26. In Which a Duke Gives His Blessing and a Question Is Asked – Ashbourne House, Grosvenor Square, London
IN WHICH A DUKE GIVES HIS BLESSING AND A QUESTION IS ASKED
EDWARD
ASHBOURNE HOUSE, GROSVENOR SQUARE, LONDON
Ihad spent most of my life trying not to be noticed.
It was a skill I’d perfected over two plus decades: how to take up the smallest amount of space possible, how to fade into the background of any room, how to be present without actually being there.
At family gatherings, I positioned myself near bookshelves.
At balls, I found corners. At dinners, I spoke only when directly addressed and kept my answers brief.
Being invisible had always felt safer than being seen.
Until Charlotte.
Charlotte, who had looked at me in a churchyard and said, “You live”, like it was a revelation. Who had refused to let me hide even when I desperately wanted to. Who had kissed me at the British Museum like I was something precious instead of something broken.
Who had chosen me. Publicly. In front of everyone at the Wrotham Ball.
I was still trying to believe that had actually happened.
Now, standing in the library at Ashbourne House three days after the ball, I was attempting my usual disappearing act—examining Lucas’s collection of first editions with more attention than they strictly required—when the Duke of Ashbourne himself walked in and closed the door behind him.
Just the two of us.
This was either very good or catastrophically bad.
“Edward.” Lucas moved to the sideboard and poured two glasses of brandy. “Sit.
I sat. Accepted the brandy. Tried not to look like a man awaiting execution.
Lucas settled into the chair across from me, studying me with that unnervingly direct gaze that made duchesses swoon and debutantes stammer. I’d known him my entire life—he’d married my sister when I was seven—and I still couldn’t quite meet his eyes.
“She stopped calling you ‘Uncle,’” he said.
I blinked. Of all the ways this conversation could have started, I hadn’t expected that.
“A while ago, yes.”
“Good.” Lucas took a sip of brandy. “Because you’re not her uncle. You’re the man she’s chosen. And my daughter has excellent judgment.”
I stared at him. “Your Grace?—”
“You’ve been calling me Lucas since you were eight years old. Don’t start with the formality now.” He set down his glass. “I’ve been watching you, Edward. Watching how you look at her. How you’ve looked at her all Season.”
My throat tightened. “I tried not to—I never meant to?—”
“I know.” His voice was quiet. “I know you tried to hide it. You’ve always been trying to hide. But Charlotte doesn’t let people hide, does she?”
“No,” I managed. “She really doesn’t.”
“Good.” Lucas leaned forward, his expression serious now. “Because I need to know something, Edward. What do you want?”
The question hung between us.
I could have dissembled. Could have given him the careful, measured response I’d been rehearsing in my head for weeks. Could have talked about courtship, propriety, and taking things slowly.
But Charlotte had taught me something important: being seen meant being honest.
“I want to marry her,” I said.
Lucas didn’t react. Didn’t even blink. Just watched me with that same steady gaze.
“I know it’s complicated,” I continued, the words tumbling out now that I’d started.
“I know people will talk. I know the family connection is—awkward. I know I’m not what you imagined for her.
But I love her, Lucas. I love her in a way that terrifies me because I’ve never wanted anything this much.
And she—God, she chose me. In front of everyone.
And I want to spend the rest of my life being worthy of that choice. ”
Silence.
Then Lucas smiled—actually smiled—and I felt something in my chest unclench.
“You already are worthy,” he said. “You’ve been part of this family since you were a boy.
You’ve been kind to my children, loyal to your father, devoted to your mother’s memory.
You’ve spent your entire life trying to be invisible because you thought you were a burden.
But you were never a burden, Edward. You were always just—you.
And that’s who Charlotte fell in love with. ”
I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything but sit there as Lucas’s words sank in.
“I watched you at the Wrotham Ball,” he continued. “Watched her walk straight to you. Watched her dance with you. Watched her stand beside you for the entire evening like she was daring anyone to say something. And do you know what I saw?”
“What?”
“Charlotte without the mask. My daughter—my brilliant, terrifying, over-organised daughter—looking at someone like they hung the moon. Like she’d finally found the one person who saw past all her lists and plans to who she actually is. And that person was you.”
I swallowed hard. “She does the same for me. Sees me. Really sees me. Not the awkward brother who doesn’t fit. Just—me.”
“Exactly.” Lucas picked up his brandy again. “So here’s what I need you to understand, Edward. I’m giving you my blessing. You can marry her. You have my full support. But?—”
There it was. The condition.
“But,” Lucas said, his voice taking on an edge that reminded me he was, in fact, one of the most powerful men in England, “if you hurt her—if you make her regret choosing you—I will, as Charlotte would say, do something ducal and ruin you.”
I almost laughed. Almost. Because that was exactly what Charlotte would say. And because the threat was delivered with such calm certainty that I had absolutely no doubt Lucas meant every word.
“I understand,” I said.
“Good.” Lucas stood, and I scrambled to my feet as well. He held out his hand. “Welcome to the family, Edward. Officially.”
I took his hand, felt the firm grip, and realised something remarkable: Lucas Ashbourne, Duke of Ashbourne, was giving me his daughter. Willingly. Happily. With his full blessing.
I’d spent twenty-three years believing I didn’t deserve to be part of this family.
Apparently, I’d been wrong.
Ashbourne Park, Derbyshire, Two Weeks Later
The Ashbournes and the Ashfords left London early. We were ready for the country. We returned to Ashbourne Park in a caravan of carriages that had taken the better part of a day to organise.
