Chapter Four
Charlotte unfolded the letter for the third time that morning. Her gloved fingers were busy smoothing the parchment, though the words were already seared into her memory.
His Grace, the Duke of Duskbourne, will wait upon Lady Charlotte Montclair at Hawthorne, at noon.
She stared at the lines as if they might vanish should she blink. That he had considered her outrageous proposal at all was remarkable. That he had replied, civilly, with the cold brevity of a man confirming a business appointment, was near unthinkable.
Her heart gave a treacherous flutter. She pressed the letter closed and set it beside her teacup, forcing her face into composure just as Nicholas strode into the parlour.
“You are quiet this morning,” her brother observed, pausing to pour himself a cup of tea. “And when you are quiet, Charlotte, it is either because you are plotting or because you are hiding something.”
Charlotte lifted her chin, feigning indifference. “Not everything requires a plot, Nicholas. Some mornings are simply… quiet.”
He lowered himself into the chair opposite hers, eyeing her with the unerring gaze that had made him formidable in both Parliament and his own household.
“Mhm. Yet you are staring at that letter as if it contains the fate of the nation.”
Charlotte slid the parchment toward the edge of the table, stacking it neatly with other correspondence. “Merely a charitable inquiry.”
Nicholas’s brow arched. “From whom?”
She sipped her tea, refusing to answer. If she were honest, she would have confessed that Cassian Oberon’s cool grey eyes had not left her mind since the night of the ball and that the memory of his gloved hand tilting her chin upward had lit some strange, unwelcome fire in her chest. She might have admitted that though his bluntness grated, though he seemed the last man in England capable of tenderness, she still could not forget the sensation of standing beneath his scrutiny.
But honesty was dangerous.
And besides, she reminded herself fiercely, he would not truly wish to marry her. He had only agreed to meet because propriety demanded a refusal be delivered in person; no more, no less.
“Charlotte,” Nicholas pressed, in a tone that was softer and more fatherly. “What trouble are you walking into?”
She forced a small smile, the kind she had perfected through long practice. “Nothing that need concern you, brother.”
Nicholas frowned, clearly unconvinced, but before he could press further, a knock on the parlour door interrupted them.
“Yes?” Charlotte called out impatiently, and a moment later, the door opened.
“The Duke of Duskbourne, my lady,” the maid announced, her eyes flicking curiously between Charlotte and Nicholas before retreating with a curtsy.
Nicholas’s head snapped toward her, his dark brows lifting. “The Duke of what?”
Charlotte smoothed her gown, though her pulse thrummed at her throat. “Duskbourne.”
He stared at her. “And you knew something of this?”
She folded her hands neatly in her lap, lifting her chin with careful composure. “You will find out everything in a moment.”
“Charlotte—” His voice carried a warning, edged with disbelief.
She met his gaze steadily, though her insides quaked. “Trust me, Nicholas.”
It was a plea as much as a command. Her brother’s frown deepened, but he exhaled heavily and leaned back in his chair.
Only the tension in his shoulders betrayed his unease.
He obviously did not like it. In fact, she knew he hated not knowing, hated seeing her full of secrets, but his affection for her was stronger than his impatience.
“Very well,” he said at last, though the words sounded dragged from him. “But God help this duke if he means to trifle with you.”
Charlotte’s lips curved faintly, though her heart felt anything but light.
If only you knew, Nicholas, it is I who means to trifle with him.
The door opened again, and there he was.
Cassian Oberon entered the parlour with the silent command of a man accustomed to being obeyed.
Tall, dark, and striking, his presence seemed to fill the space before he had uttered a single word.
His coat was black, severe as ever, and his cravat was flawlessly knotted.
Those grey eyes swept the room, missing nothing, yet also betraying nothing.
“Your Grace,” Nicholas said, rising at once with the formality due to rank, though his voice carried a cautious edge.
Duskbourne inclined his head, grave and unreadable. “Hawthorne.” His gaze shifted to Charlotte, lingering there with that same disconcerting weight as the night of the ball. “Lady Charlotte.”
Her composure wavered under the intensity of his regard, but she forced her spine straight and her voice steady. “Your Grace. Welcome to Hawthorne House.”
Duskbourne inclined his head back to Nicholas. “I thank you for receiving me, Hawthorne. I trust Hawthorne House prospers under your care.”
Nicholas gave a short nod that meant nothing. “We fare well enough, Your Grace. Though I admit, I am at a loss as to what occasion could bring you here. You are not known for your visits to society or anywhere beyond your own estates.”
A pause blossomed, thick with meaning.
The Duke’s gaze flicked once to Charlotte, then back to her brother. “I am here to speak with Lady Charlotte.”
Nicholas stiffened. “Then speak with her. Whatever you have to say, it is for my ears as well.”
Charlotte’s breath caught, but the Duke betrayed not the slightest hesitation. He inclined his head as if Nicholas’ words were of no consequence. “Very well. Then I shall be direct.” His eyes returned to Charlotte, almost unblinking. “Lady Charlotte, I propose marriage.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Nicholas inhaled sharply. “You what?”
The Duke did not so much as glance at him.
