Chapter 6 #2
“Yes, but many equated her calls for equality with republicanism, revolution, and chaos,” Lord Luca observed, his tone more serious than she expected.
“What are men so afraid of? After all, what harm could come from a woman using her voice?” Charlotte asked.
His gaze flicked to hers, surprisingly intent. “I see no harm in it. Quite frankly, I find women who voice their opinions to be utterly fascinating.”
The admission unsettled her. She had expected mockery, not sincerity.
Lord Luca leaned back slightly and continued. “I remember from a young age, my mother used to host teas where ladies gathered to debate their latest reads.”
“How very progressive of your mother,” Jane acknowledged.
“It was,” Luca agreed. “She loved nothing more than a lively debate.”
Lord Pendryn nodded. “It is true. She insisted we listen to both sides of an argument before coming to our own conclusion. I will admit, it made dinner rather more spirited than most families enjoyed.”
Charlotte found herself smiling despite her determination not to. “I would have liked to meet your mother.”
Luca’s gaze caught hers and held it. “She would have liked you.”
“How do you know that?” she asked.
“Because I like you,” he said simply.
Heat rushed to her cheeks, and Charlotte ducked her head quickly, pretending to be absorbed by the soup the footman had just placed before her.
Traitorous blush. They were only words, surely meant to tease her as always.
And yet, why did they strike so deeply? Why did they feel—dangerously—like truth?
It was growing late, the candles burning low as Luca studied the cards in his hand.
Whist had never been his favorite game, but tonight it felt particularly endless.
His focus was not on the game but on the woman seated across from him.
Miss Winslow’s dark lashes lowered as she fanned her cards, her expression composed, aloof.
Ever since he had been foolish enough to confess that he liked her, she had treated him with a polite distance.
He cursed himself for blurting it out. What had possessed him?
He was usually far more calculated than that, but around her, his tongue seemed to outpace his better judgment.
He was restless—restless to speak to her alone, to pierce through the walls she so artfully constructed.
Lady Alcott’s voice broke through his musings. “Lord Luca?”
He blinked, realizing he had been caught staring at Miss Winslow. “My apologies. I appear to have been woolgathering.”
“No harm done,” Lady Alcott said kindly. “Perhaps we have been playing whist for too long. We could always play another card game?”
Luca let his cards drop onto the table. “I do believe I am done with playing cards, but I could stretch my legs for a moment.” He turned deliberately to Miss Winslow. “Would you care to join me on a tour around the room?”
A flicker of indecision crossed her features, but he knew she would not refuse him—not here, with her family watching. “I would be honored,” she said, placing her gloved hand upon his arm.
The touch was light, but it seared through the fine wool of his coat as though it were nothing. He guided her away from the card table. When they reached the edge of the drawing room, he lowered his voice. “I had hoped to get you alone for a moment.”
“Why is that?” she asked, her gaze remaining straight ahead.
“Because I spoke to the late duchess’s sister and it was… odd,” he said. “When I arrived, I found Miss Dawlish unconscious in her drawing room. Someone had hit her from behind.”
Miss Winslow gasped. “Was she all right?”
“She was,” he assured her, though the image of Miss Dawlish, pale and crumpled upon the carpet, lingered. “But when I mentioned her sister, she grew combative. That is the only word I can use to describe it. She ordered me to leave and never return.”
Miss Winslow’s brow furrowed. “Why would she react that way to you mentioning her sister?”
He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t know. But I intend to find out.”
“What about speaking to the late duchess’s other sisters? Do you think that they would be helpful?”
“I thought of that, but Miss Dawlish is the only one who resides in London. The rest of her sisters are all over England.”
Miss Winslow grew thoughtful. “What are you going to do?”
“I still need to speak to the solicitor that is listed on the documents for The Chelmsford Asylum. Perhaps that could lend some clues.”
The words had barely left his mouth before she offered, “I could go with you.”
He stopped walking for half a step, pulling her up short before he recovered. “You can’t possibly think that is a good idea, considering your life has been threatened.”
Her head turned, eyes steady on his. “As has yours.”
“Yes, but if something happened to you…” He trailed off, swallowing down the truth. He could not admit how much the thought unsettled him. Instead, he said, “I couldn’t live with myself. You are an innocent in all of this.”
She tilted her chin. “I want to write stories that matter. I am tired of being relegated to the Society pages.”
“Does this mean you have considered my offer?” Luca asked, studying her carefully. He tried to keep his tone even, but anticipation throbbed beneath it.
“I have, but that is assuming you let me help you with this investigation,” Miss Winslow replied.
Luca winced. Of course she would make it conditional. She was nothing if not bold. “I think that is a bad idea. Your brother would kill me if anything were to happen to you.”
“Duly noted,” she said, a spark of determination in her gaze, “but it is a risk I am willing to take. We could go on a carriage ride tomorrow and meet with this solicitor.”
“Miss Winslow…” He let her name linger, hoping the weight of it might dissuade her.
But she came to a stop, turning fully to him. “Please. I can do more than what is expected of me.”
The pleading in her voice made him pause.
He could see that this was not idle curiosity, nor some ploy for entertainment.
She truly wanted to matter, to be part of something greater than herself.
He wanted to shield her from every danger, to keep her cocooned away from the shadows that threatened them both.
But another thought occurred to him. What if keeping her close was the only way to protect her?
“Very well,” he said at last, “but we do the investigation my way. And if the threat grows, you will step back.”
Her answering smile was radiant, triumphant, and it tugged an answering curve from his own lips before he could stop it. “I can agree to that.”
“Good,” he murmured, resuming their slow circuit of the room. “I will admit that you continue to impress me.”
She looked amused. “You sound surprised.”
“I am,” he admitted. “You are the diamond, the chosen one by the queen. People view you as perfection.”
At that, her expression faltered, a faint frown curving her lips. “I am far from perfect.”
“You play the part well.”
“Who says I am pretending?”
“I can see it in your eyes,” he countered. “You are bored with being the diamond.”
“You are wrong.” Her voice carried a quiet intensity. “I love being the diamond. It has given me unparalleled access to write my articles.”
“I don’t doubt that,” he said, though he couldn’t resist pushing further, “but aren’t you tired of being the envy of the ton?”
Miss Winslow looked away. “It is nice being admired.”
“But that isn’t why you are doing it,” he pressed, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “You are smart, and you have positioned yourself well.”
“Is there a point to this, my lord?”
He chuckled, unable to help himself. “Why don’t you like me?”
She stiffened. “It is hard to like a thorn in one’s side. You tease me relentlessly.”
“It is fun,” he said with a grin, “to see you ruffle your perfect feathers.”
She narrowed her eyes into a glare. “Will you stop saying I’m perfect? I am far from it.”
“You could have fooled me,” he said. “You have not made one misstep, and that is quite rare in our circles. Every young woman wants to be you, and every eligible young man wants to pursue you.”
They came to a stop, and she turned to face him. Her mask slipped, if only slightly. “I am only doing what I must to achieve what I want most.”
His curiosity sharpened, cutting through the banter. “And what is that?”
Her gaze flicked towards her family before lowering, her voice soft, nearly swallowed by the hum of the room. “Acceptance.”