Chapter Twelve
Cassian had no idea how they had found themselves back in the garden, but this time, it was the middle of the night, and there was no one around.
Charlotte had her warm, trembling body pressed against his, and he already had a fistful of her luscious locks between his fingers. Her pert nipples pressed against him through the thin layer of her nightrail. Her lips were slightly swollen as she bestowed a coquettish glance upon him.
Had they been kissing? He had no idea.
Her hand slid down to his trousers, gripping his manhood.
“Charlotte, what—”
“Shhh,” she whispered, lowering herself onto her knees.
She was fumbling with his belt, then the buttons. She couldn’t possibly intend to…
He couldn’t stop himself. None of this was proper, yet every instinct urged him to keep her close and never let go.
Then, her lips gently encircled the tip of his manhood. The touch was soft as her tongue swirled over him. The act obliterated his very ability to think. The world had dispersed into nothingness, leaving only the sight of her luscious lips closed around his manhood.
All his restraint dissolved. The animal inside had completely taken over, yet he knew he couldn’t push her.
He was ravenous for her, but he had to be patient.
All he could do was watch her take him into her mouth deeper and deeper, playing with him.
She moved slowly, teasing him, and the sight of him sliding in and out of her mouth almost made him finish right then and there.
When he opened his eyes and realized that he was in his bed, the remnants of his dream were so vivid that his pulse was unsteady.
For one disoriented moment, he could still feel her.
Her scent was still on his fingers, something faintly floral.
The whisper of her breath against his manhood still lingered, which now throbbed painfully, aching for release.
In the dream, she had looked at him not with defiance, but with need.
He had touched her as he’d sworn he never would touch another woman again: without caution, without distance, without reason.
He cursed loudly and sat up, dragging a hand through his hair. Cold air seeped through the crack in the shutters, mercifully sharp against his skin.
It was intolerable, this loss of control, this hunger that gnawed at him like a fever. He had built his life upon mastery of self. And yet one kiss, one reckless, infuriating kiss, had undone him.
He threw back the coverlet and rose, feeling the chill of the stone floor biting through to his very bones. He welcomed the discomfort. It was a reminder of who he was: a man governed by reason, not by weakness.
And she was his weakness.
She, with her stubborn pride and sharp tongue. She, who had disobeyed him, pried into the most sacred corner of his grief, and then stood before him unflinching.
He ought to despise her for it. So why did his body remember her as if she were burned into his very skin?
Cassian exhaled harshly and crossed to the washstand.
He poured water into the basin, plunged his hands into it, and splashed his face until the cold drove the last of the dream away.
His reflection stared back at him in the glass, until the same controlled, austere features society had come to expect of the Duke of Duskbourne had returned.
No one would guess how easily he had been undone by his wife.
“Fool,” he muttered under his breath.
He rang for his valet, who began to dress him. The familiar routine steadied him: linen shirt, waistcoat, coat, cravat tied with precision. By the time his valet fastened his cufflinks, his expression had settled once more into the cool indifference that served him as armour.
There was work to be done today… real work. The south fields required inspection after last night’s rain, the stables needed review before the next shipment of horses to London, and Harrow awaited word on the tenant reforms before he could finalize the ledgers.
He would concern himself with that. He would focus on order, on progress, on the tangible world of duty. Certainly not on the woman who haunted his sleep.
By the time he reached the stables, the sun was a pale smear above the horizon.
The stable hands straightened at his approach, offering bows and brisk greetings.
Cassian returned them with curt nods, but he was already concentrating on the condition of the horses, the new feed supply, and the drainage near the paddock.
Business. Work. Order.
And yet, beneath it all, that same traitorous thought returned: how soft her mouth had been when she’d demanded he kiss her.
He pressed his lips together until the memory dulled.
Just as he had finished speaking with the head groom, he caught a flicker of movement at the edge of the courtyard.
He recognized her immediately. She stood a few paces away, as morning light haloed her hair, turning it to gold.
For a moment, Cassian could only look at her, struck by the incongruity of it: this delicate, graceful creature standing amid the scent of hay and damp earth.
