Chapter Eighteen
The morning began in its usual order, following clear skies, punctual clerks, and the quiet hum of industry that always steadied Cassian’s mind.
By the time he reached his office with Gideon in tow, he had half convinced himself that the disquiet Charlotte had stirred the night before had been a fleeting distraction, easily mastered.
That illusion lasted all of ten minutes.
“Something’s wrong,” the head clerk stammered, pale beneath his powdered wig as Cassian entered.
Cassian set down his gloves. “Define wrong.”
“The shipment from Leeds, Your Grace. It hasn’t arrived. The ledger shows it dispatched three days ago, but there’s been no receipt, and the carrier reports no sign of it along the northern road.”
Cassian’s expression didn’t change, but a faint pulse ticked in his jaw. “You’ve confirmed the route? Spoke to the foreman?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Twice. No record. No crates, no bill of landing, nothing.”
“Nothing,” Cassian repeated with razor-sharp focus. “And when were you planning to inform me?”
“This morning, Your Grace. As soon as we knew it was no mere delay.”
Gideon, who had been leaning against the doorframe, straightened. “What was in the shipment?”
“Documents,” Cassian said grimly, “and finished textiles from the northern mill, samples for our overseas partners. If they’ve gone missing, every negotiation with Antwerp will collapse before it begins.”
“Could it be theft?” Gideon asked.
“Perhaps… or incompetence.” Cassian’s gaze flicked to the clerk, who swallowed hard. “Either way, it will cost us dearly. The merchants will not wait. They will find another supplier by week’s end.”
He crossed to his desk, listening to the sound of papers rustling as he searched through the correspondence. There was no letter, no receipt, no explanation. Each missing piece of information was like a blow against his composure.
Gideon tried for levity. “You’ve weathered worse storms, Cassian. It’s business, not battle.”
Cassian did not look up. “For men whose names are not bound to every enterprise they touch, perhaps.”
His hand came down flat upon the desk, the sound echoing sharply in the room. “This was my responsibility. I vouched for the security of those goods. If the shipment’s lost, I am made to look negligent, and Duskbourne’s word means less than a tradesman’s.”
“Steady on,” Gideon murmured, though his eyes had grown serious.
But Cassian was already pacing. The office was usually his place of order and reason, but now, it suddenly seemed too small.
“Check every record,” he said to the clerk. “Speak to the Leeds carrier again. Find the driver, the overseer, the warehouse keeper, every man who touched those crates.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The clerk hurried out.
When the door closed, Gideon crossed to the window, watching him. “You’ll drive yourself to exhaustion at this rate.”
“I’ll do what is necessary,” Cassian said curtly.
“Ah,” Gideon murmured. “There it is. The famous Duskbourne creed.”
Cassian shot him a look. “If I fail in business, I fail my tenants, my workers, everyone who depends upon me. Failure is not an indulgence I can afford.”
Gideon regarded him for a long moment, then said quietly. “It’s not failure that worries me, Cassian. It’s the way you punish yourself for what you cannot control.”
Cassian turned away, rubbing his jaw. “There is nothing I cannot control.”
But even as he said it, the words rang hollow.
The truth was that he had felt out of control for days; ever since Charlotte had begun to unsettle him in ways no man, no market, no ledger ever had.
And now, with this disaster threatening his reputation, the fragile order he clung to was beginning to splinter.
He feared that he was losing control of his life once again, as had happened with Eleanor. He’d been powerless to save her, just like he’d been powerless to save their child. Now, that same sensation was threatening to take over his life.
He sank into his chair, staring at the blank space on his desk where the missing documents ought to have been. His temples throbbed under the weight of responsibility.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Charlotte’s voice echoed, light, teasing, and infuriatingly alive: You mistake control for care.
He exhaled slowly, forcing the thought away. Charlotte had no business haunting him here.
***
By the time Cassian reached Duskbourne, the sun had already dipped behind the trees, and the wind carried a bite of coming rain. The journey home had done little to cool his temper.
Every mile had turned his thoughts tighter: missing shipments, misplaced documents, the unrelenting incompetence of others. It wasn’t merely irritation. No. It was the gnawing fear of disorder, of losing control.
He handed his hat and coat to the butler with as few words as necessary and strode toward his study, intent on solitude. But solitude, it seemed, was not to be granted.
Charlotte appeared at the end of the corridor, holding a small bundle of correspondence.
“Cassian,” she greeted him in a tone that was bright but still cautious. “You’re late. I thought you might have stayed to dine with Gideon.”
“I had no appetite for company,” he said shortly, moving past her.
She turned, keeping pace beside him. “Did the meeting not go well?”
