Chapter Seven
“Sit,” the Duke said, gesturing toward the leather chair opposite his writing table.
Charlotte lowered herself onto the seat, glancing around. His study was much as she had imagined it: shelves of law books, neat stacks of correspondence, ledgers aligned in perfect order. This was a room of business, not comfort.
Her husband settled into his own chair, his long frame seeming to fill the space. He regarded her with that cool, steady gaze she was beginning to understand was as much armour as his black coat.
“We should be clear on the practical arrangements,” he began.
His tone was measured. “You will find the household accounts in order. The running of Duskbourne’s domestic wing is now your responsibility.
Mrs. Redfern, the housekeeper, will answer to you.
As for the estates, I will continue to oversee their management. ”
Charlotte folded her hands in her lap. “Of course.”
“You will not be expected to attend many social events,” he continued, “though there will be occasions when your presence in London is required. At such times, appearances will matter. You will conduct yourself as a duchess, which means you shall be polite, gracious, and beyond reproach. You are not to encourage gossip.”
Her lips curved in a faint, practiced smile. “I believe I have had enough gossip to last a lifetime, Your Grace. I intend to provide no fuel for further fire.”
For the first time, the corner of his mouth shifted, which was as close to amusement as she had yet seen in him. “Good. Then we understand each other.”
“And what of… expectations between us?” she asked, feeling as if her own voice would betray her. “Are we to…” She felt an onslaught of heat in her cheeks, but she had to clarify her question. “Are we to be intimate with each other?”
The Duke’s grey and unblinking eyes lifted to hers.
He regarded her a moment, as though weighing his words, then spoke with cool precision.
“That, my lady, is your choice. If you wish it, it shall be so. If not, then it will not be forced upon you. I do not find you unattractive,” he added, “so it would not be a hardship on my part.”
The detached way he said it, in such a manner that was stripped of intimacy, of warmth, of even the faintest tenderness, made Charlotte’s throat tighten. He spoke as though he were discussing rent rolls or crop yields.
She lowered her gaze, unable to stop her hands from twisting together in her lap. “I see,” she murmured. A pause stretched, and the fire snapped in the hearth as if to remind her that a response was needed. “Then I shall… think about it.”
“Very well,” the Duke replied simply. “In that case, that would be all. You may go and find one of the maids. They will show you to your chambers.”
With those words, he returned his attention to the stack of correspondence at his elbow, as though the subject were settled.
Charlotte sat a moment longer, feeling the weight of his words pressing upon her chest. She had thought she wanted this practicality, duty, a union untroubled by passion.
Yet something in his cool dismissal unsettled her and left her feeling oddly hollow where she had expected only relief.
At last, she rose, curtsying slightly. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
He merely nodded, then his attention was focused on the papers before him.
And with that, Charlotte withdrew into the shadows of the great hall, with her heart feeling heavier than ever.
She made her way down the corridor slowly, lost in thought.
In fact, she was so focused that a voice startled her when it addressed her.
“Your Grace?”
A young woman stepped forward with a curtsy. Her manner was respectful yet not timid. “I am Miriam, your maid. His Grace assigned me to you especially. If you will follow me, I will show you to your chambers.”
Charlotte inclined her head, grateful for the interruption to her uneasy reflections. “Thank you, Miriam.”
The maid led her up the sweeping staircase and down another hall where sconces burned more warmly. At the end of the passage, Miriam opened a pair of doors with a discreet flourish. Charlotte drew in a breath.
The chamber before her was lovely; so lovely in fact, that for a moment she could not move.
Tall windows looked out across the moors, nestled between curtains of heavy silk in muted shades of blue and silver.
A grand bed stood at the centre, its carved posts draped with sheer muslin that glimmered faintly in the lamplight.
The hearth already burned with a welcoming fire, and a writing desk near the window gleamed with polished wood.
A stack of fresh paper was already waiting upon it.
