Chapter Three #2
Charlene had thought that her heart had long lost its desire for such things after that blackguard…
No.
Do not think of him.
And yet, David Cross had overshadowed it all.
The entire childhood Charlene had spent thinking she’d one day marry a Cross brother. They’d grown up together and then…
But if she wanted adventure and romance, she would have to face the past, right?
“There are no tricks in her letters. Only love,” she finally said, rising to her feet, striding over to the greenhouse windows. Beyond the glass, the wind spiraled through the garden, laying the summer asters low with bold strokes.
The sight gripped her.
Change was tangible, brushing against the panes but not yet stepping inside this room of perpetual green.
“Charlene.” Ashley’s voice softened, laced with a note of concern. “Are you still worried about that wretched rogue, David Cross?”
And a face—handsome, infuriating, unforgiving—seared its way forward from her memory.
Charlene sighed, then turned to send a smile to her friends. “Worried, no.” But fear… She knew him.
I thought I knew Adam, too.
And they’re both the same, aren’t they?
“Well, the minute he shows his face in London again, I’ll pummel him.” Maddie showed her fists as if a gentle lady like her could ever threaten anyone. Still, the friendship among the girls warmed Charlene’s heart.
“Of what I’ve seen of Adam Cross, he’d even enjoy that, Maddie.” Ashley rolled her eyes.
“No need,” Charlene said. “I doubt he’ll return anytime soon. Though I will not deny the past has made me a touch wary of the future.” David Cross had stolen more than her peace. He’d stolen the idea that the world, like the orchids she pruned and nurtured, could grow into something unblemished.
He’d broken her heart.
“You know his brother has returned,” Maddie said with a scrunched brow. “He is now the Duke of Rotheworth.”
Yes, Adam had returned.
Another face, this one just as handsome but wholly different from his brother surfaced in her memory.
Just as hateful.
Perhaps even more so than his brother. David had broken every romantic dream as a debutante, but Adam, or rather the duke, had cut her to the bone with his scathing words after the fact.
Charlene cleared her throat and strode back to the table.
“I wonder what Sera would think of this particular design for your wedding gown,” she said to Ashley, drawing the conversation back to safer ground.
She’d much rather talk about wedding gowns and baubles with her friends than talk about the Cross brothers.
Once Charlene dusted the soil from her hands, she glanced around the conservatory.
Here, it would always be green. Inside these walls, she nurtured life, caring for each plant as if willing them to defy the passage of time.
Outside, the leaves would soon yellow, wither, and fall from their branches, surrendering to the inevitable.
It was their way, just as it seemed to be with men like the Cross brothers.
Perfectly polished, yet destined to disappoint once their veneer faded.
The thought settled like a shadow in her chest as she turned back to her orchids, wishing the quiet constancy of her plants extended to the world beyond.
She never wanted to see any of them again.
*
Adam shifted in his chair at the four-story townhouse that had become part of the burden and privilege of his inheritance.
The high back of the polished mahogany pressed into his shoulders, and the study smelled of ink and old parchment, reminding him of all the times he spent in this room with his father, listening to his teachings.
He’d always meant to take his father’s place as the duke, but he had only ever wanted to be a privateer—a man of the sea.
Duty had come too soon, and he never had the chance.
The solicitor had been droning on for what felt like hours, and Adam could tell by the angle of the afternoon sun slicing through the curtains that it was scarcely just past three.
He’d rather be racing through the park on his mare at the moment. Anything, really.
Except for this…
But he was about to fall asleep. Staying awake and thinking of Charlene was taking a toll at daytime.
“It is, as stipulated, that the inheritance now falls under your stewardship,” the man said, folding his hands over the ledgers spread across Adam’s wide desk.
“The estate requires significant attention, given the expenditures of the prior quarter. The tenants are due to pay soon, but it will hardly suffice to cover the current expenses.”
Adam set his jaw, a finger tapping on the chair’s armrests.
This chair had always been a bold feature of the study.
Bolder even than the large desk. It was not the first time since he’d been a boy that he sat in his late father’s chair, in his place, but it meant more now.
It was as symbolic of his takeover as it was tragic.
“I’ll see it’s handled,” he said evenly, his words clipped but steady.
He kept his gaze fixed on the man before him, avoiding the probing look from his mother.
The dowager Duchess of Rotheworth, Lady Carmen Cross, wouldn’t be ignored so easily.
Seated elegantly in the corner like a queen surveying her subjects, she sighed softly.
“Handled, yes. But when, hijo mío?” Her voice always sounded softer in her native tongue since the Spanish words lulled Adam into a sense of comfort.
It was why he’d always been the best at school, then at Oxford—Latin was in his mother tongue and in his blood, the foundation for science, law, and even grammar.
“These matters demand immediate action.”
He finally met his mother’s sharp, dark eyes.
Her hair, streaked now with gray strands, remained tied in its customary coiled twist. The brilliant scarlet shawl contrasted with the black mourning dress as if the fire draped around her shoulders spoke louder of her origins than any word she could utter.
The corners of his lips lifted. She hated drab-colored clothing.
Adam leaned forward, sliding the stack of papers toward him.
“I’ll speak with Woolridge tomorrow about the accounts.
