Chapter Sixteen
Charlotte had tried, all morning, to read.
The book lay open on her lap, the words as indistinct as smoke. She had turned three pages and absorbed not a single line. Every thought, every breath, seemed to circle back to Cassian and the way his voice had wrapped around the verses he read, until the air itself seemed to tremble.
It had been three days since that moment, yet the memory lingered with unsettling vividness. She pressed a hand to her breast as if to quiet her heartbeat. How foolish she was, how hopelessly eager to give herself to him.
At night, the thought of him would not leave her.
The memory of his nearness, the warmth that had spread through her as he pleasured her…
it haunted her like a fever. She would lie awake long after the lamps were extinguished, caught between shame and longing, between what she had been taught to feel and what her body insisted upon remembering.
It was unbearable, and yet she could not wish it away.
At last, she shut the book and rose. The air in her room felt stifling. She needed movement and fresh air, something to quiet the restless tide within her.
Her maid, Miriam, looked up as she reached for her cloak. “Your Grace? Shall I fetch the carriage?”
“No,” Charlotte said quickly. “It is only a short errand. I wish to walk.”
“But the weather—”
“It will hold.”
She forced a smile, though her heart was pounding with a strange, reckless energy. For the first time since her marriage, she felt an almost desperate need to step outside her as the Duchess of Duskbourne, as the woman trapped between pride and desire, and simply be herself.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but the Duke would not like you to go alone. He’d have my position for it.”
Charlotte gave a soft, indulgent laugh, stepping closer. “My dear Miriam, do you imagine I’m about to elope in the middle of the morning?”
Miriam’s eyes widened. “No, of course not—”
“Then you’ve nothing to fear.” Charlotte smiled, gently brushing the girl’s sleeve. “It’s only to Lydia’s shop, you know it. I’ve been there a hundred times.”
“But His Grace—”
“Will never know,” Charlotte interrupted softly. “Unless you mean to tell him?”
Miriam blinked, flustered. “I’d never, Your Grace.”
“Then there’s no harm done.” Charlotte took up her gloves and leaned in just a touch, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “Besides, you’d only catch cold standing about while I speak with Lydia about muslin and stitching. Imagine the boredom.”
Miriam’s stern expression faltered, while her mouth twitched in reluctant amusement. “You’re very persuasive, Your Grace.”
“I try,” Charlotte said sweetly. “And I shall return before luncheon. If anyone asks, I am resting with a book and wish not to be disturbed.”
Miriam sighed in defeat. “Very well. But if anyone should notice—”
“They won’t.” Charlotte drew up her hood and smiled radiantly. “You have my word.”
The air outside was brisk and alive. Each step along the gravel path felt like an unspoken rebellion, her pulse quickening with every turn of the road away from Duskbourne. For once, she was neither duchess nor wife, only herself.
For a time, she allowed herself to breathe and to relish the quiet. But after a few streets, a strange awareness crept upon her. She could feel a presence behind her and hear the faint rhythm of another’s footsteps matching her own.
She slowed. The sound slowed, too.
A chill pricked at the back of her neck. She turned, expecting to see some villager, perhaps a boy running errands, but the street was nearly empty. Only a cart creaked in the distance, and a thin mist lingered above the rooftops.
She told herself she was being foolish and continued on.
Yet no sooner had she turned the next corner than a figure stepped suddenly into her path.
“Charlotte.”
She was startled by her name being spoken so softly, almost reverently. It made her freeze, all the more so when she realized to whom the voice belonged.
Edmund Larke looked very much as she remembered him, though now he appeared thinner and paler. His eyes shone with that same self-satisfied light that once might have seemed so poetic, but which now struck her as feverish.
He removed his hat with a flourish. “I can scarcely believe it. To see you, truly see you, after all this time.”
Charlotte’s heart lurched, but she drew herself up. “Mr. Larke. You should not be here.”
“I had to be,” he said fervently. “When I learned who you’d become… I thought my heart would break. But fate has given me this moment. Surely you feel it too?”
“I feel only astonishment at your audacity,” she said sharply. “I heard what you told your friends about me, all those horrible words about my emotions for you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You… were there?”
“I was,” she said, evidently catching him off guard. “And now, you presume to address me after what you did?”
“Charlotte, please.” He took a step forward, but his expression of wounded pride was too theatrical. “You must believe me, my intentions were never as base as you think. I was desperate, misled, undone by circumstance—”
“You were deceitful,” she interrupted him. “You courted me for my fortune and spoke of love as if it were currency. Whatever desperation you claim, it does not excuse deceit.”
Edmund’s face twitched. His charm was already faltering. “You misunderstand. I loved you then, and I love you still. Surely you cannot have forgotten what we shared… those letters, those words—”
“Words,” she said bitterly. “That was all you ever had. And now, even they ring hollow.”
He reached for her hand suddenly. “Charlotte, I beg you—”
She recoiled. “Do not touch me.”
“Only listen,” he implored, grasping her wrist before she could step back. “I know I wronged you, but I can make it right. Leave him, that cold, joyless man, and come with me. You were never meant to live behind stone walls and formality—”
“Release me at once.” Her voice rose, clear and cutting.
Before Edmund could reply, another voice came from behind them.
