
Tonight, knowing Charlotte was somewhere in London. At some event. With Dunmore.
While I sat alone in a library and tried to convince myself that tomorrow would be soon enough.
It had to be.