“Your Grace,” he greeted her first. “You are up early.”
She hesitated before stepping closer. “I might say the same of you, Your Grace.”
“I make a habit of beginning the day with my duties.”
Her lips curved faintly. “Yes. So I have observed.”
There was something in her voice, not mocking, but gentle and almost companionable. It unsettled him more than defiance would have.
“I wondered,” she began carefully, “if I might accompany you on your walk through the grounds this morning. If it is not an intrusion, of course.”
His first instinct was to refuse. That was the only way to keep their fragile peace untested by proximity. Also, the memory of his dream still lingered, uncomfortably vivid. But the hope in her eyes gave him pause.
“It is unorthodox,” he said after a moment, “but not impossible.”
“Then you consent?”
He hesitated, then nodded once. “If you wish it.”
Her endearingly hesitant smile felt like sunlight breaking through fog. She fell into step beside him as he turned toward the path leading down toward the lower fields.
The morning air was cool and damp, and the grass was still heavy with dew. The faint cries of distant birds drifted from the moors. For a time, they simply walked in silence, nothing else. He kept his hands clasped behind his back, while she seemed to walk more lightly.
It was she who broke the silence first.
“The roses near the east wall are struggling,” she pointed out. “I asked Mrs. Allen about them yesterday. She suspects the soil is too dry.”
Cassian glanced at her briefly, surprised that she would notice something like that. “The gardener should attend to it. I will see that he does.”
She nodded, looking faintly pleased. “Thank you. They were your late wife’s, were they not?”
His step faltered. “Yes.”
“I thought so,” she murmured. “They are lovely. I should like to see them thrive again.”
She spoke gently, without pity, and it disarmed him. He inclined his head slightly. “Then they shall.”
Another pause followed. Birds wheeled above them, and the wind stirred her shawl.
“You know, I used to help my brother with the tenants’ accounts when our father died,” she said after a while, as though speaking more to the air than to him.
“At first, I thought it dreadfully dull, all those columns and figures. But there was something strangely… satisfying in seeing order restored where there had been chaos.”
Cassian’s mouth curved faintly. “That actually sounds like me.”
She glanced at him then, and for the first time in days, he did not look away. Her eyes were bluer and more bright than the sky that morning.
“Perhaps that is why we quarrel,” she said as if pondering life’s most important questions. “Two stubborn souls, both determined to be right.”
He exhaled into a sound that was almost a laugh, though subdued. “That is not an impossible assessment.”
They walked on. The tension that had hung between them like an invisible wire began to loosen. Her voice found a natural rhythm of small observations and small confidences.
“I used to think charity was something one did to soothe one’s conscience,” she admitted.
“A kind of genteel performance. I suppose it was that way for me in the beginning. But when I began visiting the poorhouses regularly, when I started learning their names, their stories…” She paused, frowning slightly.
“It ceased to feel like duty and became something else entirely. I cannot explain it, only that it feels more honest than most of what passes for virtue in society.”
Cassian regarded her in profile, the faint crease between her brows when she grew thoughtful. “And yet,” he said, “there are those who scorn you for it.”
Her mouth twitched. He wished for a smile, but it was just weary acknowledgement. “Yes. There are whispers, of course. That I hide behind good works because I was too proud to wed when I had the chance. That my health failed. That I am half-mad, or penitent, or something equally romantic.”
He arched an inquisitive brow. “Half-mad?”
Her eyes sparkled briefly. “Entirely uninteresting, I fear. I merely discovered that solitude can be… less lonely than false company.”
It was the quiet recognition of a truth he knew too well. He found himself answering softly. “I understand that better than you might think.”
Cassian suddenly turned from the valley, motioning toward a narrow path that curved behind the stables. “Come,” he urged. “There is something I should like to show you.”
She followed to a small clearing, bordered by ancient oaks. The ground was uneven, dotted with wildflowers and half-toppled stones. Near the centre stood the remnants of an old stone wall, its purpose now long forgotten.
“This,” he said quietly, “was my kingdom once.”
Charlotte turned to him, appearing puzzled. “Your kingdom?”