Chapter Nineteen
The letter arrived in the late morning, nestled among invitations, charitable correspondence, and a note from Lydia regarding the upcoming Cavendish Ball.
Charlotte might have overlooked it entirely had she not recognized that same sweeping, self-important script that turned her stomach the instant she saw it.
She should have burned it at once, as she had the last one. But once again, curiosity got the better of her and forced her fingers to break the seal.
My Dearest Charlotte,
I had hoped my earlier letter would soften your heart, but your silence has wounded me more deeply than you can imagine. Still, I am not without compassion. I understand your position with the ducal husband and the appearances you must maintain.
Yet I cannot accept that you would throw away what we shared.
You once loved me, Charlotte, and love cannot be so easily buried beneath title and silk.
If you refuse to meet me, I may be driven to less pleasant measures, for it would grieve me to see your reputation suffer, and your husband learn that his duchess once wrote letters of a most tender nature to another man.
Yours, in love and in resolve,
E.L.
Charlotte’s hand trembled as she reached the final line, though not from fear alone.
The nerve of him. The audacity!
To write to her again, after all his lies and worse! To threaten her with scandal! The letter felt like a stain against her fingers.
She rose abruptly and crossed the room, pacing the carpet with quick, controlled steps. Her mind moved faster than her breath, darting through every consequence: what Cassian would say if he found out, or how the ton would whisper if Edmund dared follow through.
A single malicious sentence could destroy everything she had rebuilt so far. But then another thought cut through the panic.
No. He will not ruin me again.
Whatever Edmund imagined, he no longer held power over her.
She had survived humiliation once. She would not surrender to fear a second time.
She went to the fire and stood there for a long while, watching the flames twist and flicker.
Her first instinct was to burn the letter, but she hesitated.
Perhaps it would be wiser to keep it. Proof, should Edmund’s threats ever reach another’s ears.
With a deep breath, she folded it neatly and slipped it into the drawer beneath her writing desk, locking it away.
By noon, Charlotte resolved to think no more of Edmund Larke.
He had stolen enough of her peace once, and she would not let him do so again. With the letter safely locked away, she summoned her carriage.
Lydia had written the previous day to say the final fitting for Charlotte’s gown was ready, the same gown she was to wear at the Cavendish Ball. A trifle of fashion, perhaps, but after the morning’s dark agitation, the idea of lace and colour and easy conversation seemed like a balm.
The moment she stepped into Grantham & Co. Fine Textiles, the scent of starch and silk enveloped her. Lydia’s laughter could be heard even before she appeared.
“Charlotte!” Lydia cried, coming forward with a pin cushion still strapped to her wrist. “You’ve arrived just in time, my dear. I was about to send word to Duskbourne. Come, you must see it.”
Charlotte smiled, shedding her cloak. “You sound as though you’ve discovered buried treasure.”
“In a way, I have.” Lydia motioned her toward the fitting room. “Wait until you see what we’ve made of that dove-grey silk.”
The gown awaited her on a dress form. It was a pale silver-grey with the softest shimmer, and its embroidery was delicate and precise.
The fabric caught the light with every movement, gleaming faintly blue in the shadows.
A sweep of gossamer lace framed the neckline, and the waist was drawn perfectly to flatter her figure.
Charlotte stood silent for a moment. “Oh,” she breathed at last. “Lydia, it’s… beautiful.”
“I should hope so,” Lydia said with mock severity. “It took three nights and more than one argument with my tailor to achieve that shade. But come, try it on. You cannot judge a gown until it breathes with the woman wearing it.”
Charlotte laughed softly and allowed herself to be ushered behind the screen.
When she emerged, Lydia let out a low whistle. “Well, look at you! If the duke doesn’t fall properly in love with you at the Cavendish Ball, I shall lose faith in all men entirely.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Charlotte said, though warmth rose in her cheeks.
“Absurd?” Lydia circled her, appraising the fit. “My dear, you look like moonlight made flesh. That colour was born for you.”
Charlotte turned toward the looking glass, and for what seemed to be an eternity, she simply gazed at herself.
The reflection staring back did not resemble the quiet, cautious woman she had been at the start of her marriage, nor the wounded, uncertain one Edmund had once deceived.
The gown transformed her, yes, but so did the way she carried herself within it: poised, luminous, undeniably alive.
Her eyes met her own in the looking glass, and for the first time in what felt like years, she saw not a woman diminished by the past, but one defined by her own choices.
“I had forgotten,” she said quietly, “what it felt like to be…” She hesitated.
Lydia’s tone softened. “Seen?”
Charlotte smiled faintly. “Yes.”
Lydia rested a hand on her shoulder. “Well, then. Let them all see, my dear. Every last one of them.”
Charlotte’s reflection smiled back with quiet certainty. Whatever awaited her at the Cavendish Ball, be it gossip, scrutiny, or Cassian’s unreadable gaze, she would face it with her head held high.
She spent another hour in Lydia’s company, then headed back home, with the gown carefully folded in its box, feeling some fragile return to confidence.
By the time she reached the house, twilight had begun to fall, painting the windows in rose and gold. She handed her cloak to Miriam and was halfway to her room when the butler stopped her.
“Your Grace,” he said, offering a small tray. “A letter was delivered for you not half an hour ago.”
She froze.
Another letter.
