John clicked his fingers. “Yes! Fi, you have all that’s needed, don’t you? We could start trials tomorrow.”
The more they went on, the more Charlotte’s discomfort grew. She knew she was not the most intelligent woman. But generally, she could understand the thrust of a conversation, could follow along with it, or she at least had enough information to pretend to follow.
She couldn’t even pretend right now. The entire conversation went completely over her head.
“Fi, you’re a genius,” John said, raising his glass toward her.
Fi waved him off. “Nae. I simply had an excellent teacher.”
Charlotte’s discomfort morphed into full-blown jealousy. Fiona was so at ease in this kind of conversation. She was the most intelligent woman Charlotte had ever met, and while Charlotte adored her sister and was so grateful that Edward had found love with a kind and thoughtful woman, tonight’s conversation was a reminder of all the ways in which Charlotte was lesser.
She was the daughter of a duke, cousin to the king, and had had more proposals than she could count on her fingers, and yet she would never be able to discuss what made the universe work. She’d spent her entire life doing exactly as society expected of her—she’d had governesses and finishing schools and endless hours of practicing what she ought—and still she’d somehow found herself uneducated. Her head was full of people and gossip. Try as she might, she would never change the world as her sister had.
John glanced at her briefly and then looked away. He must think Charlotte a complete idiot, given how little she contributed to the conversation. She had been awfully stupid to think a woman like her could ever be loved by a man as intelligent as him. He needed a wife like Fiona, someone who could converse on the subjects that interested him.
The discomfort became too much. Fi, John, and the French ambassador were so deeply engaged in conversation they didn’t even notice when she stood. Rather than interrupt them, she quietly made her way to the door where Lady Brostward was preparing to leave. Edward was already there.
She gave the grande dame’s fingers a squeeze and kissed her quickly on the cheek, pushing aside all her feelings to once again play the part of the perfect hostess.
The rest of the guests took that as a sign and one by one they left, until eventually, it was just four of them. Edward and Fiona sat together on the chaise longue, swirling patterns on each other’s limbs with their fingertips. It was clear the night was over and that her brother and his wife wanted to go upstairs.
“Shall I walk you out, my lord?” she asked John.
Edward gave them a sharp look which, judging by the way John’s features drew in tight, had subtext she could only guess at.
Nevertheless, John rose and offered his arm. They walked in awkward silence to the front door, where Simmons handed John his coat and gloves. As he dressed, Charlotte couldn’t help feeling incredibly foolish. She’d had a child’s tendre for John for so many years, but tonight showed that if they weren’t talking about his predicament, they had very little to say to each other. They had so little in common.
Simmons finally handed John his hat.
“I hope you had a lovely evening,” she said.
“It was very agreeable, thank you.” Again, he barely looked at her. Was that where this friendship had ended up? Last night they had been a perfect pair, playing in total synchronicity, and tonight he could barely spare five words for her.
“Will I see you tomorrow, then?” She cursed the hope in those words. She shouldn’t want to see him again. That way lay heartache, clearly. But her desire to see him prevented her from keeping her mouth closed. “We could walk Newton again. We could think of new ways to extricate you from your abominable engagement.”
John sighed and finally looked her directly in the eyes. “Lady Charlotte, I cannot marry you.”
“Oh.” Her heart dropped. If only the floor would do the same and swallow her whole. She fought back humiliated tears. Had her foolish infatuation been so obvious?
She pulled together enough of her shattered pieces to at least appear whole, because a Wildforde never showed weakness. “Thank you, Lord Harrow.” Because really, what else was one to say when a proposal you never even made got rejected? All the suitors she’d turned down had managed a brief if ill-felt show of thanks for her time.
John ran a hand through his hair. The way he tugged the ends of it caused strands to escape from their queue, standing out at all angles. “I don’t plan on remaining in England. As soon as I can free myself from my brother’s debts, I will hire stewards whom I trust to oversee the title and its affairs and I will return to America.”
“Oh.” The evening was getting better and better. He was leaving. That hadn’t been a possibility she’d considered, and her shattered pieces fractured further.
“Well, good night then.” She thought she saw regret in his expression, but that was likely just the blur of tears. She smiled tightly and then turned on her heel, hastening back to the drawing room, trying not to let the footmen she passed see how broken she was.
She’d been foolish to hold on to hope. Edward had refused his blessing for a match; it had become clear she and John had nothing in common; and he needed a bride with a larger dowry than she could give. Still, there was some small part of her that had thought it could all work out.
She hadn’t realized that once he’d settled his affairs, she would never see him again.
In her room, Grace had already lit the lamps and closed the curtains. Charlotte should leave them like that, despite the temptation to go to them and pull them aside just slightly. Just enough to see whether he was in his study.
No. Closed was better. She didn’t want to see him ever again. She didn’t think that she could handle the embarrassment.
Grace helped her change from her dress to her nightgown, unpinned her hair and brushed out her curls, working in silence. That was one of her most valuable traits—she was whatever company Charlotte needed. She was a gossip when Charlotte had news to share, and a fortress of silence when Charlotte needed company but not conversation.
The long, rhythmic strokes of the brush were comforting. When Grace finished braiding Charlotte’s hair and tied it with a ribbon, Charlotte almost asked her to stay the night as she used to.
