Chapter Eight
The hour was very late when Cassian returned to Duskbourne.
The great house loomed out of the fog, with its windows glinting faintly like watchful eyes.
Inside, the corridors stretched long and hollow, lit only by the occasional sconce sputtering against the dark.
Silence pressed close on every side, broken now and then by the low hiss of dying embers in the hearths, as though the house itself exhaled in weary sighs.
Cassian moved with the ease of habit, the hallways as familiar to him as the weight of grief in his chest. Yet tonight, something broke the stillness. He noticed a figure. A woman stood a little way ahead, caught in the lamplight like a wraith.
It could only be her.
Her hair spilled loose about her shoulders, pale as the muslin nightgown that clung to her form. Her bare feet shifted on the stone floor as she turned uncertainly toward one of the doors, then paused, her face marked with confusion and faint dismay.
For an instant, Cassian halted. The sight of her so unguarded and vulnerable, yet luminous against the gloom, struck him with unwelcome force. His gaze swept her figure before discipline snapped him back into himself, and he became cold and controlled once more.
“Lost, Duchess?” His voice was low, although the silence made it sound louder than he intended.
His question startled her, and she turned to him. “I… I could not find my chamber. The corridors look the same at night.”
He stepped forward, and his shadow stretched long against the wall. “Duskbourne is a labyrinth. You should have called for your maid.”
“I did not wish to disturb her,” she murmured.
“Come,” he said, heading in the direction of the darkest corridor. “I will see you back.”
They walked in silence as the house loomed around them with its watchful portraits and endless doors.
He refused to admit it, even to himself, but her presence unsettled him.
He was maddeningly aware of her nearness, her scent of lavender, and the sound of her bare feet whispering against the stone.
He kept his eyes forward, steadily willing himself not to notice what he already had.
After some moments, Charlotte’s voice broke the hush. “This house is… vast. Almost endless. I see why I lost my way.”
He inclined his head faintly. “Duskbourne was built to endure, not to comfort. In time, you will learn its turns.”
Her gaze drifted down a branching corridor, darker than the rest. It was the shuttered wing. Cassian felt her attention shift even before she spoke.
“And that way?” she asked quietly. “The wing you mentioned earlier… the one that is closed?”
He stopped. The weight of her question hung heavy in the air between them. Slowly, he turned his head toward her.
“Do not ask about it.” His voice was sharper now, stripped of courtesy, carrying a finality that echoed against the stone. “That part of the house is closed, and it will remain so. You are not to enter. Ever.”
For a moment, he thought that he might have spoken to her too harshly. After all, she had only asked out of innocent curiosity, unable to know what had happened and completely oblivious to the terrible secret that he had to live with. But it was a burden he would carry alone.
Charlotte’s lips parted as though she might press him further, but something in his expression must have silenced her. She looked away, then continued following him.
He somehow knew she would not remain quiet for the remainder of their walk.
So, he was not surprised when she murmured, “There is something I must tell you, Your Grace. I intend to continue my charitable work here. The orphanages, the pensions for widows, the poorhouse…” She drew a breath as if to steady herself.
“They are not duties I will relinquish.”
Cassian’s gaze remained fixed forward, his stride never faltering. “Very well. You may continue. But you will do so with proper protection. A chaperone will attend to you whenever you leave Duskbourne.”
She halted upon his words. Her eyes flashed up at him, not waiting for him to stop as well. “That is unnecessary. I have managed perfectly well on my own thus far. My brother always allowed me the freedom to go alone, and I intend to keep it.”
His jaw tightened, and the coldness in his voice surprised even him. “I am not your brother.”
Once again, he felt as if he had been too harsh. Years of solitary confinement could easily do that to a man. And now, he had to relearn how to actually speak to another human being. It was all bothersome.
Still, it was difficult to be patient with her when all his instincts were crying out that he had to protect her from whatever dangers lurked in the shadows. I will protect this wife, even if I could not protect my first.
