Chapter 4

Four

T he following afternoon, Charlotte stepped down from the carriage, her heart tightening as she took in the formidable structure of Ravenscroft Manor. The manor rose against the sky like a stone fortress, its countless windows gleaming with an almost watchful intensity. She inhaled deeply, steeling herself.

“I shall not be cowed by mere bricks and mortar,” she murmured, smoothing the folds of her pale blue travelling gown. “No matter how grand.”

The entrance steps stretched before her, sweeping and marble-lined, gleaming in the afternoon sun. As she ascended, two footmen appeared at her side, their livery as polished as the oak doors looming ahead. Charlotte’s gaze lingered over the intricate carvings, each detail another reminder of the Duke’s wealth and power—a power that now belonged to a man who had all but dismantled her family’s future.

“Welcome to Ravenscroft Manor, my lady.” The voice was rich and formal. An older gentleman bowed low before her, a butler with an air of quiet authority. “I am Mr. Morley. We trust you will find your stay comfortable.”

Charlotte inclined her head in greeting, masking her unease with a polite smile. “Thank you, Mr. Morley. I’m sure I shall.”

As she stepped into the grand entry hall, she felt a momentary wave of awe that quickly gave way to discomfort. Marble floors gleamed beneath crystal chandeliers, and priceless paintings lined the walls. Everything about Ravenscroft Manor spoke of an opulence that dwarfed even her family’s once-prosperous estate. She forced herself to focus, breathing away the disquiet. She was not here to gawk like some starry-eyed girl.

“Might I show you to your chambers, Lady Charlotte?” Mr. Morley asked, his tone as polished as the manor’s trappings. “Or perhaps you’d care to refresh yourself in the drawing room?”

Charlotte hesitated, her carefully laid plans wavering as she caught sight of an exquisite tapestry draped along the far wall. She felt an urge to reach out, to touch the luxurious fabric.

“Oh, a tour would be ideal, wouldn’t it?” a warm, lilting voice interrupted her thoughts.

She turned to see a plump, matronly woman approaching, her eyes crinkling in a kind smile. “I’m Mrs. Walsh, the housekeeper,” she said. “I would be happy to show you about before you retire to your room.”

Charlotte gathered herself, meeting Mrs. Walsh’s friendly gaze with as much composure as she could muster. “Thank you, Mrs. Walsh. That would be lovely.”

As they strolled through the manor’s corridors, Charlotte could hardly keep her fingers from trailing along the sumptuous fabrics and polished woodwork. Her eyes drank in every corner and detail. You are here with a purpose, Charlotte, she reminded herself. Do not lose sight of it, no matter how dazzling the Duke’s world appears.

“And here we have the blue salon,” Mrs. Walsh announced cheerfully as they paused before a pair of ornate doors. “His Grace often takes tea here in the afternoons.”

At the mention of the Duke, Charlotte’s spine straightened. “Does he?” she replied, keeping her voice light, though her pulse quickened.

“Oh, yes. It’s a favorite of his,” Mrs. Walsh continued, oblivious to Charlotte’s reaction. “The light is ideal for reading.”

Charlotte merely nodded, an idea sparking within her. What volumes might reveal the Duke’s preferences… or his weaknesses?

She murmured, “How splendid. I do enjoy a good book myself.”

“His Grace is partial to estate reports.”

They continued along the corridor, Mrs. Walsh pointing out various features while Charlotte steeled her resolve. The sheer grandeur of her surroundings would not sway her; she would remember the quiet despair that had darkened her father’s final days, the once-vibrant home they had lost. She would see justice done. No matter the cost.

They rounded a corner, and Charlotte’s breath caught. Striding toward them was the Duke himself. The tall frame, the dark hair, the piercing gaze—he commanded the space around him even before he spoke.

“Lady Charlotte,” he greeted her, his deep voice unexpectedly warm. “Welcome to Ravenscroft Manor.”

Charlotte sank into a curtsy, her heart pounding. “Your Grace,” she replied, forcing her voice to remain steady. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

She rose to meet his gaze, which held hers with an intensity she had not anticipated. She squared her shoulders, lifting her chin. She would not shrink beneath his scrutiny.

“I trust your journey was comfortable?” he asked, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Quite,” she replied coolly, though she felt her cheeks warm under his gaze. “Your roads are very well-maintained.”

He arched a brow, clearly amused. “High praise indeed, my lady. Perhaps you’ll allow me to show you more of the estate? Unless you’re fatigued from the journey.”

Charlotte hesitated. This was her chance—to learn, to observe. She pushed aside the impulse to retreat. “I would be delighted, Your Grace,” she said, her tone measured.

As they strolled through the manor, Charlotte could not help but marvel at the luxury surrounding her. Gilt-framed mirrors reflected the warm glow of chandeliers, and priceless artworks adorned each wall. Grant pointed out each detail with a mixture of pride and genuine care that left her feeling unsteady.

“The north wing houses our finest guest chambers,” he said with a teasing warmth. “I trust you’ll find them to your satisfaction, Lady Charlotte. We wouldn’t want you pining for home.”

A smile threatened her composure, and she responded with barely contained amusement. “I assure you, Your Grace, I am quite capable of adapting to new surroundings.”

Even if they resemble a gilded cage .

