Page 18 of A Spinster’s Folly (Courting the Unconventional #2)

Miss Winslow giggled, unbothered. “Oh, Lord Bedford is far too stuffy for anything to have happened,” she stated.

Stepping forward, Alcott took firm hold of his sister’s arm. “You have had entirely too much to drink. It is time to go home.”

Miss Winslow stomped her foot like a petulant child. “But I don’t want to go home. I want to stay and dance with Lord Bedford.”

Alcott’s grip on her arm did not loosen.

“Perhaps another time,” he said, his voice brooking no argument.

With that, he steered his sister down the veranda steps and towards the front of the townhouse.

Only when they had disappeared into the night did Charles turn back to Eugenie, his eyes searching hers.

“Do you believe me now?”

She opened her mouth, intending to say something—what, she wasn’t sure—but before she could utter a word, the sound of hurried footsteps met her ears.

Niles and Elsbeth broke through the lingering crowd at the edge of the ballroom and approached them. “Eugenie… there you are,” Elsbeth said.

Eugenie mustered a weak smile. “Here I am.”

Niles’s sharp gaze flickered between her and Charles before his jaw clenched. “And you were alone with Bedford. Wonderful,” he muttered under his breath. “Shall we return to the ballroom before the next set is announced?”

“I think that would be wise,” Eugenie agreed, eager to escape the weight of Charles’s gaze and the unsettling flutter in her chest.

But Charles did not move. He remained rooted to the spot, his eyes steady on hers as he spoke. “Lady Eugenie, may I call upon you tomorrow?”

The question sent a ripple of unease through her. It was entirely unnecessary. “There is no need, my lord,” she replied. “I believe you.”

“Be that as it may,” Charles remarked, his tone unwavering, “I would still like to call upon you.”

After a long moment, she spoke. “Very well.”

A flicker of something—relief, perhaps—passed over Charles’s face, but before she could dwell on it, Niles placed a guiding hand on her elbow, leading her away from the veranda and back towards the golden glow of the ballroom.

Eugenie did not look back.

But she could feel Charles’s eyes on her, watching, waiting.

Charles sat slouched in the corner of White’s, a half-full glass of brandy resting in his grip.

The low hum of conversation filled the club, punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter from men who had clearly had far too much to drink.

He, however, had no interest in jovial company tonight.

It was late, but he found himself unwilling to go home.

He couldn’t shake the image of Eugenie’s face when she had stumbled upon him and Miss Winslow—the disbelief in her wide, blue eyes, the way her lips had parted in stunned silence before she had fled.

Botheration.

He had done nothing wrong. However, deep down, he knew better. He should never have allowed himself to be alone with Miss Winslow, not even for a moment. If someone else had come across them, if word had spread, he might have been forced into marriage with a woman he had no desire to wed.

The thought made his stomach twist. He would rather chew glass than be shackled to Miss Winslow. Somehow, that wasn’t what truly unsettled him. What plagued him most was Eugenie. She had said she believed him but was it really that simple? The doubt lingering in her eyes suggested otherwise.

And why, above all else, did it matter so much to him?

There was no understanding between them. So why did he wish there was something between them?

That was the real problem.

With a sigh, he brought the glass to his lips, taking a slow sip as he stared blankly at the room. He had left the ball shortly after the disastrous encounter in the gardens, making his way here in the hopes of drowning his thoughts in liquor. It had not worked.

A familiar voice cut through his brooding. “Why do you look so blasted miserable?”

Charles didn’t bother to look up. “Go away, Wilton.”

His friend ignored him and slid into the chair across from him. He placed his own glass on the table and studied Charles with an amused expression. “You aren’t drunk, which means this is a matter of wounded pride or a woman.”

“How perceptive of you,” he muttered .

Wilton smirked. “How much time do you need to wallow before you tell me what has you so upset?”

Charles tightened his grip on his glass. “Miss Winslow tried to kiss me.”

Wilton raised an eyebrow. “Did she, now?” He leaned back in his chair. “And what did you do?”

“What could I do? She took me by surprise,” Charles said, frustration lacing his voice.

Wilton’s smirk widened. “Well, that depends. Did anyone witness this improper little encounter?”

Charles’s jaw clenched. “Lady Eugenie.”

Wilton let out a low whistle. “Ah. That explains the sulking.”

Charles shot him a glare.

Wilton leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Do you think she’ll betray your confidence?”

“No,” Charles said without hesitation. “She won’t say a word.”

“Then why are you brooding like a lovesick fool?” Wilton asked, taking a sip of his drink. “You aren’t being forced into marriage, are you?”

“No, but?—”

“Then what’s the problem?” Wilton pressed.

Charles frowned. “I feel as if I’ve betrayed Eugenie.”

“Why would you think that—” Wilton suddenly paused, his sharp gaze narrowing. “Wait. Are you pursuing Lady Eugenie?”

“No,” Charles replied swiftly.

Wilton’s eyes bored into him, skepticism clear. “You’re making little sense, Bedford. Why would you feel as if you had betrayed Lady Eugenie if you didn’t have some affection for her?”

“It is complicated.”

“Then un complicate it,” Wilton stated .

Charles didn’t respond. Instead, he lifted his glass and took another sip, hoping the conversation would end there. It didn’t.

Wilton gave him a knowing look. “You do care for her, don’t you?”

Charles didn’t confirm or deny it. He merely stared into his drink as if it held the answers to all his troubles.

Wilton shook his head. “Well, then. That does explain a lot since your silence is damning.”

Deciding it was time for a change of subject, Charles leaned forward. “Were you drinking alone before you so rudely interrupted my brooding?”