It was not austere, nor as cold as the rest of the house. This room had been prepared with care, even thoughtfulness. Strange though it might have been, it was meant for her.
Charlotte turned to Miriam, who was watching her with quiet expectation. “It is… beautiful,” she said softly, her voice catching despite herself. “Thank you.”
Miriam smiled faintly. “His Grace ordered it specially for you, my lady. Everything was chosen and readied these past weeks.”
Charlotte blinked, surprised. Cassian Oberon, who spoke of their marriage like a contract, had ensured this chamber was made ready. Not only ready, but lovely and welcoming.
“I see,” Charlotte murmured, lowering her gaze so Miriam would not read too much in her expression.
Miriam bobbed another curtsy. “If you should require anything, you have only to ring.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte said again, more warmly this time.
When Miriam departed, Charlotte walked slowly across the chamber. Her fingers trailed over the embroidered coverlet, the polished writing desk, the silken curtains. She sank onto the edge of the bed, staring into the fire.
So this was her new life as the Duchess of Duskbourne, with rooms prepared in her honour and with a house that breathed order and silence around her.
She folded her hands in her lap, whispering to herself as much as to the firelight. “Then I must learn how to belong here.”
And with that, Charlotte Montclair… no, Charlotte Oberon now, began to settle into the unfamiliar role she had chosen, with her heart still uncertain, but her will unbending.
***
“For the love of everything holy, Cassian, tell me I am not seeing this right.”
Cassian looked up from the glass of brandy he had scarcely touched. Gideon lounged across from him at White’s, with a wicked gleam in his eye and his tone dripping with incredulity.
“You were married this morning,” Gideon went on, waving a hand as though to sweep aside all possible excuses, “and yet here you sit at White’s today, glowering into your drink like some monk at confession. Why, pray, are you not at Duskbourne Hall, warming your wife’s bed?”
Cassian’s expression did not flicker. He took a measured sip of brandy, then set the glass down with deliberate calm. “Because the estate requires attention.”
Gideon barked a laugh. “The estate! Oh, that is rich. I should have known. Marriage to the Duke of Duskbourne: vows at noon, ledgers by dawn. And I’m guessing, you are here for a brief respite.”
Cassian’s jaw tightened, though his voice remained even. “Do not jest, Gideon. The tenants require fair rents before winter. The harvest was short in two villages to the north. I have already sent instructions for supplemental grain stores. If I do not keep order, who will?”
“You are insufferable,” Gideon said cheerfully, leaning back in his chair. “Here I sit, expecting scandal, intrigue, perhaps even a blush or two, and instead you give me crop yields.”
Cassian’s grey eyes flicked toward him sharply. “It is better than indulgent folly.”
“Indulgent folly is precisely the point of marriage, Cassian,” Gideon retorted with a smirk. “At least in its first nights. Tell me, did the poor lady weep when you left her to her embroidery and fled to your beloved club?”
Cassian exhaled through his nose slowly, as though restraining himself from snapping the stem of his glass. “You assume too much.”
“Then enlighten me,” Gideon pressed like an impatient child. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve a beautiful new duchess waiting in your halls, and you spend your evening among smoke and brandy with me?”
Cassian shifted uneasily. “My marriage is as it was agreed: an arrangement of convenience. There is no need for… expectations.”
“Convenience,” Gideon repeated, savouring the word like fine wine. He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Then why do you look as though you’ve not slept a moment in two days?”
Cassian’s silence was answer enough. He reached for the newspaper beside him, unfolding it with precision. “We have wasted enough breath. What I came here to discuss are matters of shipping. The wool contracts—”
Gideon groaned, throwing his head back. “You truly are hopeless. Here I try to coax a confession, and instead you bury me beneath wool and accounts. Fine, then, tell me about the damned contracts. But do not think I will cease reminding you: you are married, Cassian. And sooner or later, you must start living as though you are.”
Cassian’s lips thinned, but he turned the page of his notes with unruffled calm.
“Then let us begin with the shipments,” he said.