Chapter Fifteen
The letter arrived on a Wednesday morning, borne upon the usual tray of correspondence and estate accounts.
Charlotte might not have noticed it at all if not for the handwriting.
It was that looping, self-assured scrawl that had once made her heart leap whenever it appeared upon an envelope, and she recognized it instantly.
Mr. Edmund Larke.
For a moment, she only stared at the name, with her teacup suspended midway to her lips. The sound of the clock ticking in the corner filled the silence. Even the maid, arranging flowers by the window, seemed suddenly too loud.
Charlotte set the cup down with care. Her first impulse was to tear the letter in half, unread. But that old, dangerous weakness aptly named curiosity stilled her hand.
The seal was a deep green, pressed clumsily. It was not the colour he used before. He must have run out of his usual wax. It struck her as fitting somehow: theatrical, but careless.
Breaking it, she unfolded the paper.
My dearest Charlotte,
I cannot pretend to forget you. Not a day has passed since our cruel parting that your image has not haunted my mind.
You were, and still are, the light of my life, the only woman who ever truly understood me.
I have heard of your marriage to the Duke of Duskbourne (though I cannot bring myself to write his name without bitterness).
Surely such a cold alliance cannot content a heart like yours.
Say the word, and I will come for you. We can still be free, you and I.
Ever yours, in life and in longing,
Edmund Larke
Charlotte’s first reaction was not anger, nor sorrow, but rather astonishment at the sheer audacity.
He had discovered her husband’s name and her address.
He had written to Duskbourne Hall, as if she and he were still partners in some foolish romance rather than strangers joined only by a shared humiliation.
She folded the letter neatly, pressing her thumb along the crease. Once, such words would have undone her. Once, she would have read them through tears, believing every extravagant phrase, every promise of devotion. But now, they seemed pitifully hollow.
The handwriting that once thrilled her looked overwrought. The endearments that had once felt like poetry now struck her as cheap imitation. Even the memory of his voice stirred only faint disgust.
She had thought herself ruined by him, condemned to live forever in the shadow of her own foolishness.
Yet as she sat there, sunlight slanting across the page, Charlotte realized she felt nothing.
Not even the faintest flicker of that old ache.
Whatever flame had once burned for Edmund Larke had long ago gone out.
Charlotte set the letter aside on the table, laying it neatly upon the tray with the morning’s correspondence. She told herself she would dispose of it later, perhaps after tea, when the servants were busy elsewhere and no one might see. For now, she wished only to forget it existed.
She had just turned toward the window when the door opened.
Cassian entered, greeting her politely.
“Good morning,” she returned, schooling her tone to calm.
He moved to the sideboard, glancing over the tray of letters with his usual habitual precision. “Has the post arrived?”
“Yes, but nothing of importance.”
He reached for the uppermost envelope before she could stop him.
The sight of Cassian’s hand on that green seal sent her heart lurching.
“Cassian—”
But it was too late. His gaze had already fallen on the name scrawled across the front. His expression changed, and there was the faintest flicker of disbelief that hardened, almost instantly, into something far sharper.
He opened it quickly and read it.
Charlotte felt her stomach twist. “That letter was not meant—”
“For me?” he finished coldly, still reading. “No, I should think not.”
When he looked up, his eyes were dark with a kind of controlled fury.
“Edmund Larke,” he said, each syllable like a stone. “Some sort of a wishful poet?”
“He is nothing to me,” Charlotte said quickly. “He wrote without my invitation. I only meant to—”
“Burn it?” Cassian’s mouth curved in a humourless smile. “A noble thought, though you seem to have delayed in carrying it out.”
Her cheeks flushed. “I had every intention of doing so.”
He set the letter down sharply. “You should not have read a word of it, once you have seen where it was headed.”
“I did,” she said, more steadily now. “And I found it absurd.”
He gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “Absurd? The man declares undying devotion to my wife, even promises to whisk you away like some sentimental highwayman, and you call it absurd?”
“Because it is!” she retorted, feeling her temper rising. “We used to exchange silly letters a while back, and I thought… well, I thought him something he was not. I no longer care for him, and he is a fool for imagining I ever could again.”
Cassian stared at her. She could see anger in his eyes. “You once did,” he reminded her.
She drew herself up. “Once. I was na?ve. But I have learned.”
He seemed to search her face for the truth, then looked down again at the letter. As he did, a small, folded slip of paper slid from within.
He caught it before it fell to the floor and unfolded it with an impatient hand.
“Ah,” he said flatly. “He also included a poem. How fitting.”
Before she could stop him, he began to read aloud, and his tone was edged with mockery.
“The rose doth blush, ashamed beside thy cheek,
The moon grows faint, its silver seeming weak,
The stars themselves conspire to dim their flame,
For none may shine beside thy sainted name.
Had I but wings, I’d fly from shame and scorn,
To lay my life before thee, love forlorn,
To steal thee, my heart’s last, reckless plea,
And bind our fates through love’s eternity.”
He broke off with a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a scoff. “Good God. I should think even his rhymes are false.”
Charlotte, despite herself, felt the corner of her mouth twitch. “It is dreadful,” she admitted, “though the rhythm is pleasant.”
“The rhythm?” Cassian repeated in disbelief. “My dear, the man cannot manage a proper meter if his livelihood depended upon it, which, in fact, it does.”
“Still,” she said lightly, “it is not wholly without charm.”
“Charm?” He looked at her as though she had insulted the entire canon of English verse. “There are actual good poems in existence, Charlotte. This is drivel.”
