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Alexander’s hand stilled against her cheek before he lowered it. “Of course.”

For a moment, Charlotte remained where she was, her fingers still caught in the folds of his coat. Then she released him and crossed to the wine. The small tasks of lifting the decanter and filling their glasses steadied her, though she poured with more care than necessary. She handed Alexander his glass and settled upon the sofa, arranging her skirts around her knees. He joined her without crowding her, his body turned slightly toward hers.

“I meant what I said last night,” she began.

“About sunrise?” he asked gently.

“Yes.” Charlotte watched the wine shift as she turned the stem between her fingers. “And about promises.”

“I remember,” Alexander said.

“I know you do.” She glanced at him, then continued. “But I would rather explain than spend the evening wondering what you believe I meant.”

He rested his glass against his knee. “Then tell me, Charlotte. I am listening.”

She had prepared no account of her marriage. For years, she had met questions with a composed expression and let people draw whatever conclusions they pleased. Even among her friends, she had often found it easier to be amusing than honest. She disliked the thought of being pitied almost as much as she disliked remembering how unhappy she had been. Yet Alexander had come because she had invited him, and she wanted him to understand what that invitation meant. “Sylvan was unfaithful.”

He grew very still beside her. Charlotte lowered her gaze to her glass. “I do not mean a single indiscretion followed by remorse. There were several women. Some I knew. Others I learned about from people who ought to have had the decency to say nothing.” She shrugged. “He had a string of mistresses. He had a house specifically for them.” They now used that house for the League. It was Maton Manor, and she was pleased it could be used for good now. It had been a source of shame while her husband lived.

“Charlotte,” Alexander said softly.

She shook her head, afraid that kindness might undo the resolve she had only just gathered. “Please. Let me finish.”

He inclined his head and waited.

“At first, I thought there must be something I could do,” she continued. “Some fault I could correct. I was too reserved, or too demanding, or insufficiently entertaining.” Her mouth twisted as she remembered how easily her husband had offered those explanations. “It depended upon which accusation best suited him at the time.” Alexander set his wine upon the table. The quiet click of glass drew her attention to his hand, which remained there a moment before he brought it back to his knee. She continued before she could lose her nerve. “I tried, you know. I paid attention to his moods. I took greater pains with my appearance. I thought that if I could discover what pleased him, perhaps we might be happy.” Heat rose in her cheeks, and she resented it. Even now, she felt foolish for hoping her own husband might come to cherish her. “Eventually, I stopped asking. He found that considerably more agreeable. We received guests, attended dinners, and behaved as though we had reached a sensible understanding.”

“But you had not,” Alexander said.

“No.” Charlotte pressed her lips together before adding, “I had merely learned that asking made it worse.”

She looked at him then. His jaw tightened, but his attention stayed on her face. He had made no attempt to draw her into his arms or interrupt with assurances. She was grateful for his restraint. If he embraced her now, she feared she might accept the comfort and leave the rest unsaid.

“I liked myself very little by the end of it,” she admitted. “I had become so careful. I considered every word before speaking, every person before inviting them. If a woman smiled at him across a dinner table, I wondered whether everyone present knew something I did not. I could scarcely enjoy an evening without waiting to be made ridiculous.” It wasn’t until he died that she could look back at it all with a different perspective. The fault had never been hers.

“You were not ridiculous,” Alexander said, his voice low and firm.

“I felt it.” Her fingers tightened around her glass stem. “And I could not seem to stop feeling it, even when I knew better.”

He drew a slow breath. “I am sorry, Charlotte.”

She nodded. His expression made no demand that she reassure him or dismiss the hurt as something long forgotten. She found she could accept his sympathy when he offered it so simply. The fire settled in the grate, sending a brief shower of sparks behind the screen. Beyond the closed door, footsteps passed along the corridor and faded toward the stairs. Charlotte listened until the room was quiet again.

“I have a good life now,” she said. “There are people I love in it, and things I look forward to. I enjoy my own company again.” She looked down at her wine, surprised by the ache that accompanied the admission. “It took me some time to manage that.” For a while it had seemed as if she were walking through a fog. Once it lifted, it helped ease her into the life she had now.

“I can see how much it means to you,” Alexander replied.

She turned toward him. “I will not give it up merely because I want a man.”

He considered her for a moment before answering. “I would not ask you to.”

“You might not realize you were asking,” Charlotte said. “Sylvan did not sit me down one morning and request that I become unhappy. It happened by degrees. He simply handed me one small thing after another to forgive, each with an excellent reason why I should not mind.”

Alexander glanced down at his hands, then met her eyes again. “Perhaps I might fail to see it,” he acknowledged. “I should hope you would tell me.”

The answer eased something within her. She had expected a handsome assurance, perhaps even an indignant declaration that he could never treat her so poorly. His willingness to consider disappointing her was far more reassuring. “I am attempting to do so now,” she said.

“Yes.” His expression softened. “You are.”