William’s voice lingered, oily and insinuating, threading itself through her mind. Edward’s silence followed close behind it—controlled, deliberate, and far more unsettling.
Across the room, Clara Bennet set aside the linen she had been folding and turned toward her, concern already written across her face.
“You vanished after supper,” Clara said gently. “I thought you might need company.”
Charlotte’s composure fractured at once.
She told her everything.
William’s appearance. The way he had spoken her name as though it still belonged to him. The things he had said about herparents. The way Edward had stepped between them without hesitation, his voice cool and unmistakably final.
“He told him to leave,” Charlotte finished quietly. “Did not raise his voice. Did not threaten. He simply … made it clear William was no longer welcome.”
Clara’s mouth curved into something knowing. “And what did his grace say to you?”
Charlotte hesitated. “Very little.” She swallowed. “He was … defensive. Angry, I think. Not at me. At the situation. At William.”
Clara studied her face, head tilting slightly. “Charlotte,” she said slowly, “men do not behave that way unless they care.”
Heat rushed to Charlotte’s cheeks. “That is not—”
“It is,” Clara said, undeterred.
Charlotte looked away, heart stuttering painfully as memory surged—the library, the carriage, the way Edward had offered her his handkerchief as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
“He was kind,” she admitted softly. “Protective. When William left … he stayed with me. Made certain I was steady before we went on.”
Clara smiled. “And how did that make you feel?”
Charlotte did not answer at once.
Because the truth had been waiting for her all along.
Seen. Safe. Wanted—without expectation or claim.
Her breath trembled. “I think,” she said slowly, “that I have felt this way for some time.”
Clara’s eyes widened. “Oh.”
Charlotte let the words fall, barely above a whisper. “I think I am in love with him.”
Saying it did not frighten her the way she had expected.
It simply hurt.
Clara reached for her hands, squeezing them once. “Then we are alike.”
Charlotte blinked. “What?”
Clara hesitated, then lifted her chin. “I am in love as well.”
“With—” Charlotte paused, then smiled faintly. “Christopher.”
Clara nodded, cheeks coloring. “He is not what people think. He is patient. Gentle. He listens.” Her voice softened. “He teaches me music when he visits. We speak when no one is looking.”
Charlotte felt a swell of warmth—and then concern.
“I am glad you have found something that makes you happy,” she said considerately. “But you must be cautious, Clara. Society will not forgive such a thing. Not for you. Not for him.”
