Chapter 12

Twelve

G rant did not request Charlotte’s company the following day, and by evening, she had grown wary of sitting alone and replaying all that had passed between them. She would surely go mad if she did not do something to occupy herself. To that end, she left her chamber intent on searching for something she could use to further her revenge.

Her heart fluttered like a caged bird as she stepped into the duke’s study. The door closed softly behind her, shutting out the soft glow of the corridor. Her silk slippers whispered against the plush Aubusson carpet, muffled by the weight of her resolve—and her guilt.

The room exuded an air of authority and control, the scent of leather-bound books and beeswax candles mingling in a heady concoction that made her pulse quicken. Firelight flickered across the dark wood paneling, casting restless shadows on the shelves lined with tomes and artifacts. The Duke’s world was one of power, precision, and secrecy.

And she was an intruder in it.

I shouldn’t be here, she thought, her steps faltering as her gaze settled on the imposing mahogany desk dominating the room. Its surface, though meticulously organized, held a slight imperfection: a drawer stood ajar, beckoning her like a siren’s call.

What if he returns? Her breath hitched at the thought of Grant—his tall, commanding presence filling the doorway, his piercing grey eyes darkening as they fixed on her.

Charlotte shook her head, trying to dispel the image. She had come too far to turn back now.

Her gloved fingers traced the intricate carvings along the desk’s edge, the polished wood cool against her skin. It was as though she could feel the weight of his decisions, his burdens, in the very grain of the wood.

“This is madness,” she murmured, glancing over her shoulder as if expecting his shadow to materialize. But the room remained still, save for the crackling fire.

Charlotte’s hand hovered over the drawer, her fingers trembling. Just one peek, she promised herself. Then she would leave, and he would never know she had intruded on his private space.

Her conscience battled with her desperation. This was a grievous breach of trust. But wasn’t it necessary? The man whose home she now stood in had been the orchestrator of her family’s ruin. Yet with every encounter, every unexpected kindness, her certainty had begun to erode. Her heart was in a precarious state. She needed to end this before she lost it all together. She needed answers, and they lay tantalizingly close.

Swallowing her guilt, Charlotte grasped the brass handle and eased the drawer open further. The soft scrape of wood against wood seemed deafening. Her breath quickened as her eyes fell upon a neat stack of papers. Atop the pile lay a letter, its edges worn, the seal broken. It had clearly been read many times.

What secrets are you hiding, Grant? she wondered, her curiosity overpowering her trepidation.

With trembling hands, she unfolded the letter. The elegant handwriting sprawled across the page drew her in, the words vivid and raw:

"I have done what I must to preserve the legacy of our family. The Ashbourne estate was always precarious, its debts growing with each passing season. Their losses could not be mitigated, yet I secured what I could to ensure my own tenants would not suffer the same fate."

Charlotte’s brow furrowed, her fingers tightening on the parchment as she continued to read.

"I never wished for harm to come to the Viscount or his family. The choices I made were born not of greed, but of necessity. Still, I know my actions will not be seen in this light. To them, I will always be the villain, a man who profited from their downfall. It is a weight I will carry willingly if it means securing a future for those who depend on me."

Her breath hitched. The words blurred as tears welled in her eyes. “Dear God,” she whispered, her free hand flying to her mouth.

The letter trembled in her grasp as she read the final lines:

“To learn of the viscounts treachery would be crushing for his family. I will endure their hatred, as long as it spares them the truth of all he has done. Sometimes, doing what is right means being misunderstood. Sometimes, it means being despised. I am at peace with that undeniable reality.”

The paper fell from her hands, fluttering to the desk as she staggered back. Her chest constricted with the weight of her realization. “Grant...” she murmured, tears spilling down her cheeks. He had protected her. He had protected all of them. But from what?

The room seemed to close in around her as the enormity of her misjudgment settled on her shoulders. Charlotte paced in agitation, her skirts brushing against the edges of the rug with every hurried step. Her mind whirled, replaying every bitter word she had spoke about Grant, every moment of animosity she had cultivated.

He was never the villain she had believed him to be. Charlotte had been so certain of his guilt, so consumed by her own pain that she never stopped to consider the truth—even when he all but told her. He had done what he had to do to protect his estate and her family.

Her gaze darted to the portrait above the mantle, the painted visage of Grant Tilbury. The stern set of his jaw, which she had once interpreted as cold indifference, now seemed to her a mask of worry and responsibility. Even in oil and canvas, he exuded strength, but now she saw the cracks in his armor—the burdens he bore for the sake of those he cared for.

“You were trying to save us,” she whispered to the portrait, her voice trembling. “Your family, your tenants. My family. And I... I made you my enemy.”

The fire crackled, its warmth doing little to thaw the chill that had settled over her. Charlotte sank into the high-backed leather chair behind the desk, her hands trembling as they gripped the armrests.

