Chapter Seventeen
The morning found Cassian in his office at the manufactory, a space far removed from the austere quiet of Duskbourne Hall. The low hum of conversation from the adjoining rooms and the faint hiss of steam and machinery beyond the walls were the sort of activity that steadied him.
Here, things were measurable: numbers, contracts, yields, and profits. There was no emotion and no Charlotte.
Gideon entered without knocking, as usual.
“Well, Duskbourne,” he drawled, tossing his gloves onto a chair, “I must say, marriage appears to suit you. There’s a distinct improvement in your temper. You’ve gone an entire month without threatening to throttle a member of Parliament.”
Cassian looked up from the ledger before him. “An oversight I intend to correct before the quarter’s end.”
Gideon laughed, settling into the chair opposite.
“You may posture all you like, but you’ve that unmistakable look of a man recently domestic.
Polished boots, no missed appointments, and,” his gaze sharpened slightly, amused, “a certain distracted air that can only mean your duchess is occupying more of your mind than you’ll admit. ”
Cassian’s quill stilled, though his tone remained even. “I am occupied, Harrow, with business, not sentiment.”
“If you say so,” Gideon murmured, clearly unconvinced. “Though between us, I’d wager your wife is far more interesting than balance sheets.”
Cassian gave him a level look. “Balance sheets, at least, do not argue.”
Gideon laughed outright. “Ah, so the domestic calm is not so calm after all.”
Cassian ignored him, closing the ledger and setting it aside. “We’ll discuss your delight in my private affairs another time. I expect Hawthorne shortly. We have matters to resolve before the week is out.”
At the mention of Charlotte’s brother, Gideon’s grin faded into a look of mild wariness. “The Duke of Hawthorne. Sensible fellow, though I can’t imagine he finds you an easy ally.”
“Nor I him,” Cassian said dryly. “But we share an interest in keeping the textile venture solvent. It will do.”
A knock at the door interrupted them. The clerk ushered Nicholas Montclair inside. He had the wary air of a man who distrusted most people by principle and Cassian Oberon by habit.
“Hawthorne,” Cassian greeted.
“Duskbourne,” Nicholas replied, bowing slightly before taking a seat. His gaze swept the office. “Mr. Harrow.”
“Your Grace,” Gideon said amiably. “Good of you to join our humble conclave of ambition.”
Nicholas gave him a look that managed to convey both civility and mild disdain. “I hear we are to discuss expansion.”
“Indeed.” Cassian inclined his head toward the map spread across the table.
“Local production has stabilized. The Grantham mills are operating at full capacity, and your wife’s venture has drawn respectable profit.
The question before us is whether we mean to remain provincial or become something larger. ”
Nicholas’s expression sharpened. “Lydia is cautious about overextending too soon.”
“As she should be,” Cassian agreed. “But I have cousins in the Low Countries, Rotterdam and Antwerp, and they handle trade in linen and wool. They have connections among the merchants there. If we wish to export our textiles, it would be prudent to use a channel we can trust.”
Gideon leaned forward. “An excellent notion. There’s demand abroad for English fabrics, especially when they’re of quality. With your family’s connections, Duskbourne, we could secure distribution before anyone else catches wind of it.”
Nicholas regarded him steadily. “Trade abroad is no small risk. I’d prefer assurances that your cousins’ interests do not conflict with ours.”
Cassian’s tone cooled slightly. “My family’s reputation is not for dishonour.”
“Reputation,” Nicholas returned evenly, “is not the same as proof.”
The room stilled. Gideon, ever the peacemaker, interjected smoothly.
“Gentlemen, let us assume everyone here values both profit and family honour. The figures speak for themselves. If managed properly, this venture could double the current yield within the year.”
Cassian exhaled slowly, mastering his irritation. “My proposal is simple. We send a test shipment, small, contained, through a single partner. If it succeeds, we expand. If not, we withdraw.”
Nicholas considered this, then nodded once. “A cautious approach. Very well.”
They continued to speak of tariffs and shipment routes, their dialogue as dry as the parchment before them. Gideon, with his usual charm, steered the conversation when it risked dissolving into silence, but it was clear that Hawthorne had come less to negotiate than to assess.
And somewhere amid talk of duties and export permits, the mood began to shift. Cassian mentioned the terrain surrounding one of his mills, namely the difficulty of carting goods across rough ground, and how he’d thought to clear a small portion of the land for a smoother route.
Nicholas looked up, interest flickering across his usually impassive face. “The western lands? I’ve ridden it. Excellent ground for game once the season begins. Have you considered letting some of it?”
Cassian’s mouth curved faintly. “I have. Though the last tenant left the area in disrepair. I’ve been overseeing the restoration myself.”
“A duke, overseeing fieldwork,” Nicholas said with a hint of wry amusement. “That must astonish your peers in London.”
“I find astonishment an excellent deterrent against interference,” Cassian replied.
To his mild surprise, Nicholas laughed.
From there, the conversation lightened. They spoke of acreage, soil composition, even of horses.
They talked of Cassian’s stallion from his northern stud and Nicholas’s prized hunter bred from the same lineage.
Their shared appreciation for precision in figures, in breeding, and in planning revealed itself gradually, like two players discovering they favoured the same strategy on opposite sides of a chessboard.
By the time they reached an agreement on the terms of export, the air between them had eased noticeably.
“Well,” Nicholas said, closing the ledger, “I must admit, Duskbourne, you are not so impossible as I’d imagined.”
