Chapter 16 - Charlotte #2
She forced her feet to move, completing the final steps to the platform on legs that threatened to buckle. The pianoforte waited, its ivory keys gleaming in the candlelight, and Charlotte sank onto the bench with as much grace as she could muster.
She couldn’t have imagined him. The connection between them had been too visceral, too real—like recognizing a piece of her own soul standing across the room.
Her hands trembled as she smoothed her skirts, buying herself a few precious seconds. She drew a slow breath and held it until her lungs burned, then let it out carefully, eyes closing for just a moment. Just long enough to find her composure again.
When her fingers found the keys, the music that emerged was one of those old, sweet ballads, aching with unspoken longing. The kind of melody that made hearts hurt in the best and worst ways.
Behind her closed eyelids, she saw him.
The way he had looked at her, past the perfect curtsies and practiced smiles to the person screaming beneath.
The way his breath had caught when they touched, a single moment of contact igniting her entire body.
The fierce protectiveness in his voice when he’d faced down Lord Penrose in the churchyard, willing to risk everything for her safety though he owed her nothing.
Her fingers moved across the keys, and the music became a prayer, became a confession, became everything she could never say aloud.
Each note carried an ache she was only now allowing herself to name—this desperate wanting that had been building since that first night they met.
The realization crashed over her with the force of the melody: she wanted him.
She wanted to hear his voice, to see that slight smile when she said something that amused him.
Wanted to discuss books with him until dawn broke, to learn what thoughts filled his quiet moments.
When he was gone, he haunted her—his presence lingering in shadows, in books, in every unguarded moment.
And when she was with him, time fractured and stretched, each stolen minute both infinite and desperately fleeting, never enough.
She poured it all into the melody, this terrifying certainty that her heart had recognized his before her mind could catch up, that what she felt for this man she barely knew had already surpassed everything she’d felt for anyone before.
The final measures approached, pulling her back to the present. Charlotte let her eyes drift open, her fingers still moving through the familiar patterns even as awareness returned.
Lord Penrose sat in the front row, but his attention wasn’t on her playing. His brow furrowed in concentration, jaw tight, as his gaze fixed on something across the room. The shadowed corner near the doors.
Charlotte’s fingers stumbled over a note before she caught herself, forcing them through the final bars, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Slowly, as though making a decision, Lord Penrose’s attention returned to her.
His expression was different now, thoughtful in a way that made her stomach drop.
Not angry. Not suspicious, exactly. Just…
considering. As though he’d noticed something small but significant, and was working out what it meant.
Charlotte forced her breathing to remain steady. What had he seen? Nothing, there was nothing to see. Unless…
Unless Mr. Fletcher had still been there when Lord Penrose looked.
Unless those few seconds when she’d stood frozen on the stairs, staring at the shadows with her heart written plainly across her face, had been enough for someone watching closely to follow her gaze and wonder what— or who—had captured her attention so thoroughly.
The last notes faded as Charlotte’s hands stilled on the keys, and applause washed over her in a gentle wave that seemed to come from very far away.
She rose on unsteady legs and curtsied automatically, her mind still suspended somewhere between memory and reality, before descending the platform steps under the weight of Lord Penrose’s gaze.
She quickened her pace, weaving through the guests until she reached the cluster of young ladies near the windows. They made space for her, murmuring compliments about her performance, but their words barely registered, meaningless and distant.
The next performer ascended to the harp, and Charlotte folded her hands in her lap, arranging her features into polite attention while her mind raced.
He couldn’t have seen. The column would have blocked his view entirely from where he had been sitting. And even if Lord Penrose had noticed someone near the doors, what did that prove? Guests moved through houses during parties all the time.
The way he’d looked at her, though—that slow, measuring expression, as if pieces were clicking into place that he hadn’t seen before—made her chest tighten.
An Italian aria followed, the soprano’s voice drawing enthusiastic applause that Charlotte joined as panic rose steadily in her throat.
From across the room, Aunt Margaret watched her with sharp attention, forcing Charlotte to nod at appropriate moments, to lean toward the girl beside her and smile at whatever observation she whispered, maintaining the performance of a proper young lady.
But her attention kept drifting toward the back of the room where those double doors stood. He was somewhere in this house. Close enough that if she could just slip away—
“We shall pause briefly for refreshments,” Lady Jersey announced.
Chairs scraped against polished floors as guests rose, breaking into smaller groups while footmen wove between them with champagne and delicate pastries.
