Charles said nothing. And for a moment, all Cordelia could think was that she hated Charles Fairchild for hurting her brother. Then she saw the infinitesimal tremble of Charles’s hand as he put it in his pocket, and she realized that Charles might be scared too.

Charles took a deep breath and crossed the carpeted floor to Alastair’s side. Cordelia could see them both very clearly. Too clearly, perhaps, she thought, as Charles took his hands from his pockets and put them on her brother’s shoulders. Alastair’s lips parted slightly.

“I do,” Charles said. “You know I do.”

His hands slid up into Alastair’s hair. He was still wearing gloves, his fingers dark against Alastair’s pale hair; he drew Alastair in toward him, and their lips met. Alastair made a soft sound, like surrender. He slid an arm around Charles’s neck and pulled him down onto the sofa.

They stretched out together, Charles atop Alastair. It was Alastair’s turn to bury his hands in Charles’s hair, to press against Charles’s body and fumble with his waistcoat. Charles’s hands were flat against Alastair’s chest, and he was kissing Alastair hungrily, over and over—

Cordelia squeezed her eyes shut. This was her brother’s life, his business, his very private business. Oh, dear, she hadn’t come for this at all. She could hear soft moans, could hear Alastair whispering to Charles in Persian, endearments she could never have imagined her brother uttering.

There was a gasp. She would risk it, she decided. She would flee, and hopefully they would be too intent on each other to hear her.

Then she heard Charles say, “Alastair. I cannot—I cannot.” There was a thumping sound, and Cordelia opened her eyes to see Alastair sitting disheveled on the couch, and Charles standing, straightening his waistcoat. Alastair’s jacket was thrown over the back of the sofa. “Not now.”

Alastair no longer played music, but he still had a musician’s hands. Cordelia watched as those hands lifted, twisted together in a brief instant of pain, and stilled.

“What is wrong, Charles?” he said, his voice husky and rough. “If this is not what you came for, then why are you here?”

“I thought you had accepted the situation with Ariadne,” said Charles. “I would not leave you, Alastair. We would still be—what we are. And I thought that you would agree to marry too.”

“That I would marry?” Alastair sprang to his feet. “I have told you over and over, Charles, even if I did not have you, I would never marry some poor woman and deceive her as to my love and regard. I have convinced my mother I can be of better use to the family in politics—”

“You will find it difficult to succeed in politics without a wife,” said Charles. “And you do not need to deceive a woman.”