Whispers of scandal in New York Society were enough to stain a reputation beyond repair—whether they were true or not was immaterial. Appearance always outweighed substance. If they were true, then gossip became not idle chatter but a weapon. And no weapon cut more cruelly than rumors of adultery, divorce… and the absurdity of a duel over a woman’s affection. That sort of disgrace was enough to send even an Astor to the edge of exile.

Unfortunately for Charlotte, her own mother had made little effort to shield her. Mrs. Astor, queen of society’s rulebook, seemed almost satisfied in consigning her daughter to disgrace. “You chose your husband yourself, Charlotte,” were her Mother's words. And technically, that was true. Charlotte had been allowed to “choose,” but the choice had been nothing more than an illusion. Of the men paraded before her, James Drayton had seemed the least unbearable. Hardly a glowing reason to wed, but defiance had its limits when one’s mother held the keys to society.

And yet Charlotte had always known where her true happiness resided. For years, that truth had lain quiet, disguised as simple companionship. But dull marriages fester. They leech a woman dry. And so Charlotte, though she was not proud of breaking vows, refused to repent for following her heart. You were worth every risk.

You and Charlotte had grown up in lockstep in Society, bound by the same suffocating expectations from your mothers. Childhood confidences turned into young womanhood alliances, and in time, into something far deeper. You’d guided her hand, once upon a time, in choosing James—urging her to select the least offensive path. And she had trusted you then as she did now. She trusted you with more than her marriage, more than her reputation. She trusted you with her love.

The first kiss had made the truth unignorable. She would have married you if she could. But there were limits to how much scandal even the boldest woman can weather. So Charlotte crafted her camouflage. Mr. Borrowe became her convenient diversion, the gentleman she was seen whispering to at the opera, or riding with on an afternoon drive. The columns printed it. Borrowe himself didn’t mind the fiction; he had little else to occupy his hours. And so the ruse held—until James, wounded in pride and desperate in passion, decided Borrowe was a rival worth dueling. Charlotte had not anticipated her husband’s affections were so strong. Thankfully Mr. Burrowe didn't mind it.

After that humiliation, Charlotte had little hope of returning to society’s good graces. Her mother would never forgive her. But when the Newport ball fell under Mrs. Russell’s command, the tide shifted. Mrs. Russell cared little for the moral posturing of Mrs. Astor; to her, scandal was less a stain than a spectacle. An invitation appeared, and Charlotte would not waste it. Especially knowing you would be there. She hadn’t told you she’d come—better to surprise you.

She dressed with care that evening, her green gown shimmering with the gaslight, her tiara a crown of defiance as much as ornament. Let her mother come if she wished; Charlotte had other priorities. Public displays between you two were impossible—no kisses, no embraces—but even the nearness of you in such a grand hall was a sweeter indulgence than yet another clandestine carriage ride.

If the world belonged to her, she would dance with you openly. But the world did not belong to her. Not yet.

She spotted you across the ballroom—your laughter, the tilt of your face toward a tiresome suitor—and then your gaze found hers. The surprise that lit your eyes, the smile that followed, was all she needed. She lifted a gloved hand, gesturing subtly toward the balcony. You understood. You always did.

The night air off Newport Harbor was cool, the stars sharp against the velvet sky. On the quiet balcony, Charlotte let her fingers slide into yours, soft leather brushing silk. She smiled then taking you in.

“You look lovely, And it appears I’ve not been cast out of society just yet. I suppose I have Mrs. Russell to thank for that."