I stood on the terrace, looking out over the gardens and trying not to think about what I was planning to do.
Proposing. I was planning to propose. Today. In approximately three hours, if Charlotte’s schedule held—and Charlotte’s schedule always held.
“You look terrified.”
I turned. My sister, Juliet, the Duchess of Ashbourne, had joined me on the terrace with her usual quiet grace. She was watching me with amusement and something that looked like affection.
“I am terrified,” I admitted.
“Good. That means you understand what you’re asking for.” She moved to stand beside me. “My daughter is—formidable.”
“I know.”
“She will organise your entire life if you let her.”
“I’m counting on it.”
Juliet laughed. “She’s been planning a house party for August. Did she tell you?”
“She mentioned it. Approximately seventeen times.”
“The entire family will be here. Plus guests. She has a notebook.”
“She always has a notebook.”
“This one has colour-coded ribbons.” Juliet paused. “She’s making plans, Edward. For your life together. And she’s happy. Really, truly happy. I have never seen her like this.” She stopped.
Juliet’s voice was soft. “Charlotte has been taking care of everyone else for so long. Making sure everyone is happy. Everyone is matched. Everyone is settled. And now someone is taking care of her. You are taking care of her.”
“I want to,” I said. “I want to spend the rest of my life taking care of her.”
“I know. That’s why Lucas gave his blessing.” She touched my arm gently. “Go. Ask her. She’s been waiting since the Wrotham ball.”
I looked at Juliet. “How did you?—”
“I’m her mother. I know everything.” She smiled. “Now go. Before she comes looking for you and ruins her own surprise.”
Ashford Hall Churchyard, One Hour Later
I brought her to Ashford Hall.
To the churchyard. To my mother’s grave.
To the place where Charlotte had found me in March, sitting in the grass and trying to be invisible.
To the place where she’d looked at me and said, “You live.”
To the place where we’d first kissed, hidden behind the church wall with Charlotte’s back pressed against the stone and my hands in her hair.
“Why are we here?” Charlotte asked as we walked through the churchyard gate. She was wearing a pale green dress that made her look like spring itself, and her hand was warm in mine.
“Because this is where it started,” I said.
She looked at me, understanding dawning in her eyes. “Edward?—”
“This is where you told me I lived,” I continued, leading her to my mother’s grave. “Where you saw me—really saw me—for the first time. I’ve been hiding my whole life, Charlotte. Trying to take up as little space as possible. Trying not to be noticed. Trying not to be a burden.”
“You were never a burden,” she said fiercely.
“I know that now. Because of you.” I stopped in front of the headstone. “You didn’t let me hide. You looked at me in this churchyard, and you saw—not the awkward brother, not the scholarly recluse, not the man who doesn’t fit. Just me. And you told me I was enough.”
Charlotte’s eyes were suspiciously bright. “You are enough. You’ve always been enough.”
“I want to spend the rest of my life proving that to you,” I said. “I want to spend every day being the man you saw that day in March. The man you chose at the Wrotham Ball. The man you?—”
I dropped to one knee.
Charlotte’s breath caught.
“Charlotte Eleanor Ashbourne,” I said, pulling the ring from my pocket. “Will you marry me?”
For once in her life, Charlotte was speechless.
She stood there, staring down at me with tears streaming down her face, and I had a moment of pure panic that I’d somehow miscalculated, that I’d moved too fast, that I’d?—
“Yes,” she said.
Relief flooded through me. “Yes?”
“Yes!” She pulled me to my feet, laughing and crying at the same time. “Of course, yes. Did you honestly think I would say anything else?”
I slipped the ring onto her finger—my mother’s ring, a simple emerald—and Charlotte stared at it like I’d given her the world.
“It was my mother’s,” I said quietly. “She would have loved you, Charlotte. She would have loved how you made me feel?—”
“Alive,” Charlotte finished. “She would have loved that I made you feel alive.”
“Exactly.”
Charlotte looked up at me, her eyes still bright with tears. “For the record, I would have said yes at the Wrotham ball. You wasted three months being noble.”
I laughed—actually laughed—because of course she would say that. Of course, Charlotte would turn my proposal into a critique of my timing.
“I’ll try to be less noble in the future,” I promised.
“Good.” She pulled me down and kissed me—right there in the churchyard, in front of my mother’s grave, where this had all started.
When we finally broke apart, Charlotte was smiling.
“August,” she said.
“What?”
“The house party. We can get married at the house party. It will take some planning to do this quickly. The entire family will be at Ashbourne Park. It’s perfect.” She was already planning, I could see it in her eyes.
“You’ve already planned our wedding?”
“Of course”, she admitted. “Right after you kissed me here. I have a notebook.”
“Of course you do.”
“It has sections,” she continued, warming to her subject. “Guest list. Menu. Flowers. Music. I’ve been coordinating with the aunts—they’re surprisingly good at wedding planning when they’re not trying to matchmake.”
I pulled her close again, silencing her with another kiss. When I pulled back, she looked slightly dazed.
“I don’t care about the details,” I said. “As long as at the end of it, you’re my wife.”
Charlotte smiled—that brilliant, unguarded smile that made her look like the girl she’d been before her mother died. Before she’d started taking care of everyone else.
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you too,” I said. “Always.”
We stood there in the churchyard, engaged and happy and completely improper, and I thought: this is what living feels like.
Not hiding. Not fading into the background. Not trying to be invisible.
Just being seen. Being chosen. Being loved.
Charlotte had told me I lived.
And now, with her hand in mine and my mother’s ring on her finger, I finally believed it.