Beside him stood another man.
He was fair-haired, his movements easy, his stance relaxed in a way that suggested comfort rather than command. Even from above, there was something open about him, something that contrasted sharply with Edward’s contained severity.
Charlotte felt Clara shift beside her.
“Who is that?” Charlotte asked quietly.
Clara sighed.
Not a small sigh. Not a casual one.
A sigh weighted with romance, resignation, and the sort of longing that had learned to expect disappointment.
“That,” Clara said softly, “is Lord Christopher Barrow. Viscount of Vexley.”
Charlotte glanced at her. “You sound as though you know him.”
“I knowofhim,” Clara corrected. “Everyone does. He’s his grace’s oldest friend. Been like brothers since they were boys.” She smiled faintly. “They say he’s a terrible rake.”
Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “Do they?”
“Oh yes,” Clara said dreamily. “Charming, handsome, quick with a smile. Breaks hearts without even noticing.” She shrugged, unbothered. “But it hardly matters.”
“Why not?”
Clara didn’t look at her as she answered.
“Because he’s a viscount,” she said simply. “And I’m a maid.”
The words were not bitter. They were factual. A truth so well worn it no longer cut—it simply existed.
Charlotte felt something twist quietly in her chest.
Normally, she would have teased Clara then. Told her not to surrender to impossibility so easily. Pointed out that rakes were overrated and noblemen rarely worth the trouble.
Normally.
But today, she said nothing.
She watched Edward turn slightly, his profile sharp even at this distance, and felt the echo of his presence again—the gravity, the restraint, and the loneliness that clung to him like a second shadow.
And she thought of herself.
Of the name she wore that was not her own. Of the place she occupied that was borrowed. Of the line she could not cross, no matter how warm his hand had felt, no matter how earnestly he had listened.
“Yes,” Charlotte said at last, her voice gentle. “I suppose it doesn’t.”
Clara smiled, satisfied, and returned her attention to the window.
Charlotte remained where she was, the book pressed lightly against her side, her thoughts unusually quiet.
Outside, the two men turned and strolled back toward the house, their figures growing smaller as they passed beneath the stone arch and disappeared from view.
Charlotte touched the book again—just once.
Then she stepped back from the window, resolved to place it carefully on her bedside table, as though doing so might restore order to a world that had, quite suddenly, become far more complicated than it had been that morning.
***
