Page 35 of A Spinster’s Folly (Courting the Unconventional #2)

Because when she looked at him, really looked at him—into those blue eyes filled with humor and something deeper, something unspoken—she saw more than just the man sitting beside her. She saw her future. A life spent in his presence, filled with laughter, with adventure, with love.

And she knew that nothing in this world could ever change the way she felt about him. So why wasn’t she strong enough to admit it? To say the words aloud and risk surrendering her heart completely?

Eugenie swallowed hard, pushing the thoughts away, locking them deep within the corners of her mind. For now, she would let him hold her hand.

The coach rolled to a stop before a stately three-story townhouse, its whitewashed brick facade gleaming in the midmorning light. The wrought-iron railings bordering the short front steps were freshly polished, and crisp white curtains framed the tall windows.

Charles stepped down from the carriage first and turned, offering his hand to Eugenie. He held on to her just a fraction longer than necessary before tucking her hand neatly into the crook of his arm.

As they made their way towards the entrance, Charles couldn’t help but notice the way Eugenie squared her shoulders. He nearly laughed. It almost suggested she was bracing herself for battle .

But this was hardly a war.

They were simply calling upon Miss Winslow, an entitled young woman who used her charms to get her way.

Reaching the front door, he lifted the brass knocker and let it fall with a decisive thud. A few moments later, the heavy door swung open, revealing a tall, gaunt butler whose sharp gaze flicked between them with polite disinterest.

“May I help you, sir?” he asked.

Charles inclined his head. “Please inform Miss Winslow that Lord Bedford and Lady Eugenie request a moment of her time.”

The butler stepped aside, widening the door. “If you would kindly wait here, my lord, I shall inform Miss Winslow of your presence.” Without another word, he disappeared through a side door, leaving them alone in the grand entry hall.

Charles turned to Eugenie, studying her face. “Are you nervous?”

She hesitated before saying, “I am.”

“Don’t be,” he said softly, offering her hand a gentle squeeze. “I am here with you.”

Before she could respond, the butler returned. “Miss Winslow will see you now.” He gestured towards a nearby open doorway.

As they walked together, Charles leaned in slightly. “We should think of a word to use if either of us feels uncomfortable during this conversation.”

Eugenie furrowed her brow. “A word?”

“Something discreet. A signal of sorts.”

She considered him for a moment before saying, “I could ask about the weather.”

Charles chuckled. “That would work rather well, considering you bring up the weather whenever there’s a lull in conversation.”

Her mouth dropped open in mock indignation. “I do not. ”

“You do,” he countered. “And it is merely one of the many things I’ve noticed about you.”

She glanced at him, curiosity dancing in her eyes. “Oh? And what else have you noticed?”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice into something dangerously intimate. “I’m afraid the list is far too long to recite at this moment, my dear.”

An adorable blush bloomed across her cheeks at his endearment, and Charles took immense satisfaction in knowing that she was not as immune to his charms as she often pretended to be.

As they stepped into the drawing room, Miss Winslow rose from a floral settee, her needlework still clutched in her hands.

She was a vision of carefully curated elegance, her rose-colored gown perfectly tailored, and her golden curls artfully arranged.

Her lips curved into a wide, too-eager smile as she set the embroidery aside.

“What a pleasant surprise!” she greeted, her voice bubbling with energy—perhaps a bit too much. “Come, sit, and have a cup of tea.”

Charles exchanged a glance with Eugenie before turning back to Miss Winslow. His voice remained polite but firm. “I’m afraid we are here on a rather delicate matter.”

Miss Winslow’s expression shifted, a faint crease forming between her brows. “Well, do not keep me in suspense,” she said, the cheer in her voice dimming. “What is it?”

Charles met her gaze evenly. “We know who you are.”

She tilted her head slightly. “And I know who you are, my lord,” she responded. “Is this a game? If so, I must say it’s a rather dull one.”

Eugenie released Charles’s arm and stepped forward. “I have it on good authority that you write for The Morning Post under the name Mr. Fairchild.”

Miss Winslow’s lips parted slightly before pressing together in a thoughtful line. “Interesting,” she murmured. “And, pray tell, who told you such a thing?”

