Chapter Thirteen
“I cannot think what has possessed you, my dear,” Lydia declared, pinning a swatch of silk to the wooden frame with the air of one pronouncing judgment upon the world.
“You have pricked your finger three times and tied the same ribbon into a knot that no living soul could undo. Surely something dreadful must be occupying your mind.”
Charlotte was seated opposite with a basket of thread in her lap, and she was utterly unsuccessful at attempting composure. “Nonsense. I am merely unpractised.”
“You have been unpractised these past two hours,” Lydia retorted. “Do not insult my intelligence.”
The little workroom smelled faintly of dye and starch.
Afternoon light filtered through the tall windows of Lydia’s textile shop, or her enterprise, as Nicholas called it with affectionate dismay.
Bolts of muslin and satin were neatly arranged along the wall, and two seamstresses worked industriously nearby, pretending not to hear.
Charlotte sighed and laid down her needle. “I am distracted, that is all.”
“Indeed? And what, pray, is the name of your distraction? I suspect it answers to ‘the Duke of Duskbourne.’”
“Lydia!” Charlotte hissed, glancing toward the maids. “Must you always be so direct?”
“It saves time.” Lydia plucked a thread from her gown and smiled with too much innocence. “Now, tell me why you are sitting there like a heroine in the third act of a tragedy. Did he offend you? Did he fail to notice your new bonnet?”
Charlotte’s lips curved despite herself. “No. He has noticed me more than enough, I fear.”
“Ah.” Lydia leaned forward, and as she did so, her eyes lit up with curiosity. “Now we approach the heart of it.”
Charlotte hesitated, her fingers twisting in the folds of her skirt. “Our marriage…” She faltered. “It is not what people imagine it to be.”
“Meaning?”
“It is a performance,” Charlotte said softly. “For the world. For society. We are cordial, even kind, but it is not—”
“Romantic?” Lydia supplied.
“Real,” Charlotte finished, ignoring her. “At least, it was not meant to be.”
Lydia regarded her for a moment, head tilted. “And yet you look as though it has lately become more complicated.”
Charlotte turned away, feeling her cheeks warming. “Do you recall the birthday celebration?”
“My son’s grand fête? I should hope so, I planned it,” Lydia said, amusedly. “Though, if you refer to that kiss, I daresay the entire county remembers it, too.”
Charlotte groaned. “Do not remind me.”
Lydia’s grin widened. “My dear, it was most convincing. Nicholas declared afterward that it was the first time he had seen you two appear truly in love. I did not have the heart to tell him you looked ready to faint.”
Charlotte covered her face with her hands. “Oh, Lydia, that is precisely the trouble.”
Lydia laughed. “That you fainted?”
“That it felt real.”
That silenced her sister-in-law for a moment. “Real?”
Charlotte nodded, lowering her hands. “I do not know what came over me. It was supposed to mean nothing, just means to silence gossip, nothing more. And yet…” She trailed off, staring down at the half-finished embroidery in her lap. “I cannot stop thinking about it.”
Lydia’s eyes softened. “Oh, Charlotte.”
“I keep telling myself it was anger, or obligation, or some strange impulse brought on by the moment,” Charlotte continued. “But when he kissed me, it did not feel false. And now—” She broke off, pressing her lips together.
“And now you wish it had,” Lydia finished gently.
Charlotte gave a helpless little laugh. “Yes. That would be far simpler.”
Silence stretched for a moment, filled only by the rustle of fabric and the ticking of the mantel clock.
Then, very quietly, Charlotte added, “You know, sometimes I wonder what it would be like… to share more than appearances with him. Even though I never meant to.”
Lydia raised a brow. “Do you mean…?”
Charlotte’s flush deepened. “Do not make me say it.”
“Oh, I quite insist,” Lydia teased. “It is not every day my virtuous sister-in-law confides such dangerous curiosities.”
Charlotte clasped her hands together, feeling mortified. “I simply wonder what it would be like to be his wife in truth. I do not mean to change our agreement. I only…” She paused, her voice a whisper now. “I only wonder.”
Lydia tried, and failed, to suppress a mischievous smile. “My dear, you sound precisely as I did before Nicholas and I—”
“Lydia!” Charlotte covered her ears, horrified. “You cannot possibly mean to speak of my brother in such a context!”
Lydia laughed outright. “You asked for honesty!”
“I asked for sympathy, not indecency!”
“Very well,” Lydia said, still laughing, “but allow me to say this much: curiosity is not a sin, Charlotte. Denial, however, can be a very dull sort of virtue.”
Charlotte lowered her hands, with her cheeks still aflame. “You are incorrigible.”
“And you,” Lydia said affectionately, “appear to be smitten by your husband.”
Charlotte met her gaze, startled. “I am not—”
“No?” Lydia’s tone softened, and the teasing was slowly fading into warmth. “Then why do you look so very much like a woman who is?”
At last, when the amusement had dwindled into soft sighs, Lydia leaned back in her chair.
“My dear,” she said gently, “you must decide what you want.”
Charlotte blinked. “What I want?”
“Yes.” Lydia folded her hands neatly in her lap as she spoke. “You speak of your husband as if he were a distant star: too far to reach and too bright to look upon. But he is a man, Charlotte. And men, even the most solemn of them, are rarely won by silence.”