Charlotte started to stand, already planning her route toward the corridor, but before she could rise fully, a shadow fell across her chair.
“You performed beautifully.”
Lord Penrose’s voice came from directly behind her. Charlotte startled, turning to find him leaning over her chair, his hands braced against its back. Too close. Close enough that she could smell the wine lacing his breath, stirring memories of the churchyard when he’d reeked of alcohol.
She shifted forward instinctively, creating what distance she could.
“You possess qualities I had not properly appreciated until this evening.” His voice remained low, intimate in a way that made her stomach turn. “Though I could not help but observe how your attention seemed to wander during your performance.”
Charlotte’s throat went dry. “You’re too kind, my lord.” The words came out steadier than she felt. “The music room is beautifully appointed. One cannot help but admire its details.”
“Indeed.” He straightened slightly, though he didn’t move away.
He surveyed the room with deliberate slowness, pausing on the darkened door before returning to her face.
His smile widened, though it remained utterly hollow.
“Though I wonder what particular aspect captured your attention so completely. Your gaze seemed quite… fixed on something.”
“The paintings,” she offered quickly. “I was imagining the scene, the setting it described.”
“Imagination.” He said it almost fondly, as though indulging a child. “What a charming quality. But perhaps we might find somewhere more private to discuss the matter properly.”
A flash of movement drew Charlotte’s attention—Lady Bellamy stationed near the windows, her gaze fixed on Charlotte.
When their eyes met across the room, Lady Bellamy’s expression shifted to something conspiratorial, a slight tilt of her head paired with the barest wink that clearly invited Charlotte over.
“I must apologize, my lord.” she kept her voice light, apologetic. “I promised Lady Bellamy I would speak with her when there was an opening, and I see she’s free now.” She rose from her chair. “Perhaps we might continue our conversation later this evening?”
She executed a swift curtsy and turned, moving with quick, purposeful steps through the crowd toward the windows. She didn’t look back, didn’t slow, just kept her focus on Lady Bellamy’s welcoming expression as the distance between herself and Lord Penrose grew with each stride.
Lady Bellamy immediately stepped forward as Charlotte approached. “Ah, Miss Fairmont.” She turned to the ladies around her. “Do excuse me, but I promised Miss Fairmont a word about her performance.”
Her hand found Charlotte’s elbow, guiding her gently away from the cluster of guests, toward a quieter corner. Once they’d gained some privacy, Lady Bellamy positioned herself to block them from casual observation, her voice dropping low.
“Lord Penrose has been most… attentive this evening.”
“He leaves me little choice in the matter,” Charlotte murmured, the admission escaping before she could stop it.
The older woman’s expression softened. “Should you find yourself in need of a quiet moment’s refuge…” She adjusted her fan with deliberate care. “I remember how your mother always said there was no better sanctuary than a library. Books have a way of offering comfort when one needs it most.”
Charlotte’s breath caught.
“If you continue down this corridor,” Lady Bellamy gestured subtly with her fan toward a passageway to their left, “you’ll find a small gallery with portraits of the Jersey family.
Just beyond it, there’s an unassuming door.
It remains quite unnoticed during gatherings such as these.
” Her voice stayed light, conversational, as though discussing nothing more significant than the arrangement of flowers.
“One might find a moment’s peace there, should the need arise. ”
She straightened then, raising her voice to its usual social timbre. “Now, I believe there are several people eager to compliment your playing. Shall we?”
They wove through clusters of guests, Lady Bellamy expertly navigating the social landscape.
Charlotte accepted compliments about her performance with gracious nods, but every polite smile felt mechanical, every murmured thank you automatic. Lady Bellamy had just given her an escape route—and perhaps, though she couldn’t know it, the means to find him again.
When Lady Jersey’s voice rang out, calling the company back for the evening’s second half, Charlotte made sure Lord Penrose was not paying attention to her before she caught her aunt’s eye and brought her hand to her temple in a delicate gesture.
Her aunt’s expression shifted to concern as she nodded, and Charlotte murmured something about needing a moment to clear her head.
No one questioned it. No one stopped her.
Her feet carried her down the corridor Lady Bellamy had described. Portraits lined the gallery walls, generations of Jerseys watching from their frames as she passed. And there, just beyond the final portrait, stood the door.
Charlotte’s hand found the handle and she paused, drawing a breath that felt like the last one before diving underwater.
The door gave way without sound, and she slipped into the darkness beyond.