Matthew gently untangled his fingers from hers, and Charlotte almost made a sound of protest. She knew Matthew was retreating. Not just for a moment but permanently.
Matthew scrubbed his hands over his face, his entire form drenched in weariness. “In this instance, you would be leaving the charmed world full of dancing, light, and music. It would be the opposite of a fairy tale, I am afraid.”
“Matthew, I have been happier in the back room of the Black Sheep than I have ever been at any ball, musicale, or salon. I’ve been carefully saving my own funds for a new life, although I daresay with your talents as a doctor, writer, and illustrator, you are well equipped to keep a comfortable roof over our heads. I was always planning on leaving Society behind.” Charlotte laid her hand against Matthew’s shoulder, hoping he could feel her strength.
“By marrying me, you wouldn’t only be burdening yourself with an outcast. You will become one yourself.” Matthew let his fingers fall from his face, and his eyes burned with pain and remorse. “I know what it is like to be unwanted. I do not wish for you to suffer the same fate by association with me.”
“The aristocracy is a world I am more than willing to abandon. It is nothing but a gilded cage.”
“But I am afraid you will find what I can offer you is a wooden one!” Matthew blurted out. “I cannot provide you the lifestyle for which you have been born to, which you deserve. I am not a pauper but nor do I have your parents’ wealth. There will be no more stately manors, no more elaborate coaches, no more—”
Anger stirred in Charlotte, but she forced the ire to settle. This wasn’t really about her; it was about Matthew and what he’d suffered at the hands of the people who were supposed to love him the most.
“My parents abandoned me at our family estate until I became old enough and pretty enough to be of use to them. I have withstood a childhood of being unwelcomed, Matthew, and I have endured a young adulthood of being desired only for my external trappings. When I am with you, I feel like I belong somewhere. I like that feeling. I want that feeling. Do not deny me, deny us. I cannot comprehend what you suffered and survived, but you are worthy of a family, Matthew, of a marriage. I would be honored to join my name with yours.”
Matthew swallowed, and Charlotte could hear how hard the simple movement was for him to make. She was hurting him when she meant to reassure. The realization devastated her. What else could she do or say to prove to him that he mattered, that they mattered?
“What can someone like me ever offer you, Charlotte? Truly offer?” Matthew asked.
Matthew had been taught not to accept himself. Until he could embrace who he was, Matthew was right. He and Charlotte had no future. He would always be waiting for her to tire of him and of their life together. She could not heal Matthew’s deep-set wounds with words or gestures or even abiding affection. Matthew had to do that. Yes, she could help him, support him. But the work—the real work—had to be accomplished by him alone.
“You can offer me happiness and support and, most of all, love, Matthew,” Charlotte told him quietly. “But you must also believe that you can, and you must be able to accept all the affection and joy I wish to shower on you. Because as incorrect as you are about what will make my life meaningful, you are right that we have no future until you trust that we can have a wonderful partnership.”
Tears glinted in Matthew’s eyes. “I want to have such faith, but I do not know if I can. I don’t want to destroy your bliss by seizing my own happiness.”
“Those two things are not mutually exclusive, and they could even be integrally entwined,” Charlotte said, her voice so grave the words nearly sounded like sobs even to her own ears. “But you must see that for yourself.”
Charlotte slowly rose, and Matthew stiffly joined her. They stood for a moment, the ancient smell of yew wafting over them. She sensed Matthew didn’t want to leave any more than she did, but both knew no more could be said. Matthew saw himself as incompatible with Charlotte and likely with any life companion, and Charlotte could not persuade him otherwise.
“I… I suppose I shall see you at Blackglen’s masquerade?” Matthew finally asked.
“Yes,” Charlotte said. “I will be there. We’ll bring down Hawley together. I promise you that.”
Because even if she could not release Matthew from the grasp of his hideous family, she was bloody well going to free herself.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The seafaring Dragon has arrived, I see.”
Dressed as Sir Francis Drake, or El Draque, as the Spanish had dubbed the wily privateer, Matthew turned to find a Merlin in a mask adorned with paste gems and dark robes. Mr. Powys made no attempt to disguise his native accent, probably since he rarely employed it on stage. Moreover, his native intonation was perfect for the old wizard considering the myth’s Welsh origins.
Mr. Powys next gazed up and down at Alexander in his tattered robes and rough-hewn staff before a smile spread across his lips below his domino. “Shakespeare’s Prospero?”
“The very one.” Alexander executed a slight bow.
“We make an ideal pair for summoning the perfect storm to cast down upon the viscount’s unsuspecting head.” Mr. Powys raised his own crook, a rather ornate affair that probably was a theater prop. The fake jewels were of good quality and seemed to wink in the generous candlelight that filled the Duke of Blackglen’s glittering, mirrored ballroom.
The three of them were congregated in a sizable and comfortably appointed alcove that Calliope had described to them back at the Black Sheep. It had curtains at the entrance to the main room that could be drawn for privacy if desired. The massive hall had similar nooks and crannies throughout its entire length. They were clearly designed for convenient assignations of all sorts. Morethan one set of rich, velvety curtains had been closed, even though the event had barely begun.
Strains of music drifted from the balcony where an orchestra played. The melody was as bright and playful as the gathered throng. Everyone wore a mask… and some little else. Greek and Roman goddesses, nymphs, fairies, sprites, and other beautiful fae creatures flitted through the assembly in diaphanous gowns, their rouged nipples visible under sheer fabric. Shirtless men paraded around as satyrs, fauns, centaurs, Minotaurs, Greek gods, and Roman gladiators. Yet the clothes they did wear were clearly well-made from expensive fabrics. Even those dressed as peasants and yeomen had donned carefully stitched garments of delicately woven wools and linens that no actual lower-class person could afford. Sailors swaggered through the crowd in open fine lawn shirts and pantaloons of silk.
“Our quarry has, unfortunately, not yet arrived, gentlemen.” A lady drifted into their midst, her face covered by a gold mask that showed just a hint of her sensuous mouth. Matthew instinctually knew the newcomer clad in the rich-blue gown was not Charlotte, even though the color of her hair was obscured by a cluster of green silks, cut and sewed to look like aquatic plants. She must be Lady Calliope, as the Wick cousins could afford neither the domino nor the ultramarine satin that could only have been dyed using crushed lapis lazuli.
When Lady Calliope caught sight of Mr. Powys, she laughed merrily and waved her fake sword marked by the wordExcalibur. “I suppose I am the Dame du Lac to your Merlin. Beware: According to the legend, I do successfully seduce you.”
Matthew nearly winced when a thunderous expression descended over the visible portion of Mr. Powys’s face. Clearly, the man neither appreciated Lady Calliope dressing as the Lady of the Lake nor her calling the legendary Welsh figure by a Frenchappellation. Considering that Calliope was the descendant of Norman nobles from France who had subjugated Mr. Powys’s ancestors in Wales, Matthew understood the man’s reaction. Since the Arthurian myths had been thoroughly adopted by all of England and further transformed on the Continent, Matthew doubted that Calliope was aware of the impact that her outfit had on Mr. Powys.
“ThisMyrddin,” Mr. Powys said, putting stress on the original Welsh name for the great wizard, “is most canny.”