These repairs on the tenant cottages—” He gestured toward the solicitor.
“That will begin as soon as the weather allows. And the tenants should be informed.”
“Always the responsible son.”
The solicitor rose with a creak of stiff joints, murmured polite goodbyes, and left as a servant ushered him out. The heavy oak door thudded shut, leaving an odd silence in its wake.
His mother moved then, rising from her corner with the grace of a woman half her age.
She crossed to Adam’s desk and placed a thick, cream-colored envelope in front of him.
“And now, responsibilities of another kind. You’ll make yourself useful to society as well, mi hijo. This arrived just this morning.”
He glanced at the invitation but didn’t touch it. “A ball? Mother, this is hardly the time to—”
“You’re wrong,” she interrupted, her hands resting firmly on the edge of the desk.
Her fingers, adorned with rings of gold, diamonds, and a blood-red ruby, tapped impatiently.
“This is precisely the time. Your banquet after confirmation in the House of Lords was too modest. Mourning has ended and your life goes on; you’ll not vanish into this study and become a recluse.
The estate depends on public perception as much as anything else. You know that.”
“I can fulfill my obligations without masquerading at a ball,” Adam said, his voice tight.
Her eyebrow arched. “Do you think your father wanted to go to balls? He understood how to maintain appearances.” Her expression softened, and her voice, though firm, carried a note of tenderness.
“You must go, Adam. There are alliances to be made, reputations to uphold. And, perhaps, opportunities you would not expect. And let’s not avoid the pressing matter that you need to find a wife.”
“Do not start with that. I’m not marrying.”
“Fine, but you still need to go.” She slipped the invitation closer to him.
Her movement stirred the faintest scent of citrus, the perfume she had worn for as long as he could remember.
Adam sighed and picked up the envelope. He pulled free the card engraved in flowing gold script, reading it with reluctant attention. He set it down again.
“Do you even know who is attending? I’ve no patience to flatter idle fops today.”
“You think I don’t know you?” She pushed a long list of names toward him. “The Countess of Worthington is a close friend of mine. She sent me the list of everyone attending. I’ve marked all the important names, and you’ll do well to develop connections with them.”
Ever detailed-oriented.
Adam bristled at the idea of spending time among the Ton instead of riding out to the country to look after the estate.
But his gaze flicked over the names to humor his mother. Suddenly, he stopped on one person.
There it was.
Her name.
Lady Charlene Fielding.
The breath he’d drawn caught in his chest. He pushed the list back carefully, as if it might crumble under the weight of his stare.
“What’s the matter? You’ve gone pale,” his mother said, studying him intently. “Is something troubling you?”
He shook his head once, his throat dry. “No.” He tried to rearrange his expression, but his mother’s knowing look cut straight through him. He’d forgotten how little escaped her notice.
“Ah,” she said softly, pulling a chair from across the desk and taking a seat. “I see. It has been some time. But there’s no harm in seeing her again, is there? Now that your brother has gone to the Continent…”
Adam didn’t reply. He didn’t trust himself to. Instead, the study’s soft ticking clock filled the gap of silence.
You can’t even imagine…
He wished he didn’t have the urge to kill David every time he thought of how David had hurt Charlene—even if not physically, the wound was deep enough for her family to cut all ties with him.
Adam knew his loyalty should be to his brother; they were twins after all.
But wasn’t there an excuse if one’s brother was David?
Yet Charlene… She hadn’t wanted his pity, his protection, nor his heart.
And in the heat of the moment, he had said something he would regret for the rest of his life.
That was the last time they saw each other.
She probably hated him as much as she hated David.
His mother leaned forward, her golden earrings catching the sunlight. “You do not have to tell me what happened that night before your father died. But you will accept this invitation. And if I need to drag you there myself, I will.”
His thin smile held no humor, but he inclined his head. “If you must,” he said dryly.
His mother laughed lightly, as if the matter was already decided. “I taught you how to dance for a reason, hijo mío. You’ll do me proud yet.”
Before Adam could muster a retort, she rose again, brushing an invisible wrinkle from her skirts.
She paused at the door, looking over her shoulder with a mischievous gleam that made her seem almost youthful again.
“Oh, and be sure to dance with a lady or two. Perhaps even Lady Charlene. That’s the thing about life, Adam.
You either dance or you sit alone at the edge of the ballroom. I suggest you do what you do best.”
Dance. While just out of mourning. It felt abhorrent, a betrayal of the quiet grief that had settled in his chest like an unwanted companion. Yet society demanded appearances over substance, forcing a man to paint over his sorrows as if they no longer mattered.
Why did he have to be born first?
But then, David as Rotheworth? No, it was lucky he had been born first, rather than that do-no-good brother of his.
However, the very notion of waltzing amid the clamor of music and chatter struck him as tasteless.
But the mask—at least the mask offered him a reprieve, hiding the truth that his eyes would reveal, concealing the weight of what he refused to speak aloud.
Behind its veil, Adam supposed he could be anyone but himself, and perhaps, for one evening, that would be easier.
His gaze lowered to the invitation, his chest tight with something like longing—and something sharper than regret.
You look just like him.
Her parting words of one year ago burned through his gut.
Adam dragged a hand through his hair. Perhaps, just maybe, they could move on from the past?