Chapter 11

Eleven

C harlotte took a deep, steadying breath, her gloved hand trembling slightly as she smoothed the gold silk of her gown. Beyond the grand double doors of the Ravenscroft ballroom, the lilting strains of a waltz blended with the rising hum of laughter and conversation. The air seemed to buzz with anticipation, a stark contrast to the turmoil within her.

This ball was a grand opportunity—one that could change everything for her family, for herself. But the stakes left her breathless.

The soft rustle of her gown accompanied her step forward, her golden curls carefully arranged to frame her face. The footman’s voice rang out, announcing her, and the heavy doors opened to reveal the opulent expanse of the ballroom. Charlotte entered with practiced poise, even as her heart hammered in her chest.

Dozens of faces turned toward her, their gazes curious, assessing, admiring. Crystal chandeliers cast their warm glow over the glittering sea of guests, the festive decorations adding a touch of holiday splendor to the occasion. Garlands of holly and ribbons adorned every surface, the heady scent of pine mingling with the perfume of lavender and rosewater.

Charlotte stepped forward, her head held high, a serene smile on her lips that belied the storm of nerves inside her. Every movement across the polished floor felt scrutinized, every whisper behind delicate fans a reminder of how far her family had fallen—and how far she intended to rise.

Descending the grand staircase, she caught fragments of murmured conversation.

“I heard the Ashbourne’s are destitute and rumors swirl over the viscounts death. Some say it was suicide.”

“I am surprised the duke invited her. Even more surprised she dared to attend.”

“It is quite the scandal.”

Charlotte’s cheeks warmed despite her best efforts to remain detached. The whispers only reminded her of her purpose. Tonight wasn’t about basking in admiration; it was about strategy, survival, and securing her family’s future. She would not falter.

“Lady Charlotte!” A warm, familiar voice called out, and Charlotte turned to see the Dowager Duchess of Ravenscroft, resplendent in burgundy velvet, approaching with a smile.

Charlotte dipped into a graceful curtsy. “Your Grace.”

“My dear girl, how marvelous you look tonight! Simply radiant,” the duchess said, clasping her hands with affection. Her gaze swept over Charlotte with approval. “You will no doubt be the belle of the ball.”

“You flatter me, Your Grace,” Charlotte replied, her tone warm but measured. She knew the Dowager Duchess well enough now to appreciate her influence—and the advantages of her favor.

“Nonsense, child. Now, come with me,” the older woman insisted, slipping her arm through Charlotte’s. “There are several gentlemen I must introduce you to. A beauty like you should never be without admirers. Remember what I told you. None of that shy wallflower business this evening. If you wish to catch a husband you simply must charm the gentlemen.” She gave an encouraging smile. “I can ease your way, but it is up to you to do the rest.”

“I shall endeavor not to disappoint.” Charlotte allowed herself to be led through the crowd, her senses sharpening with each step. This was no mere social occasion; it was a battlefield, and Charlotte intended to emerge victorious.

The duchess stopped before a small group of impeccably dressed men. “Gentlemen,” she began, her voice carrying with the authority of her rank, “may I present Lady Charlotte Ashbourne? Charlotte, these are Lord Edward Blackstock, Mr. James Hilig, and Captain William Fickelton.”

Charlotte dipped into another curtsy, her smile gracious. “It is a pleasure to meet you all.”

“The pleasure is entirely ours,” Lord Blackstock said, his green eyes sparkling with interest. “Your arrival has added an undeniable brilliance to the evening.”

“You flatter me, my lord,” Charlotte replied, a hint of amusement coloring her tone. “I suspect the evening was lively long before my entrance.”

“Perhaps,” Captain Fickelton said, his voice tinged with humor, “but I daresay your presence has improved the atmosphere considerably.”

As the conversation flowed, Charlotte responded with practiced ease, balancing light-hearted charm with sharp observation. Her laughter was genuine enough to disarm, her replies careful enough to reveal little of her true intentions. Beneath the surface, her mind whirred with calculations, noting who seemed intrigued by her, and who might be suitable as her a future husband.

But as the evening wore on, a quiet ache settled in her chest. Surrounded by beauty, warmth, and good cheer, she was reminded of all she had lost—of what her family had been before scandal and ruin. For one fleeting moment, as Lord Blackstock guided her across the dance floor, Charlotte allowed herself to revel in the music and the glittering splendor around her.

Yet duty called her back, sharper than ever. She couldn’t afford to forget why she was here. Not merely to secure her future, but also to further her revenge.

Across the room, Grant Tilbury, Duke of Ravenscroft, stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on Charlotte’s every move. She was dazzling tonight, her hair catching the light as she danced, her golden gown flowing like water with every step. She moved with a grace that drew admiration from all corners of the room, but Grant felt a sharp pang of irritation every time another man approached her.

