Chapter Eleven
To all appearances, it was a celebration of joy: the first birthday of the heir to the dukedom and also a day of familial bliss. To Charlotte, however, it felt like punishment.
She had practiced her smile before the mirror that morning, and even after all that practice, it did not reach her eyes.
She stood near the nursery table where little Augustus was banging a silver spoon against his cup, shrieking with glee.
A laughing Lydia swooped in to rescue both cup and child, looking radiant in her lavender gown.
Charlotte joined her, but her laughter was strikingly different.
An hour had passed since luncheon, and the Duke was standing across the room.
One needed to look no further to find a study in composure.
His expression betrayed nothing, not even boredom, though she could feel the rigidity of his restraint even from where she was standing.
They were husband and wife, bound by vows and proximity, yet they might as well have been strangers trapped in polite conversation.
When their eyes met by accident, Charlotte’s chest tightened. He didn’t even incline his head in acknowledgment. Then, he simply turned away to speak with her brother.
She swallowed against the ache that rose in her throat.
“Lady Duskbourne!” cried an elderly dowager, beaming as she approached. “My dear, what happiness it must be, newly wed and already an aunt to such a cherub!”
Charlotte curtsied, murmured the appropriate pleasantries, and kept on smiling until her jaw hurt.
She could not recall a single thing the woman said.
When the attention at last shifted elsewhere, she slipped toward the refreshment table.
Her hand trembled slightly as she poured herself a glass of lemonade.
The tartness bit at her tongue, and she accepted it as a small, bracing mercy.
“Charlotte?” Lydia’s voice came softly from somewhere behind her.
Charlotte turned, extracting her practiced smile once again, though it wavered when she saw the concern in her sister-in-law’s eyes.
“You needn’t pretend with me, my dear,” Lydia whispered gently.
“I beg your pardon?” Charlotte set down her glass carefully. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
Lydia’s gaze softened, but she did not relent. “My dear, in all the years I have known you, I have come to see you as charitable, brave, and clever, but you have never been a convincing liar. I have been watching you with the Duke all evening. There is… nothing between you.”
Charlotte felt her composure splinter, though she fought to keep her tone even. “You are mistaken. The Duke and I are—”
“—perfectly polite? Yes,” Lydia finished for her gently. “Painfully so.”
Humiliation scorched Charlotte’s cheeks. She turned slightly, pretending to watch Augustus toddle across the rug toward his father’s waiting arms.
Charlotte forced a smile, turning her attention back to Lydia. “Our marriage is as it was intended to be, one of mutual respect. We understand one another perfectly.”
Lydia tilted her head, studying her with quiet pity. “Do you? Because from where I stand, you look like two people drowning, each too proud to reach for the other.”
The words struck too close. Charlotte drew herself up, summoning dignity like armour. “Whatever exists between the Duke and myself is no one’s concern but ours.”
Lydia’s expression softened further, and she appeared regretful now. “I did not mean to wound you. Only… you deserve happiness, Charlotte, not mere duty.”
For a moment, Charlotte could not breathe. She pressed her fingertips to the rim of her glass, tracing it as though it might anchor her.
“I appreciate your concern,” she said at last, endeavouring to calm down the tremble of her voice. “But some of us must learn to live content with duty.”
Before Lydia could reply, Charlotte turned away. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest as she crossed the room, but her smile was once again carefully fixed in place. As if summoned by the weight of her thoughts, the Duke appeared at her side with that unerring sense of timing he had.
“Shall we offer our thanks to your brother before departing?” he murmured courteously, but he sounded as if he were discussing the weather.
Her pulse leapt. “We shall do no such thing.”
One of Lydia’s friends turned to glance at them, her smile all curiosity and gossip. Charlotte inhaled sharply, then slid her hand through her husband’s arm.
“We shall walk,” she announced slightly louder than she ought to have. “Together.”
If he was surprised, he did not show it. He inclined his head slightly, allowing her to lead. They crossed the room in a picture of marital harmony, then stepped out into the gardens. Lanterns glowed along the gravel path, and the low murmur of conversation drifted from the terrace.
It was not privacy, but the illusion of it, and that was all society required.
They walked in silence, and she could feel the fabric of his coat brushing her bare wrist. Every nerve in her body seemed attuned to the smallest detail: the scent of him, which was an amalgamation of sandalwood and smoke, the warmth that radiated through the layers between them, and the quiet power coiled in his stillness.
When she could bear it no longer, she stopped abruptly.
“They are watching us,” she said. “All of them. Every whisper, every look… I can feel it.”
The Duke’s gaze flicked toward the terrace where several figures lingered, feigning disinterest. “Let them watch,” he replied with a shrug. “They will tire soon enough.”
Her hand tightened on his arm. “No. They will not tire. They will speculate. They will say I am unhappy, or that you regret your choice. They will speak of pity and disappointment and all manner of things that are none of their concern, and I will not have it.”
Something fierce glinted in his eyes. “And what would you have me do, Your Grace?”
She turned to face him fully, barely able to form the words that sent a blaze to her cheeks. “Kiss me.”
His entire body stilled. “What?”
“Here. Now.” Her voice was tremulous with both pride and challenge. “Kiss me, and silence them all.”
A muscle palpitated in his jaw. “Charlotte…” He exhaled slowly. “You test my restraint.”
“Then let it break,” she whispered. “I can see you are still angry with me. Very well then, kiss me as if you are angry.”
His gaze darkened, and for an instant, she thought he might turn away. Instead, he stepped closer, closing the narrow space between them.
“Be careful what you ask for,” he murmured.
“I am not afraid.”
