He turned his head to her at that. “Good God,” he muttered, recoiling.
Philomena met his eyes with practiced calm. “It would be the height of hypocrisy to expect faithfulness from me while you offer none in return. I assure you, I would be far more discreet than your stepmother. If ridicule is your concern.”
He stared at her, and felt something inside him fracture. She was everything he had once believed he needed. Beauty, pedigree, poise. A sharp mind, and ambition to match his own. Theirs would have been an alliance unlike anything England—perhaps even Europe—had seen.
And yet. What she offered was not a marriage. It was a treaty. Bloodless. Unfeeling. A future built on appearances and mutual indulgence. She spoke of titles and salons, of power and influence. But never once of loyalty. Of love. Of the quiet, essential faith between two souls bound for life.
His heart belonged to Jane. But some part of him, quiet and stubborn, had hoped that if he found a woman worthy enough—formidable, admirable—his heart might learn its place. That he might forget. That love might follow, if not lead. But this—
He would not live a life divided between his hearth and his bed. He would not bring children into a house shadowed by cynicism and betrayal. He had seen that already, under his father’s roof, and it had hollowed him. He would not reduce himself to that.
He turned to her, his voice storm-dark. “You mistake me, Lady Philomena. I do not seek a mere alliance. Or convenience. I seek a wife. And I would sooner remain unwed than bind myself to a stranger in my own home.”
Then he bowed, cold and final, and left her standing alone beneath the painted gods, never realizing he was lost to her forever.
* * *
The corridors of Westford House were quiet at this hour, the hush of late evening pressing against its paneled walls. William climbed the staircase with measured steps, his boots muffled against the runner, but his breath tight with urgency. He had not summoned a footman, nor asked the butler. He did not wish to explain himself. Idle talk spread faster in town than in the country—and one whisper from a servant might turn into ten in a matter of hours.
Charlotte’s door was half closed. Light spilled into the hallway from within, warm and golden. He knocked once, then pushed it open without waiting.
She was at her dressing table, her light blond hair unpinned, half falling over her shoulder. She raised her eyes to the mirror and met his in the reflection, entirely unsurprised.
“Well,” she said, turning with a calm flick of her wrist. “I wondered how long it would take you to come.”
He stepped inside, a vein pulsing at his temple. “Where is she?”
Charlotte blinked once. “Do be more specific, William. I’ve met a number of women since our arrival. Do you mean Lady Philomena? Or is this about the one who nearly collapsed in the gallery?”
“You know who I mean.” His voice was low, strained. “Where is Miss Ansley’s room?”
Charlotte rose slowly, smoothing the sleeves of her robe. “Why?”
“She’s unwell,” he said at once. “I need to know how she is.”
Charlotte tilted her head. “Your concern is touching.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are.” She crossed to the sideboard and poured herself a glass of water, unhurried. “But tell me, brother—haven’t you done enough?”
He flinched. “I only want to see that she is—”
“No,” Charlotte said crisply, turning to face him. “Let her rest. If you truly care for her, give her that much.”
He turned away, a hand rising to his forehead, fingers pressing hard against his temple.
After a pause, she added, more gently, “I put her in one of the east wing guest rooms. But I expect you to show more sense than to storm in there like a Byronic hero. Leave her be, at least tonight.”
He hesitated, then gave a short nod. “Fine.”
“Thank you.”
He walked to the door. Paused. Then, without turning back, said, “I want you to understand, Charlotte. I care for Miss Ansley. She’s… a remarkable young woman. Kind to Margaret. Steady. She’s not just the governess.”
“I know,” Charlotte murmured. “She never was.”
Chapter 32