“Exquisite, isn’t she?” Lord Hastings remarked from beside him. “Lady Charlotte Ashbourne is quite the diamond of the first water. Who would have thought after her family’s... troubles?”

Grant’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. “Indeed,” he said evenly. “Lady Charlotte seems to have adapted well.”

His tone betrayed nothing, but inside, a storm raged. The sight of her laughing with Lord Blackstock, accepting his hand for a second dance, stirred something possessive and unfamiliar. He told himself it was concern—that he merely wanted to ensure her success. But as she twirled away from him, her cheeks flushed and her lips curved in a radiant smile, the ache in his chest told a different story.

Frustration simmered beneath his polished exterior. Why did her presence unsettle him so? She was not his to claim. She was here to secure her future, to make a match. That was the plan. A pan he had set in motion. And yet...

Grant’s feet carried him toward her before he could stop himself. But just as he reached the edge of the dance floor, Charlotte was whisked away by a pair of giggling ladies. He stopped, watching her retreat into a quiet corner with her friends.

He lingered for a moment longer before retreating to the edge of the ballroom, his back to the wall as he observed the swirling throng. A faint smirk played on his lips as he caught snatches of conversations about dowries, fortunes, and gossip—but it faded whenever his gaze returned to Charlotte.

“Seven admirers so far,” Beatrice Sinclair teased as she fanned herself dramatically. “And it’s barely ten o’clock. Charlotte, you are making the rest of the ladies look positively invisible.”

Charlotte smiled faintly, though her thoughts were elsewhere. “Quantity does not equal quality, Beatrice. Most of them are here out of curiosity, not admiration.”

Arabella arched an eyebrow. “And yet, one particular Duke hasn’t taken his eyes off you all evening. Perhaps his curiosity runs deeper than most.”

Charlotte’s gaze flicked toward Grant, who stood across the room, his dark figure cutting an imposing silhouette against the festive backdrop. “He watches everyone. It’s what he does.”

“Is that all?” Beatrice asked, her green eyes sparkling. “Because the way he looks at you, I’d wager it’s something more.”

Charlotte shook her head, willing herself to stay focused. “He’s just a man, Bea. And he has his reasons for watching.”

Arabella reached out, her tone softening. “But what about your reasons, Charlotte? Have you achieved your goal?”

Charlotte nodded, though the answer came slowly. “Lord Blackstock mentioned something about a dispute involving the Ravenscroft lands in Cornwall. It may be connected to my family’s downfall.”

Arabella’s expression grew thoughtful. “Cornwall. That’s where your father’s properties were, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Charlotte said, her voice hardening. “If there is a connection, I will uncover it.” She glanced around the potted fern they were gathered behind. “I will have my revenge regardless.”

Beatrice’s hand brushed hers gently. “We are with you, Charlotte. If you need us, you have only to say so.”

Their unwavering support bolstered her resolve, even as her gaze drifted back to Grant. For a moment, their eyes met across the room. His expression was unreadable, but something in his stance—a subtle tension, a flicker of intensity—sent her heart skittering.

Focus, Charlotte. She turned back to her friends, straightening her shoulders. “I must return to the crush,” she said lightly, masking the swirl of emotions within her. “My dance card is full.” She laughed. “Those are words I never wished thought to utter."

Grant’s jaw clenched as Charlotte disappeared into the crowd once more. Every laugh, every smile she bestowed on another man stoked the embers of something he refused to name. It wasn’t his place to feel this way, yet the sight of her ignited a restlessness he couldn’t contain.

“Your Grace,” a voice interrupted, and Grant turned to find the widowed Lady Amelia Morley standing before him, her fan fluttering coquettishly. “Might I trouble you for a dance?”

“I’m afraid I must decline,” Grant said, his tone polite but distant. “I find myself disinclined to dance this evening.”

Lady Amelia pouted prettily but curtsied nonetheless. As she drifted away, Grant’s attention snapped back to Charlotte, who now stood with an elderly dowager, her genuine warmth evident even at a distance.

How was it possible that she seemed to exist in every corner of his mind? She was supposed to be a guest under his protection, a young woman whose future he was helping to secure. But every glance, every interaction only deepened the knot in his chest.

She turned again, her golden hair catching the light, her bright eyes scanning the crowd. For a fleeting moment, their gazes locked, and something unspoken passed between them—a question, an acknowledgment, a challenge.

Grant exhaled sharply, his resolve fraying. He had vowed to remain distant, to honor the boundaries he had so carefully constructed. But Charlotte Ashbourne, with her indomitable spirit and quiet strength, was breaking through them all.

He scowled. Around him, the festivities unfolded with the practiced ease of the aristocracy—elegant waltzes, bursts of laughter, the clinking of crystal goblets. Yet, his focus remained singular.