Wilton gave him a look that suggested he saw right through the diversion but, mercifully, did not push the matter. Instead, he exhaled heavily. “I needed a moment to think.”

“Do you not live in one of the largest townhouses in Town?” Charles quipped. “Surely you could have found privacy there.”

Wilton sighed again, this time more heavily. “It is my sister.”

“Olivia?” Charles asked, already dreading the answer. “What has she done this time?”

Wilton leaned forward, lowering his voice. “She eloped to Gretna Green last night.”

Charles was taken aback. “She what?”

His friend shrugged, as though utterly defeated. “She’s five-and-twenty. She doesn’t need my permission to marry anymore.”

“You could have stopped the anvil priest from performing the wedding.”

Wilton let out a humorless chuckle. “Impossible. We didn’t discover her letter until the morning. She had more than enough of a head start on us.” He took a long sip of his drink before muttering, “My mother is beside herself.”

“With good reason.”

Wilton rubbed a hand down his face. “The worst part? We don’t even know who she married. ”

“She didn’t say in her letter?”

Wilton’s mouth twisted in frustration. “She married a Mr. Smith. Do you know how many Mr. Smiths reside in London alone?” He huffed. “I suspect he’s merely a fortune hunter. Olivia has a dowry of twenty thousand pounds.”

Charles winced. “That’s… unfortunate.”

Wilton took a long, slow drink. “The gossiping hens will be clucking about this soon enough.”

“No doubt.”

“I do not like how headstrong Olivia is,” Wilton muttered, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before setting it down with a dull clink. “She has always been stubborn, but this? Rushing into a marriage with a man we know nothing about? She will come to regret it, I have no doubt.”

“How could she not?” Charles replied. “She snuck off in the dead of night to marry a man she dared not even introduce to her family. That alone speaks volumes.”

Wilton rubbed his temple. “Perhaps she might have come to her senses before reaching Gretna Green. Called off the wedding on her own.”

“Do you truly believe that?”

“No,” Wilton admitted. “But one can hope, can they not?”

A dry chuckle escaped Charles. “If we had any sense, we would have married her off to Philip. It would have been a far better alternative than this mysterious Mr. Smith.”

Wilton scoffed. “Philip and Olivia? That would have been a disaster. Can you imagine the arguments? They would have killed each other within a fortnight.” He paused, then added, “Besides, I hear Philip has gotten himself into trouble yet again.”

Charles looked heavenward. “He has,” he confirmed. “He got a young woman pregnant and now has been challenged to a duel.”

“That sounds about right. What are you going to do? ”

“What can I do?” Charles asked. “If Philip is foolish enough to go through with this duel, then he deserves whatever comes of it.”

Before Wilton could respond, a server approached their table, inclining his head politely. “May I get anyone another drink?”

Charles shoved his chair back, rising to his feet. “Not for me,” he replied. “I should be going.”

Wilton followed suit, stretching slightly as he stood. “I’ll walk you out.”

They made their way through the dimly lit hall, the low murmur of conversation and clinking glasses filling the air.

Once they stepped onto the pavement, the cool night air offering some reprieve from the stifling warmth of White’s, Charles turned to his friend. “I would have gone with you to Gretna Green had you asked.”

Wilton placed a hand on Charles’s shoulder. “I know,” he said simply. “That is why I tolerate you.”

Charles’s gaze flickered towards the row of waiting coaches lined along the street and he failed to spot Wilton’s crest among them. “Where is your coach?”

“I sent it home,” Wilton replied. “I figured a walk might do me some good.”

“At this hour?” Charles asked.

Wilton merely smiled, his expression shadowed under the flickering glow of a street lamp. “I do not live too far off. Besides, I would welcome a fight from any miscreant foolish enough to try me this evening.”

“Ever since you took up boxing, you’ve become insufferably cocky.”

Wilton grinned. “You should join me in the morning. It might do you some good.”

“I will pass, but thank you for the offer,” Charles replied, stepping towards his own waiting carriage. “Are you sure you do not want a ride home?”

“I am.” Wilton turned to leave, but something in the way he carried himself—his usual confidence undercut by a weariness that Charles rarely saw—compelled him to say one more thing.

“What Olivia did is not your fault.”

Slowly, Wilton turned back around. “Then whose fault is it?” he demanded.

“I have been so consumed with managing my estate, ensuring my tenants are provided for, my household is in order… that I failed to notice what was happening under my own roof. My own sister—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I should have seen it coming.”

“If that is true, then I am just as guilty with Philip.”

Wilton looked away, his gaze fixed on the darkened streets beyond. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, heavier. “I never wanted this life, you know.”

Charles didn’t need to ask what he meant.

Wilton continued, his tone laced with resentment. “The responsibilities that come with being the Marquess of Wilton are staggering. Sometimes, it feels as if I am drowning under the weight of it all. Like no matter how hard I try, I will never be enough.”

Charles understood that sentiment far too well. “Some would say we are ungrateful for not being content with our lot in life,” he murmured.

“Perhaps we are. We both inherited our titles far too young.”

“That we did.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, the city’s distant noises the only sounds filling the space. Then Wilton exhaled, shoving his hands into his pockets as he took a step back.

“Well,” he said, his usual lightness returning, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes, “if you ever feel the need to hit something—or someone—meet me at the boxing ring tomorrow morning.”

“As tempting as it is to hit you, I am otherwise occupied. I am calling upon Lady Eugenie.”

Wilton studied him for a moment before his lips curled into a smile. “Now that,” he mused, “will be far more interesting than a round in the ring.”

Charles said nothing, merely stepping up into his coach. But as the carriage rolled away, he couldn’t help but wonder if Wilton was right.