His gaze remained on Charlotte, pinning her to her seat.
“At Lady Whitmore’s ball, I found you… intriguing.
You spoke with candour when others simpered.
You did not flinch when you ought to have.
I have no desire for a wife who plays at affection, nor for the endless hunt of matchmaking mothers.
You made plain what you offered, and I find myself, against better judgment, disposed to accept it.
I do not require love. Only honesty. And in you, Lady Charlotte, I see that plainly enough. ”
Nicholas’ eyes were blazing now. “This is madness. Charlotte—”
But Charlotte’s heart, though beating wildly, felt curiously steady. This was what she had wanted: a title, security, freedom from whispers. This man was offering a union without risk of tenderness.
Her voice emerged clear, calm, without a tremor. “Yes, Your Grace. I accept.”
Nicholas’s head whipped toward her, still in utter disbelief of what he had just heard. “Charlotte!”
But the Duke of Duskbourne was already straightening, his expression as composed as if they had agreed upon a contract for land or trade. “Then it is settled.” He bowed first to Nicholas, then to Charlotte. “You shall hear from me shortly.”
And with that, he turned on his heel, striding from the parlour as abruptly as he had entered, leaving the echo of his presence behind like a draft through a door left ajar.
Charlotte sat very still, her pulse thundering in her ears.
She felt Nicholas’s gaze upon her, hot with disbelief, protective fury, and something akin to betrayal.
The silence after the Duke’s departure stretched long enough that Charlotte could hear the crackle of the fire in the grate as well as the ticking of the clock upon the mantel. Nicholas remained standing, staring at her as if she had grown a second head.
“Charlotte,” he said at last in a voice that trembled at the edges. “Tell me you are not serious.”
She could only nod once. “I am entirely serious, Nicholas.”
Nicholas took a sharp breath and began to pace, with one hand raking through his dark hair. “A proposal in my very parlour! From a man you do not know! And you accept him without hesitation? For God’s sake, Charlotte, are you certain of this?”
“Yes,” she replied calmly, though her heart fluttered treacherously. “More certain than I have been of anything in my life.”
He stopped before her, eyes searching her face for cracks. “This is Duskbourne we are speaking of. A man with a reputation for coldness, for shutting out the world. Do you think he will give you joy? Do you think he will make you happy?”
Charlotte drew in a breath, steady and sure.
“Yes. Because happiness does not come from love, Nicholas. Not for me. It comes from security, from duty fulfilled, from freedom at last to live without the weight of whispers pressing upon me. He will not ask for my heart, and I will not ask for his. In that balance, I shall have peace.”
Nicholas’s expression softened, though anguish still shadowed his features. “Peace,” he repeated, as though tasting the word. “But Charlotte, you deserve more than peace. You deserve joy, laughter, a husband who—”
She laid a gentle hand on his arm. “No,” she said firmly. “I had joy once, Nicholas, and it ended in betrayal. No more dreams. No more folly. This is what I want.”
He looked down at her, torn between outrage and love. Finally, with a ragged sigh, he cupped her hand in his.
“I would give you the world if I could, you know that,” he murmured. “But if this is the path you swear will bring you happiness, I will not stand in your way.”
Charlotte’s throat tightened, but she forced a smile. “Thank you.”
Nicholas pulled her into his arms, holding her close as he had when she was small and the world seemed too sharp. “Heavens help him if he does not honour you, Charlotte,” he said fiercely. “For he will have me to answer to.”
She closed her eyes against his shoulder, knowing she had won his blessing, though at the cost of his peace of mind.
When Nicholas finally left her, muttering something about finding Lydia, the parlour felt too still and too wide.
Charlotte crossed to the window and sank into the small chair tucked beside the drapery.
A book lay on the table. She picked it up, let it fall open at random, and tried to read.
The words blurred almost at once, her eyes tracing lines but catching no meaning.
Her thoughts returned again and again to the figure of Cassian Oberon, to his grey eyes, his voice like cut stone, and the brusque finality with which he had come and gone.
Her future became sealed in a few curt sentences.
Suddenly, there was another knock on the door, and it startled her. Her maid stepped in after having been called, holding a sealed letter upon a tray.
“For you, my lady,” she said softly.
Charlotte set her book aside and reached for it, but the sight of the familiar hand made her breath catch.
Edmund Larke.
Her stomach tightened. For a moment, she merely stared at the wax seal.
She could feel the weight of it in her palm, as if she were holding a brick.
One month ago, she would have clutched it to her breast and stolen away to her chamber to read it in secret.
Then, she would feel herself seen, cherished, adored.
Now, she felt nothing but the slow rise of anger.
“Leave me,” she said quietly.
When the maid had gone, Charlotte stood up, moved to the fireplace, and without hesitation tossed the letter into the flames. The parchment curled at once, blackening, and the inked name dissolved into smoke. She watched until it was ash, until every trace of him was gone.
It was not sorrow she felt, nor even relief, but a strange, steady calm. The fantasy was over. Edmund Larke no longer had power over her.
Her past was ashes. As for her future, whether cold or safe or something else entirely, it now belonged to the Duke of Duskbourne.