Page 13 of Touched By a Traitor
Their eyes met across the sea of faces. Recognition flickered in her gaze, followed by something that looked almost like hope—quickly masked by studied indifference that couldn’t quite hide her fear.
Despite the turmoil in his chest, he couldn’t deny her raw courage. Dark tendrils escaped her severe wig, framing a face grown sharper with time, more beautiful somehow in its maturity.
Whispers turned to hisses in the crowd. “Preposterous,” one voice spat. “A mockery,” another cut deliberately loud.
Her expression hardened and her chin lifted as their eyes locked again. She was magnificent but utterly doomed.
Lord Alford called for silence. “Miss Morton has met all requirements with distinction. She is legally entitled to practice.”
“By law, perhaps,” someone shouted, “but what of tradition? Of natural order?”
The crowd pressed closer, faces twisted with righteous anger. Fear flashed across Charlotte’s face, and something ancient and protective stirred in Andrew’s chest. He wouldn’t watch a mob form regardless of his personal feelings.
Stepping forward, he raised his voice. “Gentlemen. We are men of law and order. We must respect the law and the Master Bencher’s decision.”
The crowd hesitated, many turning to him in surprise. Though his honorary bench position came from wealth rather than legal expertise, his word carried weight.
Charlotte’s eyes found his, brimming with gratitude that made his chest tighten painfully.
“However,” came a silk-smooth voice from behind Andrew, “one must question whether respect for law should extend to… perversions of it.” Lord Naylor, one of Parliament’s most influential voices, stepped forward. His gaze swept dismissively over Charlotte before fixing on Andrew with pointed interest. “Surely an earl understands the importance of maintaining proper standards? The Crown depends on men of traditional values.”
The threat was delicately veiled but unmistakable. Andrew felt the weight of a dozen influential gazes upon him, measuring his response. His position in the peerage was still fresh, his political influence dependent on these men. A single misstep could destroy everything he’d fought to build—not just for himself, but for Daisy, for his workers, for everyone who depended on his success.
Choose,Naylor’s eyes seemed to say.Her or your future.
Andrew’s jaw clenched as he felt the familiar sensation of the ground shifting beneath his feet—the same helpless rage he’d felt as a boy when larger forces controlled his fate. But he was no longer that powerless child. He was an earl with responsibilities that extended far beyond his own desires.
Forgive me, Charlotte.
“Don’t mistake intervention for approval, Miss Morton,” Andrew heard himself say, his voice carrying across the silent hall with cold authority. “Your presence here mocks centuries of tradition, but we must abide by the law which permits you. Even if these halls do not welcome you.”
The moment the words left his mouth, Andrew regretted them. The flash of pain in Charlotte’s eyes cut deeper than any blade, but his pride—and political survival—wouldn’t let him take them back. He watched her absorb the blow, saw her spine straighten with that familiar defiant grace that had first captivated him.
Fire flashed in her eyes before ice claimed them. “I don’t seek your approval, Mr. Creswell. My apologies… Lord Carlisle. I forgot your earldom is so… recent,” she said, the barb aimed precisely at his common roots—and finding its mark with devastating accuracy.
Even as it stung, he couldn’t help but admire her tactical brilliance—she’d reminded the entire room of his common roots in a single, perfectly aimed blow.
“I merely wish to prove my worth,” she continued, her voice steady despite the hurt he’d inflicted.
Her words were like a knife twisting in Andrew’s gut. The political victory felt hollow as ash, purchased with Charlotte’s pain.
“Let us return to our duties, gentlemen,” Andrew said, his voice carefully modulated. “The law waits for no man… norwoman,” he added, the pointed emphasis drawing satisfied murmurs from the traditionalists.
As the crowd dispersed, he watched her standing alone, spine straight as steel before a room of men who craved her failure. The sight of her solitary defiance made his chest ache with unwilling admiration and fear in equal measure.
Her courage was both magnificent and terrifying—she was walking into a lion’s den with nothing but her wits and determination to protect her.
With practiced casualness, he threaded through the thinning crowd, ignoring Naylor’s knowing smile. Fear flickered across Charlotte’s face before neutrality claimed it. Andrew inclined his head—a gesture that could be interpreted as either courtesy or condescension, depending on one’s perspective.
“Miss Morton?” he said for nearby ears, ensuring his tone carried the proper distance. “Might I escort you out? I have questions regarding… the Halsbury case.”
Understanding flashed in her eyes—recognition that he was offering what protection he could without compromising his position. “Your lordship is most kind.”
As they walked, Andrew positioned himself to shield her from the most venomous stares, his presence a buffer against the worst of the hostility. When they reached a secluded alcove, he finally allowed his mask to slip slightly.
“Charlie Morton. Surely not your given name,” he said evenly, though his pulse quickened at their proximity.
“It is. On my birth document at Father’s insistence. I suppose it soothed Father’s pining for a son. Mother always called me Charlotte, however.”