“That is not important,” Eugenie replied. “What is important is that we are here to request a retraction. We both know the events described in your article did not transpire the way you claimed.”

Miss Winslow studied them both, her gaze sharp and assessing. And then, with a delicate sigh, she simply said, “No.”

“I beg your pardon?” Eugenie asked.

Miss Winslow’s smile did not falter. “Even if you are correct in assuming that I am Mr. Fairchild—which, of course, I have not confirmed—why would I print a retraction?” She leaned forward slightly. “I do believe it’s best if we allow the stories to unfold on their own.”

Eugenie pursed her lips. “My reputation has been besmirched by your article. Why would you print such faradiddles?” she asked, her voice rising.

Miss Winslow glanced towards the open doorway, then, with a graceful step, walked over and quietly closed the door. Her voice dropped to a hushed whisper when she turned back to them. “It is best if no one overhears this conversation. No one in my household knows I write for The Morning Post .”

Charles folded his arms across his chest. “So you admit it?”

Miss Winslow’s expression remained unbothered. “I write for the newssheets, just as Lady Eugenie does,” she said. “I think we would all benefit from a bit of discretion.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. “Then tell me this—why fabricate a story about us?”

Miss Winslow plucked at the sleeve of her gown, as if the matter was of little concern to her. “I may have enhanced certain aspects of the evening in question, but I did so for your benefit . ”

Eugenie’s mouth fell open in disbelief. “Our benefit?”

Miss Winslow’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “You two needed a push to get married. And I gave you one,” she said. “You are most welcome.”

Charles let out a stunned laugh. “You expect us to believe that you fabricated an entire scandal simply to play matchmaker?”

Miss Winslow’s gaze was unrepentant. “Certainly. You were already well on your way. I merely… hastened the inevitable.”

“Surely you did not go to such great lengths just for us to marry,” Eugenie remarked.

Miss Winslow settled back onto the settee with a graceful ease, lifting her teacup once more. She took a slow sip before finally responding, “Didn’t I?” Her voice was light, almost teasing, as if she had done them a great favor rather than entangled them in a scandal.

She gestured towards the porcelain teapot resting on the table between them and continued. “You must try some of this tea. It’s a delightful blend—imported, of course.”

Eugenie, still bristling, folded her arms. “I do not want tea.”

Miss Winslow let out a soft sigh, setting her cup and saucer down with a delicate clink . “That is a shame,” she mused. “Well, if you’re not here for tea, is there something else I can offer you?”

Charles stepped forward. “Miss Winslow, you must understand the precarious situation you have placed us in because of your article.”

“Oh, I do understand,” Miss Winslow responded. “And I did not write that article on a whim. Just as I imagine Lady Eugenie takes care with her own writings.”

Eugenie stiffened. “But I only write the truth.”

Miss Winslow lifted her cup once more, her lips curving as she took a deliberate sip. When she lowered it again, her gaze was sharp. “And what, pray tell, is truth, if not one’s own version of it?”

Charles ran a hand along the back of his neck. “You implied in your article that Eugenie and I were alone in the gardens. But we both know that was you and you tried to kiss me.”

“Do we?” Miss Winslow asked, feigning innocence. “There were no other witnesses to say otherwise.”

Charles’s jaw tightened. “I tried to do the honorable thing when I saw that you had overindulged in champagne.”

Miss Winslow waved a hand dismissively, as if the matter were trivial. “Oh, I was never truly drunk.”

“You certainly seemed to be,” Eugenie remarked.

Miss Winslow let out a soft, amused laugh. “Truth be told, I can’t stand the taste of champagne.”

“But you had three glasses,” Charles countered.

“Did I?” Miss Winslow’s smile turned impish. “If you had been watching more carefully, you would have noticed that the plant behind the refreshment table enjoyed the champagne far more than I did.”

“You poured it into the plant?” Eugenie asked. “For what purpose?”

Miss Winslow lifted a single shoulder in a delicate shrug. “I needed people to believe I was bottle-weary.”

“So it was all an act?” Charles inquired.