Cassian held the sheet at arm’s length as though it offended him.
“Roses, moons, and stars,” he snarled at the poem. “A parade of sentiment without a single thought behind it. How does he imagine himself a poet?”
Charlotte’s lips twitched despite the tension between them. “You are very severe, Your Grace.”
“I am honest,” he replied. “If the man had read anything finer than a valentine in his life, he would not abuse the language so.”
“Perhaps he meant to please the heart, not the intellect.”
Cassian turned toward her, with one brow raised. “A poem that does neither is fit only for the fire.”
She laughed softly, shaking her head. “You are impossible. You despise every feeling that cannot be measured.”
“On the contrary,” he said quietly, “I despise only the counterfeit of feeling.”
Something in his tone made her breath catch. He regarded her a moment longer, then crossed to the bookcase.
“Here,” he said, taking down a worn volume bound in dark green leather. “If you will suffer a true poem, you may hear what beauty sounds like when it does not lie.”
He opened the book with the ease of habit, finding the page at once. His voice, when he began, was low but resonant, the words carrying an old gravity.
“Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds,
Nor bends with the remover to remove,
O no! It is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken.”
Charlotte stilled, and the air itself seemed to thrum. He went on, the cadence steady, his voice deepening as though the poem itself passed through him.
“Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come,
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.”
When he finished, she couldn’t find the words. Cassian closed the book slowly.
“That,” he said, his eyes still fixed on her, “is what words can do.”
Charlotte could hardly draw breath. She knew the sonnet, of course. But hearing it read by him made it even more beautiful. There was something in the way he looked at her, as though the poem were no longer Shakespeare’s, but his own confession spoken through borrowed lines.
“Yes,” she whispered. “It is… beautiful.”
He stepped closer, his gaze never leaving hers. “It endures because it is true.”
He was close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, pointing to the open page still in his hand.
“See there,” he murmured, “how the line carries the weight, not of sweetness, but of constancy. It holds.”
She could barely follow his meaning. His hand brushed hers as he showed her the lines, and she felt the world tilt slightly.
The pulse in her wrist quickened under his fingertips.
When she lifted her eyes, he was already looking at her not as a duke, nor a husband bound by duty, but as a man fighting something he could no longer reason away.
The air between them was so charged it seemed the poem itself breathed.
He was standing so close to her that she could feel his hot breath on her skin. But no matter how desperately she wanted him to kiss her, she knew that he wouldn’t.
Instead, he brushed his nose against hers, driving her mad. “Lie down,” he whispered.
Her eyes widened in surprise. “What?”
His hand gently pushed her back toward the chaise lounge.
“Lie down.” He repeated his command, and a million little goosebumps ran down her back.
She could barely control her breathing as her entire body trembled. Without even realizing she had done it, her body rested on the softness of the chaise lounge. Cassian then knelt in front of her.
“What do you mean to—”
“Shhh.” That was all he told her, not taking his eyes off of her.
Charlotte had no idea what to think. In fact, she couldn’t think. Not when she felt Cassian’s fingers lift the hem of her gown, revealing her bare legs. Strangely, she felt no shame. All she could feel was a sense of rightness about the moment, whatever it was to bring next.
Suddenly, heat unfurled from somewhere deep inside of her, and all she could do was watch him with his mischievous grin as he lowered a reverent kiss to her inner thigh. It was as if he had scorched her with fire, yet she didn’t move. She wanted more… so much more.
His hands gently coaxed her to open more for him, and she did. She bit her lip, wondering if he was truly going to do what she thought he would.
“Cassian,” she murmured his name through a moan. “You can’t possibly mean to—”
“Shhh,” he urged again, and his mouth pressed once more into her naked skin.
He continued trailing a line of kisses up her thigh until he found what he was looking for.
“Oh…” she moaned, louder this time, feeling as his tongue stroked over her most intimate flesh.
She looked down at his ruffle of dark hair and gripped it tightly in her hands. She had no idea where that burst of courage came from, but she followed it. She wanted to be here. She wanted to he his.
His tongue flicked over her pearl again. She hissed through her teeth, gripping at his hair more tightly. She found herself stretching her legs, pulling him closer, keeping him there, all so he could give her more.
“Mmmm…” she heard him say, and immediately after, he took her into his whole mouth.
It was a sensation unlike anything she had ever felt before. The wet warmth of his mouth enveloped her, but instead of being pleasured and satiated, she kept wanting more and more. There was never enough of his tongue, of his presence, of his touch.
His tongue continued licking her, teasing her, parting her folds, then sliding inside of her. Everything about the sight of him between her legs drove her mad, madder than she had ever been. Her hips bucked against his face, yearning for more, even as he gave her all she wanted.
She rocked against his mouth, feeling a sudden tidal wave of pleasure. Her entire body clenched, and that was when she lost control. Her fingers held him in place, his tongue having sunk deep inside of her. She moaned loudly, closing her eyes, allowing ecstasy to wash over her.
When she opened her eyes, she was still trembling. His lips were still wet, and she felt a desire to kiss him, but the need to watch him was overpowering. It was as if he might disappear if she looked away even for a single moment.
Gently, he lowered the hem of her gown, and now, save for her flushed cheeks, it was as if nothing had happened. He got up, wiping his lips with his thumb, but there was a flicker of a smile there, as he reverently placed the book back in its place.
His eyes darkened as he watched her. “Such poetry, Charlotte, is what can ruin a good man.”