Morgan blinked dramatically. “No pleasure gardens? No singers? No mysterious widows?”
Victor’s mouth tightened slightly. “No.”
Morgan stared at him for a long moment before grinning. “You are hopelessly devoted.”
“I am not devoted,” Victor muttered.
“Oh?” Morgan leaned forward eagerly. “Then why are you sitting in this club looking utterly miserable instead of out there enjoying your freedom of not being devoted?”
Victor opened his mouth to answer, then stopped. Because the truth was humiliatingly obvious.
I do not want freedom. I want Charlotte.
The realization unsettled him enough that he drained the rest of his drink immediately. Morgan watched him carefully, then spoke with unusual gentleness.
“It is weakness to care for someone deeply,” Victor said.
Victor’s jaw clenched automatically. “You know nothing about it.”
“No,” Morgan admitted honestly. “But I know loneliness when I see it.” Silence stretched briefly between them while the noise of the club hummed softly around them. Morgan sighed and reached for the decanter again. “Besides,” he added lightly, “your duchess looks at you as though you hung the stars themselves. It would be rather tragic if you spent your life running from that.”
Victor stared into his glass without answering.
Because deep down, beneath all the fear and stubbornness and years of carefully guarded distance, he knew Morgan was right.
I must put some distance between Charlotte and me or I will place myself in a position of weakness.
* * *
The following evening, Charlotte stood near the pianoforte with a polite smile fixed upon her face while chaos unfolded around her in the drawing room of Mulford Manor. Candlelight flickered warmly against the gilded walls, illuminating crystal decanters and polished wood as laughter rang through the chamber.
Bridget sat at the pianoforte in a pale blue gown, her fingers dancing gracefully across the keys while Joan loudly accused Penelope of cheating at cards. Charlotte ought to have felt nothing but happiness seeing her family so alive and comfortable beneath Mulford Manor’s grand roof, yet her eyes kept drifting toward her husband.
Victor stood near the hearth with Gerald and Uncle Oswald, one hand tucked behind his back while the other held a glass of punch. He looked devastatingly handsome in evening black, his broad shoulders commanding attention even when he merely stood still. Charlotte could not help noticing how distant he seemed tonight, polite yet removed, as though part of him lingered elsewhere entirely. Every now and then, he glanced toward her, but the moment their eyes met, he looked away again.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Irene, you cannot simply invent rules because you are losing,” Joan cried dramatically.
“I am not losing,” Irene replied with dignity. “I am strategically delayed.”
Penelope snorted loudly. “That sounds precisely like losing.”
Harriet pressed a hand to her forehead as though deeply afflicted. “Why did the Lord curse me with daughters who treat cards as warfare?”
“Because you raised us,” Joan replied sweetly.
Oswald barked a laugh from across the room. “The girl speaks the truth for once.”
Harriet pointed accusingly at her brother. “Do not encourage them, Oswald.”
Charlotte laughed softly despite herself, grateful for the noise because it distracted everyone from noticing how often she glanced toward Victor. Ever since the garden party, he had been strangely elusive, vanishing into London for business and returning with shadows beneath his eyes. He still kissed her hand before others and called her Duchess in that sinful voice of his, but there was distance in him now, a carefulness that had not existed before. It unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
Why is he acting this way? What did I do?
Arabella drifted toward Charlotte, carrying two glasses of ratafia cordial. “You look troubled,” she murmured knowingly.
“I do not,” Charlotte lied.
Arabella raised a brow. “You are staring at your husband as though he personally insulted your bonnet.”