They paused before an elaborate tapestry. It depicted a pastoral scene, meticulously embroidered and worn with age. The Duke’s expression softened as he regarded it. “This piece has been in my family for generations,” he said quietly. “My great-grandfather commissioned it to commemorate a harvest that saved Ravenscroft during a particularly harsh winter.”

Charlotte studied his profile, noting the hint of nostalgia in his gaze. “A reminder of your responsibilities,” she ventured.

He turned to her, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “Yes,” he said, his voice barely a murmur. “Every thread is a testament to lives under our care, to the legacy I uphold.” He offered her a rueful smile. “Though I confess, some days the burden feels heavier than others.”

Charlotte nodded, surprised by the understanding she felt. “I imagine it must, Your Grace.”

As they continued, Grant’s anecdotes painted a picture of a man who, though he possessed wealth and power, carried a deeper sense of duty than she had imagined. Her resolve to view him solely as a ruthless aristocrat began to falter.

They reached a grand drawing room adorned with evergreen garlands and shimmering ornaments. In one corner, a massive fir tree stood resplendent with twinkling candles and glass baubles.

“Oh,” she breathed, forgetting herself in the magic of the scene. “It’s… enchanting.”

The Duke’s expression softened. “I’m pleased you think so. The staff outdid themselves this year.”

Charlotte felt her cheeks warm. She took a step back, forcing herself to remember her purpose. She was here to right a wrong, not to be dazzled by decoration.

“It’s very… festive,” she managed coolly.

He tilted his head, as though attempting to read her sudden change of tone. “And yet you do not seem to be dazzled,” he replied, his eyes keen.

Charlotte met his gaze, her heart betraying her by racing. It changed nothing, she told herself firmly. He was still the enemy, no matter how captivating his estate—or his eyes—might be.

A footman entered, bowing respectfully. “Your Grace, tea is served in the blue parlor.”

“Thank you, Simmons,” the Duke replied. He gestured to the doorway. “Shall we?”

They settled in an elegantly appointed room, and Grant poured tea with surprising ease. She observed his every movement, each gesture speaking of a life steeped in refinement and confidence.

“What pursuits occupy your time when you’re not gracing ducal estates with your presence?” he asked lightly, though his eyes held a searching intensity.

Charlotte took a steadying sip of tea. “I enjoy reading, Your Grace. And embroidery, of course,” she replied, keeping her tone neutral.

He leaned forward, a teasing glint in his eye. “Surely a woman of your background has more varied interests. Do you have a talent for the pianoforte? Or perhaps you dabble in watercolors?”

She hesitated. His attentiveness was unsettling. “I do sketch, on occasion,” she admitted reluctantly. “Landscapes, mostly.”

A genuine smile spread across his face. “I’d be delighted to see your work. The grounds here are rather inspiring.”

Her heart fluttered, but she forced herself to remain cool.

“That’s very kind, Your Grace,” she replied, her tone growing deliberately aloof. “But I wouldn’t wish to trouble you with amateur attempts.”

He narrowed his gaze slightly, perhaps catching on to her withdrawal. Then his expression lightened, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Tell me, Lady Charlotte—do you play chess?”

She blinked, caught off guard. “I… yes, I do.”

“Excellent,” he said, rising and gesturing toward a nearby chessboard. “Would you indulge me? It’s an excellent way to truly know one’s opponent.”

Her pride stoked, Charlotte accepted. As she studied the board, she reminded herself that this was merely a game, a harmless diversion. But the way he studied her across the table sent a thrill down her spine.

She moved her bishop with a practiced precision, catching a subtle smile on his lips. “Interesting choice,” he murmured.

She straightened, determined not to let him affect her. “Sometimes the unassuming pieces have the greatest power, Your Grace.”

His brow quirked, his voice lowering. “Indeed. Much like people, wouldn’t you agree?”

His words struck her, an unexpected insight she hadn’t anticipated. Perhaps there was more to him than she imagined. She quickly dismissed the idea.

The game progressed, each of his moves mirroring his probing, strategic nature. His knight swept the board with calculated grace, not unlike how he’d subtly navigated their conversations over tea.

“You’re quite the strategist, Your Grace,” she observed, capturing one of his pawns.

He met her gaze, his look warm and intense. “As are you, Lady Charlotte. You’ve surprised me more than once.”

A blush crept up her neck, but she focused intently on the board. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she replied, attempting to sound casual.

“Don’t you?” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “You possess a sharp mind and a competitive spirit. It’s… refreshing.”

Her heart fluttered at his words, though she reminded herself that they were only pleasantries. But as the game neared its end, her carefully laid intentions felt suddenly fragile.

Later, in her chamber, Charlotte paced, the day’s encounters echoing in her mind. She was here for her family, to make the Duke answer for what he had done. And yet, each exchange left her questioning everything she had once believed.

Her heart tightened as she thought of her family and all they had suffered. All they still suffered. Mama had asked her not to do this. Not to go to the duke. But Charlotte would hear none of it. Had she made a mistake? She stared into the darkness beyond the window, and murmured, “What am I doing?”

But no matter the answer, one thing remained clear: Grant Tilbury, Duke of Ravenscroft, was a far more complex adversary than she had anticipated. And, try as she might, she could not ignore the quiet thrill that accompanied each revelation.