Chapter 10

Ten

G rant strode into his study, each step brimming with purpose, though his thoughts were anything but clear. The lingering warmth of Charlotte’s lips seemed to echo against his own, a ghost of sensation that unsettled him more deeply than he cared to admit. He paused by the grand windows, gazing over the frost-kissed gardens below, his reflection in the glass a stark contrast to the turmoil within.

"Blast it all," he muttered, raking a hand through his hair, mussing its usual neatness. That unexpected kiss had unraveled his composure, leaving him feeling exposed, vulnerable—a sensation he hadn’t allowed himself in years.

Grant’s gaze fell on the ledgers piled on his desk, a heavy reminder of his responsibilities, his duty. He needed to focus, to restore his control. But his mind betrayed him, replaying the soft shock in Charlotte’s eyes, the hesitant warmth in her gaze as she pulled away.

"Your Grace?" his butler, appeared at the doorway, his voice gentle but steady.

Grant looked up, hurriedly arranging his expression into its customary stoic calm. "Yes?"

"Lord Weatherby has arrived for your appointment, Your Grace. Shall I show him in?"

For a brief moment, Grant considered delaying the meeting, but he shook the thought away. "No, show him in," he said, pushing his personal musings aside.

The butler bowed and retreated. Grant straightened his cravat, smoothed his jacket, and poured two glasses of brandy, the amber liquid gleaming in the afternoon light. The color reminded him of the gown Charlotte had worn earlier, how it had complemented her so well…

"Pull yourself together, man," he muttered under his breath. “It was a mere touch of the lips."

Lord Weatherby entered, his ruddy face breaking into a genial smile. "Ravenscroft! Good to see you, old chap. I trust you’re well?"

Grant returned the smile, though more subdued, and handed him a glass. "Well enough, Weatherby. Please, have a seat. I believe we have matters to discuss regarding the northern properties?"

As they settled into their chairs, Grant found his thoughts drifting yet again. He saw Charlotte in the room with him, laughing in the firelight, her eyes bright with the same quiet determination he had come to admire.

"Ravenscroft?" Weatherby’s voice cut through his reverie. "You’ve done a remarkable job turning things around here. Your father would be proud."

Grant’s jaw tightened at the mention of his father, a shadow of old expectations stirring within him. "Thank you, Weatherby," he replied evenly. "It’s been… a challenging endeavor."

"Indeed, indeed. But tell me, what is new here at Revenscroft house? I see the dowager is in residence.”

Grant’s grip on his brandy glass tightened. Images of Charlotte flashing through his mind. “My mother is indeed staying here at least through the ball, and has Lady Charlotte Ashborne under her wing.”

Weatherby raised an eyebrow, a knowing smirk curling his lips. “Quite the scandal her family’s fall. Am I to assume the dowager is attempting to elevate the lady? I daresay if I were a younger man?—"

"Perhaps we could stay on topic?" Grant interrupted, his tone firm. "The northern properties have shown a marked improvement in yield this past season."

Weatherby laughed, not fooled but conceding. They shifted to tenant agreements and crop yields, but despite his best efforts, Grant’s mind betrayed him. He found himself picturing Charlotte, her soft features illuminated by the firelight, her presence haunting every corner of his study.

"Ravenscroft?" Weatherby’s voice sounded again, a note of concern in his tone. "Are you quite alright?"

Grant blinked, realizing he’d been staring at the ledger, lost in thought. "My apologies, Weatherby. I fear I’m a bit… distracted today."

Weatherby chuckled, his eyes glinting with understanding. "Ah, young love. It does tend to muddle the sharpest of minds."

Grant stiffened, irritation flickering beneath his calm exterior. "I beg your pardon?"

"Come now, Ravenscroft. I may be old, but I’m not blind. You’re wool-gathering like a schoolboy. Clearly, a certain lady occupies your thoughts."

Grant rose abruptly, crossing to the decanter to refill his glass—anything to hide the flush creeping up his neck. "You’re mistaken, Weatherby. Lady Charlotte is under my protection, nothing more."

"Of course, of course," Weatherby acquiesced, though his tone suggested he believed otherwise. "Though if I may say, she wouldn’t be the worst match. The Ashbourne’s were a fine family, once. And she is a lovely young woman. It is about time you got on with the business of finding a wife and securing your heir.”

Grant turned back to him, face carefully neutral. "My focus is on restoring her family’s honor and securing her a respectable match. As for me, I will marry once I have filled the family coffers and not a moment sooner.”

But even as he spoke, he felt an ache of something deeper—longing, perhaps, or regret. He pushed the feeling aside before it could take root.

"Well then," Weatherby said, rising with a grunt, "I suppose we’ve covered the important matters. But if you’ll indulge me with one final piece of advice?"

Grant raised an eyebrow, wary. "Yes?"

“Do not let duty blind you to happiness, Ravenscroft. You’ve done admirably by your family’s legacy. I do believe it is time to consider your own future. You have already transformed the estate and rebuilt a tidy fortune.”

With those parting words, Weatherby took his leave, leaving Grant alone with his thoughts. He moved to the window, catching sight of Charlotte as she strolled through the gardens below, her golden hair illuminated by the pale winter sunlight.

As if sensing his gaze, she looked up. Their eyes met across the distance, and for a heartbeat, the world stilled. She offered a small, tentative smile before turning away, disappearing behind the hedges.

Grant pressed his forehead against the cool glass, closing his eyes. "What am I doing?" he murmured. That kiss had been an accident—a moment of impulse on her part. Devoid of depth and passion. And yet…

He could not deny the thrill that had surged through him, the spark that lingered even now.

He straightened, forcing himself to focus. Grant had a duty—to his family, his estate, and now to Charlotte. He would see her restored to her former standing and safely settled. And then, he would return to the solitude he’d chosen.

But as he moved to his desk, the memory of her lips, soft and warm against his, lingered like a whisper, haunting him with its sweetness.

With a frustrated growl, Grant threw himself into his work, determined to banish the thoughts of her sparkling eyes and hesitant smile. But as he pored over ledgers, one persistent question tugged at his mind.

What if Weatherby was right?

He shook his head, resolute. Charlotte deserved a future he could not give her, a life untouched by the complexities of his world. He would see her through this, and then they would go their separate ways. That was what he told himself.

And yet, a part of him—a part he’d long kept hidden—wondered if perhaps, just perhaps, his future might be entwined with hers after all.