“Perhaps you should be.”
The words struck like a warning, but Charlotte did not retreat.
Her pulse thundered in her throat. She could feel the heat of him and the tension thrumming between them like a drawn bowstring.
He reached for her possessively, pulling her against him.
She gasped, her palms pressing lightly to his chest.
His hand came to the back of her neck, with his fingers threading through her hair, and he kissed her.
It was no tender gesture. It was punishment, possession, fury, and yet beneath it, something ungovernable pulsed. The world tilted. Charlotte’s breath caught as his mouth moved against hers, as though he would make her feel what he could not say.
Her hands on his chest felt the powerful rhythm of his heart. His lips softened, just barely, as if the fight drained from him for a single, impossible heartbeat. The moment undid her completely.
She tasted wine on his lips, and it filled her senses. The anger that had flared between them now twisted, becoming something else. It was confusion and longing and all the things she had forbidden herself to want.
When he tore himself back, the air between them was simmering, and yet, his hand was still at her waist, as if he could not quite bring himself to let her go.
“There,” he said, his voice rougher than she had ever heard it. “Satisfied?”
Charlotte’s lips parted. Her composure was in ruins. She wanted to slap him. Worse even, she wanted to kiss him again.
She smoothed her gown and forced a bout of air into her lungs. “That will do, Your Grace.”
Composing herself with the icy precision that had become her shield, Charlotte turned toward the terrace. “We have been absent quite long enough,” she murmured, not looking back.
He fell into step beside her.
As they entered the garden’s edge, conversation faltered. Heads turned and fans fluttered, as they always did after a show. Laughter resumed a heartbeat too late, for it was the polite murmur of people who had just witnessed something they would spend the next week discussing over tea.
Charlotte’s pulse thrummed in her ears. She could feel the eyes upon them still, but her expression was serene, as her arm looped neatly through her husband’s. For now, she was the very picture of tranquil satisfaction.
They crossed the threshold together, their steps in tune. The crowd parted for them, murmuring admiration, curiosity, and, unavoidably, envy.
The rest of the evening passed as if behind glass: polished, suffocating, and distant. Charlotte continued to play her part beautifully. She was the devoted wife, the loving sister, and the affectionate aunt, and not a soul would have guessed the chaos that simmered beneath the surface.
When the hour grew late, the Duke murmured that it was time to depart.
This time, Charlotte was grateful for the excuse.
Together, they made their rounds, offering thanks, best wishes, and practiced smiles.
Nicholas clasped the Duke’s hand with brotherly warmth, while Lydia embraced Charlotte tightly.
Lydia leaned close enough for her breath to brush Charlotte’s ear. “If you ever need me, you know where I am.”
Charlotte drew back with a smile. “Everything is in perfect order.”
Lydia’s eyes lingered on her, but she said nothing more.
Moments later, Charlotte and the Duke stepped out into the night.
The carriage awaited at the foot of the steps.
While a footman opened the door, her husband offered his hand.
His touch was brief and formal, but the contact sent a flicker of heat through her nonetheless, becoming a ghost of what had passed in the gardens.
Once the door closed and the carriage lurched forward, silence settled between them. Charlotte folded her hands in her lap. She could feel the tremor in them, faint but humiliatingly real.
At last, she drew a breath. “Your Grace… I owe you an apology.”
He did not turn his head. “For what offense, precisely?”
“For disobeying you,” she clarified, struggling to give voice to her thoughts. “For entering the west wing. I had no right.”
She felt as though the words didn’t have enough weight for the amount of regret she wanted to convey. She was truly sorry, and she wanted him to know it.
He drew in a slow breath, with his gaze still fixed on the dark window. “No, you did not.”
“I did not mean to wound you,” she continued, her throat tightening. “Only to understand—”
“Understand what cannot be undone?” His words cut through the air. “Curiosity may be natural, Charlotte, but it is a poor excuse to cross a boundary so clearly drawn.”
A pause filled the air between them, long and taut.
“To understand you,” she said at last, her voice soft. “And your pain.”
He did not respond for some time, and she saw him swallow several times.
“I believe you are sorry,” he said at last. “But understanding does not make your trespass itself vanish.”
Charlotte looked down at her hands. “Then you cannot forgive me.”
That was when he turned toward her, and the lamplight caught the faint silver at his temples. His expression was inscrutable, but his storm-lit eyes betrayed something almost human beneath the frost.
“I am trying to,” he said quietly. “I want to forgive you. But wanting does make the past vanish. It is… hard.”
It was not gentleness, not yet. It was effort. The strain of a man forcing civility against the pull of older wounds.
“Then I am grateful,” she whispered.
He inclined his head, and some of the frost eased from his eyes. “Just know this, Charlotte. I do not wish to command you like a jailer, nor do I enjoy raising walls between us. But those secrets I guard… I keep them locked away because they are very difficult for me to remember.”
What was this? An attempt at an apology? “I understand,” she murmured.
“Do you?” he asked almost wearily. “I truly hope so. Because I would rather build a life with you than on opposite sides of locked doors.”
The silence that followed was thick, but not empty. It pulsed with the memory of what had passed between them, that furious, breathless kiss neither could forget.
Cassian turned back to the window, while Charlotte faced forward. He was trying. She could see it now, in the restraint of his tone, and also in the measured distance he fought to keep.
But forgiveness, she knew, would not come easily.
Charlotte inhaled deeply, but it brought no relief. She would endure this, as she had endured everything. Yet deep within, under the hurt and pride, she could not banish the memory of his mouth on hers, and the suspicion that his anger was not the only fire still burning.