Her heart sank even before she saw the handwriting. For a moment, she could not bring herself to touch it. The earlier defiance she had felt gave way to a dull, cold dread. He had written again, despite her silence.
Meet me or I will reveal everything.
The threat seemed to echo before she even opened the envelope. She broke the seal with trembling fingers, going over the lines in growing horror.
You yourself force me to do this, Charlotte. I had hoped you might see reason, but your silence leaves me no choice. If you will not meet me, I shall deliver your letters, those sweet tokens of devotion you once wrote, directly into the hands of your husband. You know what scandal will follow.
Meet me at the old oak by the crossroads on Thursday at noon, or I will take it as your answer that I must act otherwise.
You can still prevent all of this.
E.L.
Her breath caught. The words blurred before her eyes, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, steadying herself. For one unguarded moment, fear broke through her composure.
“Charlotte?”
She turned sharply.
Cassian stood at the end of the corridor, half-shadowed by the fading light. His eyes moved from her face to the letter in her hand.
“What is that?”
“It’s nothing,” she said quickly, folding the page.
His gaze hardened. “Nothing seldom looks like that.”
She hesitated, then said quietly. “A private matter, nothing for you to be concerned about.”
“From whom?”
Her silence was answer enough.
Cassian’s voice dropped dangerously low. “Is it from him?”
She flinched.
He took a step closer. “I see.” His tone was calm, but it was the calm before a storm. “I thought that business with your poet was finished.”
“It is,” she replied, too hastily.
“Evidently not.” His eyes, usually so controlled, burned with something darker now. He seemed to be not only angry, but also hurt. “You’ve been receiving his letters, and you said nothing.”
“I had no reason to burden you with it.”
“No reason?” His voice sharpened. “You conceal letters from another man, a man you once—” He stopped short, gritting his teeth.
She felt her temper flare despite the sick ache in her chest. “Do not finish that sentence.”
“You expect me to stand by while he writes to you, threatens you, perhaps still—”
“Cassian, enough!”
Her cry rang through the hall. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them crackled with fury and pain, and neither was able to control it.
Then she spoke more quietly but no less fiercely. “You think I would entertain him? After what he did? You think I would shame myself, and you, by replying to such filth?”
His eyes flicked to the letter still clutched in her hand. “I think you’ve hidden something from me.”
“Because you would have turned it into this,” she shot back. “Because you cannot trust anyone, not even your wife.”
He flinched as if struck.
“Do you imagine,” she continued, trembling now, “that I owe you blind obedience, or that my past sins have marked me unworthy of faith? I said nothing because I rejected him. I wanted to protect what little peace we had.”
“Peace built on lies cannot last,” he said coldly.
“And neither can a marriage built on suspicion.”
Charlotte scarcely had time to collect her breath before Cassian moved toward her again. In that moment, she could not tell if he meant to demand or to defend.
“Show me the letter,” he asked. He paused, and seeing that she didn’t move, he added. “Please, Charlotte. I want to see what sort of a mad man we are truly dealing with here.”
After a long pause, she surrendered it. Their fingers brushed.
Hers were cold, but his were burning. Cassian unfolded the sheet and read in silence, the lines deepening at the corners of his eyes.
When he finished, he said nothing. He folded the paper once, then again, as though restraining the violence of impulse.
“So, it’s true,” he said softly. “He is threatening you now.”
Charlotte nodded, the tension in her throat refusing to let words pass.
“I see now.” He drew a long breath. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was trying to sort it out on my own.”
“Not with these kinds of people,” he pointed out. “You should have come to me immediately.”
“How could I?” she asked incredulously. “When all you do is attack?”
She saw regret in his eyes. It was plain as daylight. “I was wrong.”
“You were cruel,” she told him again, and she realized that word hurt him deeply.
All he could do was agree. “Yes.”
For a moment, the air between them seemed flammable. Then Cassian took a step closer. “Charlotte, I—”
But she had already turned away, unable to bear the heaviness in his tone.
“Don’t,” she said quietly. “Please.”
He reached out instinctively but let his hand fall before it touched her. She started for the door.
“Charlotte!” he called after her.
She did not stop. In two strides, he caught up with her, and his hand closed gently around her arm. It was not to restrain, but to make her pause.
“Wait,” he said.
She turned, and her eyes were bright with unshed anger and hurt. “What more is there to say?”
“That I believe you,” he said simply.
She stared at him, scarcely believing it.
He continued, raking his fingers through his hair. And his words were stripped of pride. “You were right. I let anger blind me. When I saw the letter, I thought only of betrayal, not of danger. But I know better now. I should have known better from the first.”
Her eyes searched his face. He had never seemed this vulnerable before.
“I am sorry,” he told her. “My temper is the result of some business matters gone awry, and those are in no way connected to you, but you bore the brunt of my rage.”
Charlotte exhaled shakily, realizing how difficult it must have been for him to say those words. She appreciated them, but she wanted to be honest with him. “You hurt me, Cassian.”
“I know.” He hesitated, his grip on her arm loosening, though he did not release her entirely. “And I would sooner face a dozen scandals than hurt you again. Please, believe me.”
She couldn’t say anything to that. She wanted to believe him with all her heart, but her heart was a treacherous little thing.
Then, she heard him speak again. “He will not touch you again. Whatever game he plays, it ends now. Edmund Larke is dangerous, but he will not harm you or us.”
The word us hung between them, daring them both to accept it. And all she could do was nod.