Chapter Twenty-Two
For a while, the ball unfolded with enviable perfection.
Charlotte’s laughter warmed the space between them, and Cassian found himself, against all reason, relaxed. He couldn’t take his eyes off of Charlotte, exactly because he knew that every eye in the room followed her.
At first, he thought it was because she glowed with such effortless grace that it made every man jealous of him. The thought made him more proud than he was willing to admit. In fact, by all accounts, it was shaping up to be a perfect evening.
But then, Cassian felt the shift. He noticed it in the murmurs, in the ripple, and in the sudden prickle at the back of his neck.
He caught, from the corner of his eye, two matrons whispering behind their fans. A young lord snickered as a slip of folded paper was passed to him, which he opened, read, and promptly shared with a cluster of debutantes who gasped in delight and horror.
Cassian swallowed heavily. That wasn’t a good sign. In fact, it was a very bad sign, a sign that something was terribly wrong.
Cassian crossed to Nicholas, who was lingering near the refreshments with a few other gentlemen.
“Nicholas,” Cassian said quietly, eyeing the piece of paper and what hand it was in at the moment, “what are they passing?”
Charlotte’s brother followed Cassian’s line of sight, and momentarily, his expression grew dark. When the next lord, some idle young baron, received one of the mysterious slips, Nicholas strode forward and plucked it straight from the man’s hand.
The baron jolted back. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but that is private—”
Nicholas didn’t say anything. He merely skimmed through what was on it, and Cassian watched as his expression blossomed from confusion to shock and finally to fury.
“What is it?” Cassian demanded.
Nicholas hesitated, then handed him the slip. Cassian unfolded it. He needed only one line to understand. His blood turned to ice.
My dearest Edmund, my heart is yours… always.
Charlotte M.
It was Charlotte’s letter, but not the original. Someone had gone through the painstaking effort of printing it out and then distributing it… weaponizing it.
Her private letters had been copied for sport, for scandal, for humiliation.
Cassian refolded the paper once. It crumpled in his fist.
He looked up. “Who has done this?”
Nicholas stepped closer, glancing around. “Good God… they’re everywhere.”
Indeed, they were. More scraps were passed from hand to hand, hidden behind gloves and fans. Young ladies were whispering. Gentlemen were smirking. A cluster of dowagers was pretending to be shocked while revelling in every syllable.
Cassian’s fingers crushed the paper in his fist.
Nicholas swore under his breath. “It must be Larke. He means to ruin her.”
Ruin her.
The very idea sent a bolt of rage through Cassian so sharp he almost saw red. He glanced across the ballroom and saw her… Charlotte, who had been deceived, wounded, and used, the same Charlotte who had finally begun to smile again, on this night, of all nights.
Cassian forced himself to breathe. The fury was too large to contain, but he would not erupt here, not in the midst of the vultures.
“I will not allow this to stand,” he snarled silently.
Nicholas nodded sharply. “What do you plan to do?”
“First,” Cassian replied, eyes already tracking Charlotte across the room, “I remove my wife from this cesspool of gossip. Then I find the man responsible. And when I do…”
His hand curled at his side.
“I will destroy him.”
Across the ballroom, Charlotte laughed at something Lydia had said. She was still blissfully unaware of the storm gathering at her back. She looked radiant, hopeful, open in a way Cassian had not seen since their wedding. The sight made the betrayal all the more unforgivable.
He drew a breath, calming his expression and schooling his features into composed neutrality.
Slowly, he approached Charlotte with careful control, masking every trace of fury.
She turned toward him, smiling. She was still glowing from the dance, still unaware of the poison spreading through the ballroom like spilled ink.
“Cassian,” she said softly, “is everything all right?”
He offered his arm. “Come with me,” he murmured. “We are leaving.”
Her brows knit. “Leaving? Already? But—”
“I will explain,” he said gently, but firmly. “Not here.”
Charlotte hesitated only a moment before nodding.
She trusted him. He saw it in her eyes, and the knowledge cut him as deeply as it steadied him.
He guided her through the ballroom as Gideon cleared a subtle path.
Nicholas and Lydia followed at a distance, watchful but silent.
Not a single whisper reached Charlotte’s ears.
Cassian made certain of it, intercepting glances with a stare that froze tongues mid-syllable.
They exited under the glitter of the chandeliers, and only when the great doors shut behind them did Charlotte release a quiet breath.