Miss Winslow’s expression turned amused. “Of course. You’d be amazed by the things people whisper when they think a lady is too drunk to remember. It is quite enlightening, really.”

With a shake of his head, Charles asked, “You orchestrated the entire scene so you could be alone with me?”

“Now, my lord, you mustn’t be so arrogant,” Miss Winslow said before setting the cup down. “It was never my intention to compromise you. I was merely… observing.”

“Observing what, exactly?” Eugenie asked in a terse voice.

Miss Winslow sighed as if they were being terribly slow to catch on. “You two, of course. And my suspicions were correct—you needed a push. And I simply provided it. ”

Eugenie’s hands curled into fists at her sides. “You manipulated an entire evening—our reputations—all so you could meddle in our lives?”

Miss Winslow appeared completely unrepentant. “Meddle? No, I prefer to think of it as encouragement . ” She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbow on the arm of the settee. “And if I am not mistaken… it worked. You two have been spending an abundant amount of time together.”

Charles forced himself to rein in the anger that surged through him like a rolling tide. He was no stranger to manipulation, nor to the games that members of the ton played to secure their ambitions. But Miss Winslow had gone too far.

He leveled her with a hard stare. “Perhaps I should pay a visit to your brother,” he said, his voice low and edged with warning. “I’m certain he would be most interested in learning how you occupy your time.”

The amusement that had danced so freely in Miss Winslow’s eyes vanished in an instant. A flicker of something—uncertainty, perhaps—passed over her features before she recovered. “You wouldn’t do something so foolish,” she said.

“And why is that?” Charles asked.

Miss Winslow’s expression grew unreadable. “Because we both know that the pen is mightier than the sword,” she stated. “And I wield mine with precision.”

She paused just long enough for the weight of her words to settle. Then, with a pointed glance in Eugenie’s direction, she added, “You wouldn’t want Lady Eugenie’s secret to come to light, now would you?”

Charles felt the air in the room tighten. A slow, simmering rage burned beneath his skin, but he forced himself to remain composed. Miss Winslow was no fool—she had seen through his threat, knowing he could not— would not —risk Eugenie’s reputation.

Before he could reply, the door opened and Alcott stepped into the room. “I thought I heard your voice,” he said, addressing Charles.

Charles turned to face Alcott. “Good morning,” he said before gesturing towards Eugenie. “Allow me the privilege of introducing you to Lady Eugenie.”

Alcott’s gaze shifted to her, and in that brief moment, Charles watched as his friend’s expression changed.

There was no mistaking the flicker of interest in his eyes as they traced the elegant line of Eugenie’s figure, taking in the graceful tilt of her chin and the composed way she met his scrutiny.

“The pleasure is mine, my lady,” Alcott said with a slight bow.

Eugenie dipped into a polite curtsy. “My lord,” she murmured.

Charles felt an irrational spike of irritation at the exchange. He knew the look Alcott was giving her—that subtle, assessing gaze filled with quiet approval.

With deliberate intent, Charles stepped closer, positioning himself firmly beside her. “We should be going,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“Why the rush?” Alcott’s gaze flicked back to Eugenie, lingering. “We’ve only just been introduced.”

Charles didn’t like the way Alcott was looking at Eugenie. Not one bit. “Yes, but it is time I returned Lady Eugenie home. You understand, don’t you?” he asked, offering his arm to her.

As they walked out of the drawing room, Alcott followed them to the main door and asked in a hushed voice, “What did my sister do, now?”

“Nothing,” Charles lied, though the word lacked conviction. “We were merely calling upon her to discuss…” He faltered, his mind scrambling for a plausible excuse.

“The weather,” Eugenie interjected.

Charles bobbed his head. “Yes, the weather.”

Alcott’s sharp gaze flickered between them. “Very well,” he said slowly. “If you do not wish to tell me, that is your prerogative. But do not insult my intelligence by claiming you were discussing the weather.”

“Fair enough,” Charles responded before he took Eugenie’s arm and guided her down the stone steps towards the waiting carriage, leaving Alcott standing in the doorway, watching them with an expression that said he was far from fooled.