Charlotte’s blue eyes glared at him defiantly despite the flush on her cheeks. “No, you are not. But I am not a child to be herded about. I will not have every errand shadowed as though I cannot be trusted.”
“It is not a matter of trust. You are not to be left vulnerable,” Cassian returned. His every word was controlled but edged with steel. “You carry my name now. What befalls you reflects upon me. I will not have my duchess wandering the streets unprotected.”
Silence coiled, thick and taut as wire. Neither yielded, and neither softened. For a heartbeat, Cassian found himself staring at her, struck by the fire in her gaze and that unflinching resolve. An unwelcome part of him admired it, even as it infuriated him.
At last, he turned, resuming their stride with clipped precision. They reached her chamber door in silence. He bowed before her curtly, barely even looking at her.
“Good night, Duchess.”
Her answer came as coolly. “Good night, Your Grace.”
Cassian walked the length of the corridor with the deliberate stride of a man who must keep moving or else feel too much.
Charlotte’s voice still echoed in his mind, alive with the same stubborn fire that both drew and defied him.
He reached his study, closed the door behind him, and let the silence rush back in.
The fire had burned low. Only embers remained, pulsing faintly in the grate like the last breath of something dying. He crossed to the sideboard, uncorked the decanter, and poured himself a generous measure of brandy. There was no ceremony, just the dull sound of liquid striking glass.
He drank it in one swallow. The burn in his throat was sharp, almost welcome. He poured another, slower this time, staring into the amber depths as if they might hold answers. But of course, there were none.
The house was vast, but it felt small now. It was too close and too alive with her presence. He could still see Charlotte as she had stood in the corridor, pale in the half-light, unbowed beneath his sharp words. The scent of lavender still lingered faintly in the air.
Cassian turned from the fire, crossing to the far corner of the room where an old cabinet stood locked. It was a piece no servant touched. He withdrew a small key from his waistcoat pocket, fitted it to the lock, and opened the top drawer.
Inside, wrapped in worn linen, lay a portrait. He lifted it carefully, as one might lift something breakable or sacred.
Eleanor.
Her face smiled up at him from the painted oval. Her brown eyes were bright, and her beautiful lips curved in that familiar, effortless warmth that could still hollow him out from the inside. She had been painted in the garden at Duskbourne, with the sunlight glinting through her hair.
He remembered that day. The painter had been rather slow, even for a nervous man, and Eleanor had teased him for making her sit so long. She had worn a pale green gown and had plucked a sprig of rosemary from the garden hedge, holding it to her nose as she smiled.
“For remembrance,” she had said, while her eyes sparkled like stars.
A cruel jest now.
He swallowed hard, feeling the memory cut sharper than the brandy in his throat. He could almost hear her laugh echoing faintly through the study. It was that same laugh that had once filled every hall of Duskbourne, chasing the shadows from its corners.
He had killed that laughter.
He sank into his chair, holding the portrait cradled in his hands.
“Forgive me,” he murmured, the words escaping before he could stop them. His voice was so low that they barely made a sound at all. “I told myself I would never…”
But the sentence faltered. His throat closed around the rest. The brandy on his tongue turned bitter. He set the glass aside and brushed his thumb lightly over the painted cheek as if touch might bridge the years between them.
“You deserved more than this,” he said quietly. “More than me. I could not save you. And now…”
His voice broke. He exhaled in a long and hollow sound, but it was swallowed by the crackle of the fire.
After a moment, he placed the portrait back in its wrapping and returned it to its drawer, locking it away again as carefully as before. When he straightened, his face was once more the mask of the Duke of Duskbourne: controlled, composed, untouched.
But as he turned toward the dying fire, he felt its faint warmth against his skin and thought, for one unbearable instant, of Charlotte’s eyes in the dark. He drank again, deeper this time, wishing for the silence of Duskbourne to swallow him whole.