Across the room, Charlotte was the center of attention. Her hair shimmered in the candlelight, cascading over her shoulders like a veil of sunlight. The blasted gown she wore clung perfectly to her form, accentuating her natural grace. It was a dress designed to make an impression, and it was doing precisely that. What the devil had he been thinking to choose such a frock for her?

Charlotte’s laughter, light and unforced, carried over the din of the gathering, drawing Grant’s attention more keenly than the strains of the orchestra. Her suitors—Lord Hilig, Sir William Pembrook, and Viscount Blackstock among them—hovered around her like moths to a flame. Each man seemed determined to outdo the others, offering compliments, champagne, or clever remarks in their bid to secure her favor.

Grant’s grip tightened on his glass, the fine crystal straining beneath the pressure of his fingers. “Insufferable coxcombs,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low enough to be lost amidst the merriment. His lips pressed into a thin line, his usually stoic demeanor betraying flickers of irritation he struggled to suppress.

He had no claim on her, he reminded himself. No reason to feel this... jealousy.

And yet, the sight of Viscount Blackstock leaning too close, whispering something that made Charlotte laugh, sent a sharp pang through Grant’s chest. His grey eyes darkened, the storm of emotions threatening to breach the carefully constructed walls he had maintained for years.

Grant, unable to remain a passive observer any longer, set his glass down on a passing tray and began to move. His strides were purposeful, cutting through the crowd with ease. He ignored the greetings and inquiries of acquaintances, his focus honed solely on Charlotte.

Her breath caught, her fingers tightening on her fan. The ballroom seemed to fade around them, the bustling crowd and glittering decorations reduced to a distant blur.

“Lady Charlotte,” Grant said as he came to a stop before her, his voice low and edged with something unspoken. “Might I have a word? In the blue parlor?”

She hesitated, her bright eyes searching his face for clues to his intent. She opened her mouth to decline, but before she could form the words, Grant placed a firm hand at the small of her back. His touch sent a jolt through her, and before she knew it, she was being guided out of the ballroom and into a nearby parlor.

The door clicked shut behind them, sealing out the noise of the ball. The sudden quiet was jarring, amplifying the tension in the room. Charlotte whirled to face Grant, her cheeks flushed with a mix of indignation and something she dared not name.

“Your Grace,” she began, her voice sharp, “what is the meaning of this? Your behavior is most improper.”

Grant, standing tall and unyielding, met her gaze with equal intensity. “Improper?” he echoed, his voice rougher than usual. “And what of your behavior, Lady Charlotte? Entertaining every suitor who approaches, indulging their attentions with reckless abandon?”

Charlotte’s chin lifted, her eyes flashing with defiance. “I was being sociable, as any lady would at a ball. But you—” She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “Why does it matter to you? Why do you look at me as if—” She faltered, unable to complete the thought.

Grant’s jaw tightened, his composure slipping further. “You presume too much, my lady.”

“Do I?” Charlotte challenged, her heart pounding. “Then why are we here, alone, Your Grace? Why drag me from the ball like a misbehaving child if my actions truly mean nothing to you?”

The air between them crackled with tension, each word sparking another layer of emotion. His carefully constructed facade crumbled as he stepped closer, his towering presence crowding Charlotte without touching her.

“You infuriating woman,” he growled, his voice low but fierce. “Can you not see that I—” He stopped abruptly, running a hand through his dark hair in frustration. “Blast it, Charlotte.”

Her breath hitched at the sound of her name, spoken with such raw emotion. Her anger faltered, replaced by a whirlwind of confusion and longing. “Grant...” she began, her voice trembling.

The use of his given name seemed to break something within him. Without warning, he closed the distance between them, his hands coming up to cup her face. His lips crashed onto hers, fierce and unyielding, silencing any further protest.

For a moment, Charlotte froze, overwhelmed by the suddenness of the kiss. Then, as if a dam had burst, she melted into him. Her hands clutched at his coat, her body responding instinctively to the passion in his touch. The world outside the parlor ceased to exist; there was only the heat of his lips, the strength of his arms around her, the intoxicating scent of sandalwood and desire.

Grant deepened the kiss, his control unraveling with every passing second. He had spent weeks denying the pull he felt toward her, convincing himself that his duty and her past rendered any attachment impossible. But now, with Charlotte in his arms, all logic and reason fled, leaving only the raw truth of his feelings.

When they finally parted, both breathless, Grant rested his forehead against hers. “Charlotte,” he murmured, his voice hoarse, “I’ve tried to resist. Tried to stay away. But you... you’ve undone me.”

Charlotte’s heart ached at his confession, even as guilt gnawed at her. “Grant, I—” She hesitated, the weight of her secrets pressing down on her. “The ball. Your mother. I must go.”