“Unhand her.”
Edmund froze. Charlotte turned, and her breath caught. Cassian stood a few paces away, his expression thunderous. His dark coat and gloves were immaculate, and his stance composed, but despite all that, the fury in his eyes was unmistakable.
“Who are you?” Cassian demanded. “And why do you presume to lay hands upon my wife?”
“Your Grace,” Edmund stammered, releasing her wrist at once. “This is a misunderstanding… I merely wished to—”
“I asked you a question,” Cassian snarled.
Edmund faltered under the weight of his gaze. “I—I meant no harm. An old acquaintance, nothing more.”
“Acquaintance?” Cassian’s eyes flicked briefly to Charlotte, then back to Edmund. “You will leave this place now, Mr.—?”
“Larke. Edmund Larke, sir.”
Cassian’s mouth tightened. “Then leave, Mr. Larke, before I make certain your name is not spoken in any respectable drawing room in London ever again.”
The colour drained from Edmund’s face. He bowed stiffly, muttered something that might have been an apology, and retreated down the street with his back hunched.
That was when Charlotte’s composure faltered. The shock of Edmund’s sudden appearance and the memory of his hand on her wrist hit her all at once. Her breath caught, sharp and uneven.
Cassian noticed immediately. Without a word, he hurried toward her, and before she could protest, he drew her into his arms.
It was not a gentle embrace, nor a hesitant one.
It was firm, steady, a containment of trembling energy.
She stiffened for a heartbeat, startled by the suddenness of it, then let herself sink into the strength of him.
His coat was cold from the wind, but beneath it she could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
“Charlotte,” he said quietly, his breath brushing against her hair. “You’re safe now.”
She closed her eyes.
For a moment, she could only stand there, listening to that low voice that carried authority and something dangerously close to tenderness. His arm tightened, and the rest of the world seemed to fall away.
“I am sorry,” she whispered. “He startled me.”
Cassian’s jaw tightened. “You need not apologize for another man’s impropriety.”
She drew back enough to look at him, to drink in the sight of him. “You frightened him away.”
“Good,” he said curtly. “I only wish I had arrived sooner.”
His hand lingered at the small of her back, steadying her. “You are safe,” he said again. “You do not need to worry when I am here.”
Something in his tone made her chest tighten. It was more than reassurance. It was a promise. It was possession, and perhaps even confession, all at once.
When she had steadied herself, he offered his arm again. “Come,” he said. “We’re going home.”
She nodded, too tired to argue. The walk back passed in silence, though the warmth of his hand at her elbow seemed to burn through her cloak.
***
At Duskbourne, the butler opened the door before they reached it. Cassian said nothing. He merely guided Charlotte through the hall and toward his study. When the door closed behind them, the quiet was almost deafening.
Cassian turned to face her. “Sit, please.”
She obeyed, though she sensed what was coming.
He paced once before the hearth, then faced her. “I will ask you this only once, Charlotte. Why were you walking in the village without a chaperone?”
“I needed air,” she replied.
“Duskbourne has gardens enough for that.”
“I wanted to see Lydia.”
“Then you should have taken Miriam with you. Or the carriage. Or both.”
Her spine straightened. “Must every step I take be watched and accounted for?”
“When you are my wife,” he said sharply, “your safety is my concern.”
“I was hardly in danger until you made it sound so.”
“You were in danger!” he countered. “That man followed you. He could have—” He broke off, the rest lost in his clenched jaw. “Do you have any notion what might have happened had I not arrived?”
“I do,” she said quietly. “I handled him before you came. I am not helpless, Cassian. You cannot keep me shut away in this house like one of your ledgers and have me ordered, accounted for, and perfectly contained.”
His eyes narrowed, that muscle in his jaw ticking again. “You mistake protection for confinement.”
“And you mistake control for care,” she shot back.
He stared her down, inhaling through his teeth. He looked like he was about to shout or run away, or both at the same time. But he did neither.
Instead, he strode over to her in a single second and gripped her by the waist with both hands. Before she had any idea what was happening, she was seated on his writing table, with him kneeling before her and her gown already pooled around her waist.
She knew that she shouldn’t have given in with such ease. But how could she say anything when she knew what was coming?
Her irritation with him was kissed away by his lips as if it were never there.
His tongue was licking her most intimate flesh all over again, just like the last time, and all she could do was give in.
Just a few languid licks were enough for her to sell her soul to this man.
And she would have done it gladly all over again.
“Oh…” she moaned, closing her eyes, once again gripping his hair to keep him in place, as if he might change his mind and leave.
She could feel his tongue stretching her, delving deeper, and she knew she was close. He had brought her to the edge even faster than last time.
And just as she was about to explode into nothingness, he suddenly pulled away.
She gasped silently, watching him with her eyes wide open. She expected him to continue, to go back down to his knees, but he simply grinned at her and pulled away, leaving her raw and exposed.
“What…” she started, but she couldn’t finish the thought when her entire body yearned for the release that had been stolen from her.
“No,” he said, shaking his head as well as his index finger at her. “You were a naughty girl. And naughty girls don’t get what they want.”
Without waiting for her to say anything, he paraded toward the door and closed it behind him, leaving her hot, bothered, and utterly mad with both rage and desire.