“Cassian,” she tried again, more confused this time, “what has happened?”
“In the carriage,” he said.
The ride began in silence. Only once the driver’s whip cracked and the wheels began to turn did Cassian reach into his coat. He withdrew the crumpled sheet, which was the single copy he had kept.
He looked at her, knowing he had to choose his words very carefully. “What I am about to show you… is cruel. And it is not a reflection of you. Do you understand?”
She blinked. The worry in her eyes sharpened into fear. “Cassian, please… what is it?”
He placed the paper into her trembling hands.
One glance… that was all it took.
Her breath hitched, and her gloved fingers crushed the page as though it had burned her. Colour drained from her face. She looked at him, wide-eyed and horrified.
“This was private,” she whispered. “Those were mine. How… how could—”
Her voice snapped under the weight of humiliation. And then she broke. Tears spilled in helpless, shaking waves, and she pressed her hands over her face as though she could hide from the world and from him, from the shame being paraded in print.
He moved to her at once.
“Charlotte,” he murmured, gathering her in his arms without hesitation.
She collapsed against his chest, sobs shaking her slender frame. He held her with one hand, cradling the back of her head, and the other drawing her tightly against him, creating a shield where no eyes could reach her.
“I was so foolish,” she choked out. “So na?ve. They will laugh… everyone will laugh—”
“No,” he promised her. “They will not. I will not allow it.”
Charlotte did not stop crying. The minutes slipped by, marked only by the rocking of the carriage and the soft, broken sounds she tried to suppress. Cassian held her through all of it, without a word, without rushing her grief or offering hollow comforts. He simply remained.
Her tears soaked into his coat. Her fingers clutched him as though he were the last solid thing in a world turned treacherous. And Cassian, who once believed he had nothing left to give a woman, found he had patience for her sorrow.
When fresh sobs overtook her, he only drew her closer.
When shame shook her shoulders, he smoothed her hair and whispered, “You are not alone.”
When she tried to apologize through gasping breaths, he silenced her softly. “There is nothing to apologize for.”
Eventually, the sobs dulled, leaving only quiet tremors in her frame. She stayed wrapped in his arms until the carriage slowed and the familiar outline of Duskbourne came into view.
Cassian did not release her immediately, not until the wheels ground to a halt and the footman stepped forward with a lantern.
“We are home,” he murmured, brushing a tear from her cheek.
She nodded at him, with eyes that were swollen and red, and when she spoke, her voice was little more than a whisper. “Thank you… for everything.”
He helped her down from the carriage, shielding her from the curious glance of the footman, and escorted her inside. The manor was still, as the hour was late. The candlelight was soft enough to hide the worst of her distress. At the staircase, Charlotte paused.
“I should retire,” she said, trembling again. “I—I do not want to be seen. I cannot bear it.”
Cassian bowed his head slightly. “Of course.”
She managed a small, grateful smile and slipped upstairs. He watched until she disappeared behind her chamber door. He should have left it at that. He should have allowed her space and solitude.
But as he turned to leave, something inside him twisted. It was the painful and unwelcome memory of the nights he had drowned in grief alone, nights that could sometimes feel like a blade.
He hesitated. Then turned back.
Three steps brought him to her door again. His hand hovered over the panel before he knocked gently. A faint sound came from within. The door opened a few inches.
Charlotte stood there, still in her gown, with her hair loosened from its pins and her eyes heavy with exhaustion and sorrow.
“Cassian?” she whispered.
He met her gaze. “Forgive me. I could not leave you like this.”
For a moment, she said nothing. Then she stepped aside in an echo of a silent invitation, and he entered, the door closing softly behind them.
***
She turned away from him the moment he entered. If she faced him, she feared she would break all over again.
Her voice emerged in a whisper. “My reputation is ruined.”
Cassian said nothing at first. She heard only his quiet breath behind her. She pressed on, with words spilling faster, sharp with despair.
“And now yours is, too. They will mock you for my foolishness. I have brought you shame, and I cannot—”
“Stop.” His voice cut through her panic with sudden force.
That was when she turned. Cassian crossed the space between them in three decisive strides. There was fire in his eyes, cold and controlled, but burning all the same.
“Do not take the blame for the sins of a liar,” he said. “You wrote in innocence, in hope. There is no shame in that.” His jaw tightened. “The shame belongs to the man who betrayed you. And I will find him.”