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “The meeting was tolerable. Everything else was not.”
“May I ask what happened?”
“Business happened.”
Her brow furrowed. “That is not an answer.”
“No,” he snapped, halting. “But it is all I intend to give.”
Charlotte blinked, taken aback by his tone. “I beg your pardon—”
“You are not required to beg anything,” he cut in. As he spoke, he could hear his voice, too sharp and too cold, but he could do nothing to change it. “But neither must you question me about matters you cannot possibly understand.”
Her spine straightened. “Matters I cannot understand?” she repeated softly. “I see.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, already regretting the words, but pride kept him silent.
Charlotte’s eyes flashed. “I am not one of your clerks to be dismissed when inconvenient. If you are angry, say so, but do not take it out upon me.”
“I am not angry with you,” he said through his teeth.
“Then perhaps you should learn the difference between anger and cruelty,” she shot back.
The words struck like a slap, not because they were false, but because they were painfully near the truth.
“Charlotte,” he said after a moment.
“No,” she said, stepping closer. “You cannot hide behind that tone forever, as though authority were a shield. You snap, you glower, and you retreat, and then wonder why the world fears to come near you!”
“Better that than to invite chaos,” he returned.
“Is that what you think I am?”
Her voice was soft now, trembling not with fear but with fury and a quiet, contained blaze that made something in him twist.
He met her gaze without flinching. “You are many things, Charlotte. Predictable is not among them.”
Her eyes searched his face. “And you… you are afraid to be anything but predictable.”
Silence fell between them, sharp as glass.
He saw the pulse at her throat and the rise and fall of her breath. The defiant glint in her blue eyes undid him. He wanted to pull her close and silence her with his mouth. But the anger in him and the shame of his own temper made the thought unbearable.
She shook her head, choosing to speak, because she obviously realized he would not. “You cannot control everything, Cassian. Not in business. Not in life. And certainly not me.”
He turned away before she could see the muscle working in his jaw. “Go to bed, Charlotte.”
“I will,” she said evenly, “when I choose to.”
And with that, she swept past him. Her skirts brushed against his hand. Whether it was by accident or done on purpose, he could not tell. But still, it was a fleeting, maddening whisper of touch that lingered long after she was gone.
Cassian stood motionless in the dim corridor, feeling his pulse thundering in his ears.
All he had ever wanted was to preserve order, because that was the only way to keep the world from unravelling. But somehow, every word he spoke to her seemed to hasten the undoing.
At last, he made his way to the study, poured himself a glass of brandy, and stared into the fire. A second glass followed the first. He sat down in his chair, his elbows on his knees, staring at the flames until they blurred. His mind, despite every effort, would not quiet.
He thought of her.
No woman had ever looked at him like that, in such a manner that was unafraid, unyielding, as though she could see the man beneath the title and found him wanting.
He should have been angry still. He was angry at her for defying him, at himself for provoking her. But anger was a poor disguise for what churned beneath. It was desire: raw, unbidden, and growing harder to ignore with each passing day.
He remembered the first time she had defied him with words sharp enough to draw blood. He remembered how her cheeks had flushed; how bright her eyes were. How easily her temper matched his, and how he’d wanted, absurdly, to taste that fire rather than extinguish it.
The memory of their kiss, of him tasting her in those furious, shattering moments of madness, struck him with such clarity that his hand tightened around the glass. The heat of her mouth, the tremor in her breath, the feel of her body pressed to his… it all returned with cruel precision.
He had told himself it meant nothing. That it was anger, not longing. That she had provoked him, and he’d only sought to silence her. But it was a lie, and one he could no longer sustain.
She had become a constant in his thoughts, uninvited and unstoppable.
He set the glass down too roughly, and the sound exploded sharply against the quiet.
“Fool,” he muttered under his breath.
Passion had cost him once before. It had taken everything he loved. He would not make that mistake again.
He leaned back, pressing a hand to his brow. The image of his late wife came unbidden to him. Just like he had promised Charlotte, he made the same promise to Eleanor: all would be well. What was worse, he believed it.
What arrogance.
If he had only waited before trying for a child, if only he had seen how frail Eleanor was becoming, instead of trusting blindly and foolishly that all would be well. He felt the same thing happening now. He was trusting fate without any reason to do so.
He exhaled slowly, but the air caught in his throat. The study blurred for a moment before he forced the emotion back into its cage.
“Enough,” he muttered to an empty room, as though he could command his thoughts.
But his mind would not obey. Love had cost Eleanor her life. It cost him everything that mattered. What right had he to want again? To hope again?
He had proven what his affection brought: destruction and grief.