“I’ve been such a fool,” she admitted aloud, her voice breaking. “Driven by anger, blinded by my own grief. And now... how can I ever face him?”

The sound of the door opening snapped her from her thoughts. Charlotte shot to her feet, her heart pounding as Grant entered the study. His tall frame filled the doorway, his expression darkening as his gaze fell upon her.

“Lady Charlotte,” he said, his voice cold and clipped. “To what do I owe the pleasure of finding you in my private study?”

“I...” Charlotte faltered, her mind scrambling for an explanation. Her eyes darted to the letter on the desk, its presence damning.

Grant’s sharp gaze followed hers, and his jaw tightened. “You were reading my correspondence.”

It was not a question.

Charlotte swallowed hard, her guilt threatening to choke her. “Yes,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Grant’s expression didn’t soften; if anything, it grew harder. He stepped into the room, closing the door firmly behind him. “And what have you learned?”

“That you... that you acted out of necessity, not malice,” Charlotte said, her voice trembling. “You ruined my family to protect your own people. To protect me, Mother, and Henry.”

Grant’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze unreadable. “And does that absolve me in your eyes, Lady Charlotte?”

Charlotte flinched at the steel in his tone. “I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice breaking. “But I do know that I was wrong to judge you so harshly, to blame you for everything without understanding the full truth.”

Her voice trembled slightly, the weight of her father’s despair, her mother’s tears, and her own sleepless nights fueling her.

Grant sighed deeply, his broad shoulders rising and falling with the weight of an unspoken burden. He turned away from her, his hand brushing against the edge of the desk as he moved toward the fire. For a long moment, he stared into the flames, his profile illuminated by the dancing light.

“My father,” he began, his voice quieter now, tinged with something that almost sounded like regret, “was a man of excess. When I inherited the title, I inherited not only his debts but the ruinous legacy he left behind. Ravenscroft teetered on the brink of collapse.”

Charlotte blinked, her resolve faltering as she absorbed his words.

Grant turned to face her, his expression grim. “Every decision I made—every painful, calculated choice—was born of necessity. To preserve my family’s name. To ensure the tenants who relied on me for their livelihood were not cast out into the streets. It was not cruelty, Lady Charlotte. It was survival. And I thought of your family, too.”

Grant’s dark eyes met hers, their intensity piercing. “Your family’s estate was in decline long before I intervened. I did what I could to mitigate the losses—to prevent a complete collapse. But there were limits to what could be salvaged. To how much I could shield you.”

Charlotte’s breath hitched. “You mean to say...” She faltered, her hands trembling. “You mean to say that our ruin was inevitable?”

“I regret the pain it caused you,” Grant said, his tone grave. “But I did not create your family’s circumstances. I only acted within the confines of what I could do to protect those under my care.”

“I... I didn’t know,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I believed you took everything from us out of greed.”

Grant stepped closer, his expression softening as he studied her face. “I understand why you might think that,” he said gently. “But I assure you, Charlotte, that was never my intent.”

Her heart ached with the weight of her misunderstanding, the realization of her own misplaced hatred cutting deep. She had spent so much time vilifying this man, blaming him for every misfortune, only to discover that he had carried his own burdens in silence.

“I must confess something,” she said, lifting her gaze to meet his. “I came to Ravenscroft intending to seek revenge. To make you suffer as I believed my family had suffered.”

Grant’s brows furrowed, but he did not interrupt.

“I was wrong,” Charlotte continued, her voice trembling. “I see that now. And for that, I owe you an apology.”

For a long moment, Grant said nothing, his intense gaze locked on hers. Then, to her astonishment, his lips quirked into a faint smile. “You have spirit,” he said, his voice warm despite the gravity of the moment. “It seems we have both judged one another unfairly.”

A tentative smile tugged at Charlotte’s lips, a flicker of relief breaking through her guilt. “I suppose we have,” she admitted. “Perhaps it is time we put aside our grievances and sought to understand one another.”

Grant inclined his head, a rare softness in his expression. “I would like that.”

Charlotte took a deep breath, summoning every ounce of courage she possessed. “I intend to make amends, if you’ll allow it,” she said, her voice steady despite the tears that threatened to fall. “I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I hope to earn it.”

His gaze softened, a flicker of something—pain, perhaps?—passing across his features. He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Forgiveness.”

The vulnerability in his eyes, so rarely seen, struck her like a blow. Her breath hitched, her heart aching with the weight of their shared pain. She took a tentative step forward, her voice trembling with emotion.

“Grant,” she murmured, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “I was wrong about you. And I am so very sorry.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The fire crackled softly, its warmth wrapping around them like a fragile truce. Then, slowly, Grant reached out, his fingers brushing hers in a tentative gesture of understanding.

“Perhaps,” he said quietly, “we can find a way forward, together.”

Charlotte’s heart swelled with a mixture of hope and trepidation as she met his gaze. “Together,” she echoed, the word a fragile promise.