Charlotte frowned, her fingers tracing the edge of her embroidery hoop. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It is not simple,” Lydia allowed, “but it is clear. If you want something, show him.”
Charlotte looked up sharply. “Show him?”
Lydia’s smile turned knowing. “Do not look so scandalized. I do not mean you should throw yourself at him in the corridor, though if you did, I confess I should admire your courage.”
“Lydia!”
“Well, I should.” Lydia laughed softly, but her gaze was kind.
“I mean only that men often require direction where feelings are concerned. If your husband believes you wish only for civility, he will give you civility. If he thinks you desire friendship, he will offer precisely that. But if you wish for… more…” She lifted her brows in quiet challenge.
Charlotte felt her pulse quicken. “You make it sound like a negotiation.”
“Marriage always is,” Lydia said. “Even the happiest ones. You must decide what you are willing to risk.”
Charlotte looked down at her hands, the fine tremor of her fingers betraying her composure. “And if I risk it and fail?”
“Then you will at least know you were brave.” Lydia’s voice softened. “Do not spend your life wondering what might have been if you had reached out once more instead of turning away.”
For a long moment, Charlotte said nothing. She simply stared down at the tangled thread in her lap and thought of Cassian’s eyes, the warmth of his hand, and the way his laughter had sounded in the rain.
When she looked up again, her cheeks were flushed, but her eyes were steady. “Perhaps you are right.”
***
By the time Charlotte’s carriage rolled through the great iron gates of Duskbourne, Lydia’s words had settled in her mind like a spark refusing to die.
If you want something, show him.
The phrase repeated itself as she entered the quiet halls and as her maid helped her undress from her day gown. She was tired of walking on eggshells around a man who made her heart ache merely by existing across a room.
She was his wife, after all. And though their union had been founded on convenience and duty, surely there was no harm in claiming a sliver of warmth within it.
By the time the clock in the corridor chimed ten, she had made her decision.
Charlotte stood before the looking glass, studying the reflection that stared back: her hair was loosely gathered, and there were a few curls escaping at her neck.
Her wrapper of pale ivory silk was unfastened just enough to suggest, not reveal.
The sight made her heart race; partly out of fear, partly out of something far more dangerous.
Carrying a tray with two cups of tea, she walked down the corridor toward Cassian’s study. The house was quiet, save for the steady whisper of rain against the windows. Light glowed beneath his door. It assured her it would be all right to knock, which she did.
His voice came from inside. “Come in.”
He looked up as she entered, and surprise flickered briefly across his features. He sat at his desk, with papers lying before him in neat order, though his cravat hung loosely, as though he’d grown tired of formality.
“Forgive the intrusion,” she said lightly, setting down the tray. “You have been closeted here all evening, and I thought you might wish for tea.”
He regarded her a moment before nodding. “Thank you.”
Charlotte poured for them both, careful not to spill. The silence stretched thin.
“You work too late,” she said at last, striving for ease. “Even your tenants would scold you for such dedication.”
A faint curve touched his mouth. “I doubt they would dare.”
“Perhaps they should. A little rebellion is healthy.”
He glanced up at that. “Do you speak from experience?”
“Possibly.” She smiled and dared to step closer, although her entire body was trembling from being so near to him. “Do you ever tire of being obeyed so completely, Cassian?”
He stilled at her use of his name, for it was a small intimacy that seemed to hang in the air between them.
“Obedience,” he said slowly, “has its comforts.”
Charlotte tilted her head. “And its loneliness.”
For a moment, neither moved. The firelight painted soft shadows across his features. His gaze flicked to the loose curl brushing her collarbone.
Encouraged, she took another step forward. “It is a dreary thing, I think, to be forever proper.”
“Dreary,” he echoed, though his voice had grown quieter. “Perhaps.”
“Would you prefer a little rebellion, then?” she asked, her tone light but trembling faintly at the edges.
That was when something in his expression shifted. It was not exactly anger, but alarm. He rose from his chair with a movement that was controlled yet sharp at the same time.
“Perhaps you should retire. It is late.”
Her heart fluttered painfully. “I am not tired.”
“Nonetheless.” He moved past her, toward the hearth, as though distance might steady him. “It would be best.”
She turned, confused, hurt, prickling at her throat, and making it difficult to speak. “Have I offended you?”
He looked at her then, and she saw the truth he tried to hide. The storm was barely contained in his eyes.
“No,” he said at last. “Only… this is not—” He broke off, closing his eyes briefly as if to master himself. When he spoke again, his tone was impersonal. “You are my wife, Charlotte. You deserve respect. And I would not… misuse that.”
The words struck like cold water. She had come prepared for rejection, but it hurt more than she had anticipated.
“I see,” she said quietly. “Then I shall not trouble you further.”
He turned toward her, as if to speak, but she was already moving to the door. Her fingers trembled slightly on the handle, though her voice remained steady. “Good night, Your Grace.”
The title landed between them like a wall. She left without looking back.
Once safely back in her chamber, she closed the door and pressed a hand to her chest, willing her breath to steady. The flush on her cheeks was not only humiliation. It was also heat that refused to fade despite his rejection.
For all his coldness, she had seen it: the flicker of want he had fought to hide.
It was small comfort, and yet, it was enough to keep her awake long after the lamps were extinguished, her mind caught between wounded pride and the dangerous thrill of knowing she might not be alone in her longing.