So focused was he on the woman in front of him, he didn’t notice her brother join him until Wilde was leaning against the wall facing him, arms crossed.
“She’s exceptional, isn’t she?”
John nodded. “Indeed. The young Señor Di Osma seems entirely besotted.” He wasnotjealous of the boy, even if he had a flash of yearning to be the one turning her pages.
“She looks happy, don’t you think?”
“She does.” John didn’t think he’d ever experienced the joy that was in her expression. The lightness of it, its carefree aspect, was completely foreign to him.
“She’s in her element, hosting events like this,” her brother continued. “Char needs people the way most men need air. It sustains her. It drives her. If she were ever to be removed from society, she would likely wither away. Do you understand?” Edward’s expression turned hard. There was nothing in it that reflected their decades of friendship.
John felt a red-hot wash of shame engulf him as understanding struck. Wilde was warning him off Charlotte.
Of course he was. Wilde knew him for who he truly was, every flawed molecule of him. No one understood John like he did, and if his oldest friend thought him an unsuitable match for his sister, then clearly he was. It stung, but it wasn’t a surprise; it just reinforced what he already knew.
Ladies like Charlotte belonged with real lords who could navigate society’s turbulent waters, not sink beneath them. She belonged with someone who was attuned to the social whirl, who could play host to her hostess rather than skulking at the edges like a blasted wallflower.
She was sunshine, and he was a dull winter’s day. She was joy and life and laughter, and that vivaciousness was foreign to him.
She loved people and he could barely manage basic conversation without insulting someone or stumbling over his words and clamming up. Even if the thought of her had followed him about all day, they were clearly not a concept that would work in practicality.
She needed someone else. She needed a man more like Walter.
His stomach turned at the thought. She needed a man like Walter, but kind. Regardless, that man was not John.
He met his friend’s stony stare. “It’s understood. It’s not a thought I’d ever entertained.”
Wilde nodded, glimpsing no sign of John’s lie. “Good, because I fear she is not so rational about the matter. She’s always gotten too damn close to her projects. To save you, she may well sacrifice herself.”
Like a young lady to a netherworld monster.
Charlotte finished playing and gave her hand to Di Osma, allowing him to help her stand. The boy’s chest puffed forward as they stood in front of the assembly, Charlotte dipping into a curtsey.
When she stepped away from the piano, she was joined by half of the guests. Her laughter drifted across the room. She truly was in her element surrounded by the highest ofhaute tonand acting as a general in her brother’s political battles.
This life was as far from John’s one-bedroom cottage in the wilderness as it was possible to get, and ultimately, that was where he wanted to be.
And Charlotte would wither away there.
***
As the evening wound down and Charlotte no longer needed to flit from person to person to ensure her guests were happy and engaged, she was able to give more of her attention to John, who was currently sitting with Fi and the French ambassador.
He stood as she joined them, offering his seat.
“No, it’s fine,” she said. “I’ll have to get up in a moment, anyway.” Lady Brostward would soon leave, and as Edward’s hostess, Charlotte would need to pay her regards.
John nodded but didn’t smile or look her in the eye as he did so. A thread of unease wove through her. They’d been friends last night. Now he acted as though she were barely an acquaintance.
Just his friend’s younger sister.
Charlotte perched herself on the arm of Fiona’s chair. The conversation, which had paused the moment she arrived, leapt back into life. Charlotte could understand none of it. Something about ignition temperatures.
Fiona bit the tip of her thumbnail before shaking her head and then wagging her fingers at John. “No, I agree. I think if we were to replace the antimony sulfide with white phosphorus the flame would be steadier.”
John sat for a moment, his body language mirroring Fi’s. He tapped his fingers against his lips as he considered Fiona’s words. “On its own, it’s not combustible,” he said eventually. “But if the striking surface contained elements of red phosphorus in addition to glass?”
The French ambassador, who almost always ended his visits to Wildeforde House in deep conversation with Charlotte’s sister-in-law, nodded his agreement. “That might work. There was a paper inPhilosophical Transactionsthat suggested something similar.”