“I shall endeavour to maintain the illusion,” Cassian replied, allowing the faintest glint of humour to show.
Even Gideon looked mildly astonished. “I never thought I’d live to see the day you two spoke without needing a referee.”
Nicholas gave a small smile, rising from his chair. “My sister’s influence, perhaps.”
At that, Cassian’s expression sobered. He stood as well, with his hands resting lightly on the table. “Hawthorne…” He hesitated, then said more quietly, “May I speak plainly?”
Nicholas inclined his head. “Of course.”
“I know you have reason to… question me,” Cassian began, feeling strangely nervous. “And I would not fault you for it. But I want you to know that I will not harm your sister. You have my word.”
Nicholas regarded him in silence for a long moment. His eyes, so like Charlotte’s, were steady and searching.
“I believe you,” he said finally. “You strike me as a man who does not make vows lightly.”
“I do not.”
Nicholas nodded once, looking satisfied. “Then we shall get along well enough.”
They shook hands in a brief, firm clasp, the kind that did not seal friendship yet, but perhaps the beginning of respect.
When Nicholas and Gideon had departed, Cassian remained by the window, looking out across the yard where carriages waited in neat rows. The sunlight gleamed off their polished sides, dazzling and cold.
He had meant what he said. He would never hurt Charlotte. Of that, he was certain. But he had promised not to wound her body, and what of her heart?
He had never learned how to love without breaking something. And as much as he tried to deny it, he feared that if he ever let himself love her fully, it would destroy them both.
***
Cassian returned to Duskbourne that afternoon with the distinct satisfaction of a man who had survived both negotiation and diplomacy without throttling anyone. It was, he reflected, no small victory.
He handed his gloves to the butler and was just loosening his cravat when he heard quick, familiar footsteps in the corridor.
Charlotte appeared, bright-eyed and breathless, with a folded letter in hand. “You look remarkably intact for a man who has spent the day in meetings.”
He arched a brow. “You sound disappointed.”
“Not disappointed,” she said with a teasing tilt of her head. “Only surprised. Nicholas has been known to leave men pale and trembling.”
“He restrained himself,” Cassian replied dryly. “Though I suspect your brother measures civility by the teaspoon.”
Her lips curved. “Then you must have impressed him.”
He paused, studying her expression, because he noticed the mischief there, the spark he both admired and dreaded. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Good, because it was one,” she said, stepping closer and holding out the letter. “We’ve received an invitation to the Cavendish Charity Ball.”
Cassian took the envelope, skimming through it briefly. “I see. The usual parade of vanity and artifice.”
“Also known as the pinnacle of the Season,” she reminded him. “Half of London will be there. It’s rather an honour, you know.”
“I was unaware we sought honours,” he murmured.
“You may not be, Your Grace,” she replied playfully, “but your duchess is growing rather weary of being thought a recluse.”
He glanced up sharply at that, but she smiled innocently. “We must attend, of course. Appearances, as you so often remind me, must be preserved.”
“Indeed,” he said, returning the letter to her. “We shall attend. You will have your moment of spectacle.”
“Splendid.” She slipped the invitation into her pocket, then looked up at him with a glint of daring. “Though I must warn you… You’ll need to dance.”
He gave her a flat look. “I do not dance.”
“You can’t dance, you mean?”
“I mean that I choose not to,” he said evenly.
“Because you dislike being touched?” she asked, her tone deceptively light.
The question hit its mark. Cassian’s jaw tightened. “Because I dislike meaningless displays.”
“Then perhaps you should give it meaning,” she murmured.
He blinked, taken aback by her audacity. Charlotte, seeming to sense her advantage, smiled. Then, she took a step closer.
“Besides,” she continued, sounding seductive, “I should like to see whether your legendary composure holds when you’re surrounded by people and music and the eyes of everyone watching.”
He stared down at her, feeling his every muscle taut. “You enjoy provoking me.”
“A little,” she admitted, and her lovely lips looked more kissable than ever as she smiled at him. “It seems to be the only way to make you feel alive.”
He exhaled a short, dangerous laugh. “And what precisely do you imagine you’ll achieve by teasing me in the middle of the corridor?”
“Perhaps nothing,” she said, her gaze dangerously steady on his. “Perhaps everything.”
She was even closer now. In fact, she was close enough that the faint scent of her skin tangled with his thoughts. Her fingers brushed the edge of his sleeve, an innocent touch made incendiary by circumstance.
“Charlotte…” he said softly, warningly.
“Yes, Your Grace?” she replied with a voice as sweet as honey. “Why, we are only talking, nothing else.”
He didn’t move. To be quite honest, he didn’t dare to. The hall was open and any servant could walk by, yet he found himself entirely unable to step back. His pulse thrummed in his throat.
She tilted her head, and there was a victorious smile on her lips. She knew exactly what she was doing.
Then, with graceful calm, she stepped back, smoothed her skirts, and said brightly. “Then it’s settled. We shall attend the ball.”
He blinked, as if waking from a spell. “You are incorrigible.”
“I’ve been called worse,” she said over her shoulder, glancing back once as she walked away. “Don’t be late for supper, Cassian.”
He watched her go and let out a slow breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
Damn her.
She had left him standing in his own corridor, with his heart pounding like a schoolboy’s. For the first time in years, Cassian Oberon, the Duke of Duskbourne, had no idea whether he wished to strangle his wife or kiss her senseless.