Chapter 7

Seven

T he afternoon light cast long shadows across the drawing room as Lady Charlotte hesitated at the threshold. She had excused herself for a nap after luncheon, but found herself unable to sleep. Her gaze moved to where Grant sat before the hearth, his tall frame outlined against the golden flames. His dark grey eyes, reflective and distant, were fixed on the fire as if seeking answers within its depths.

Her pulse quickened. She had come here with a purpose—to uncover the truth of this man, to find a weakness she could exploit. Yet now, faced with him in such an unguarded moment, her resolve felt fragile. Silently, she moved forward, her skirts rustling softly as she lowered herself into the chair opposite his.

At her approach, Grant’s gaze shifted, his eyes sharp yet unreadable as they fixed upon her. The firelight caught her golden hair, casting a halo that softened her features. Charlotte met his gaze steadily, determined not to let him sense the tumult within.

“Your Grace,” she said, her voice steady despite her pounding heart. “I hope I am not intruding.”

His expression remained inscrutable. “Lady Charlotte,” he acknowledged, his tone even. “Not at all. I thought you were napping?”

Her mind raced, grasping for the words she had rehearsed, the plan she’d crafted. Yet, staring into his eyes, everything she had prepared seemed woefully inadequate. The weight of her family’s misfortunes and her promise to right them felt heavier than ever.

“I thought we might… talk,” she began cautiously. “I find myself unable to rest and craving more… substantial conversation.”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face before he masked it. “Indeed?” He arched an eyebrow, his tone mildly amused. “And what sort of substantial conversation did you have in mind, my lady?”

Her heart hammered. This was her chance—to learn about his past, his motivations. She could play the role he expected of her, a curious woman seeking a glimpse into his world. But as she looked at him, her curiosity felt far more genuine than she had anticipated. The weariness etched in the lines around his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, all hinted at struggles he carefully concealed.

“I confess, Your Grace,” she began, her voice soft, “you are something of a mystery. We move in the same circles, or at least we used to, yet you kept yourself distant. I have wondered why.”

Grant’s lips quirked in what might have been a ghost of a smile. “A mystery, am I? I assure you, there is less to me than you might imagine.”

“I rather doubt that.” The words slipped out before she could temper them. “A man with your reputation and standing… surely there are stories worth telling.”

A moment passed, charged and tense. She was ready for him to dismiss her, to retreat into that cool facade he wielded so easily. Yet when he spoke, his voice held an edge of weariness that tugged unexpectedly at her heart.

“Stories, my lady? Perhaps. But I doubt they are stories you would care to hear.”

Something within her softened. She had come seeking ammunition, yet now she found herself genuinely interested, her heart betraying her careful plans. “Try me,” she murmured, leaning forward. “You may be surprised.”

For a moment, he looked at her, truly looked at her, as if weighing his decision. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, the firelight casting a warm glow over his strong features.

“Very well, Lady Charlotte,” he said, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “Tell me, what did you make of Lady Valseford’s rather… spirited display during the quadrille at the Fitzwilliam ball?”

She sensed the test in his question, a challenge to match his lighthearted tone. Smiling, she replied, “It was… memorable. Perhaps more exuberant than one might expect from a woman of her years and position.”

Grant’s lips twitched in faint amusement. “Indeed. One might say the same of several entertainments that evening.”

Sensing an opening, Charlotte leaned closer, her gaze probing. “Forgive me, Your Grace, if I overstep, but I suspect there are heavier matters on your mind than Lady Valseford’s dancing.”

She waited, heart pounding, as his expression shifted, surprise flitting briefly across his face before he resumed his usual composure. Had she gone too far? But then he inclined his head slightly, almost as if in concession.

“You are tenacious, Lady Charlotte,” he said, his tone soft, edged with something close to admiration. “More so than many might expect.”

The words stirred a strange sense of pride in her, and she returned his gaze steadily. “Perhaps I simply recognize a kindred spirit when I see one.”

Grant’s eyes held hers, dark and intense. After a long silence, he looked away, his gaze settling on the fire. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible above the crackling flames.

“When I inherited the dukedom,” he began, “I was handed a crumbling legacy, a mountain of debts.”

Charlotte’s heart constricted. Her own family’s descent from prosperity, the pitying glances from former friends, the constant struggle for dignity—she knew all too well the weight of a broken legacy.

“My father…” Grant’s tone darkened, a flash of bitterness in his eyes. “My father’s… talents lay in depleting rather than preserving. The Ravenscroft estates had been mortgaged, pawned, and squandered.”

The resemblance to her own family’s story struck her, and she pushed down the memory of her father’s ashamed expression as he’d confessed their situation. “That must have been… overwhelming,” she said softly.

He looked at her, as though surprised by her sincerity. “It was… an unrelenting weight. The title, the estates, the people dependent upon us. All crumbling under a legacy I was supposed to uphold.”

A small silence hung between them, fragile, charged. Charlotte found herself leaning forward, drawn in by the glimpse of vulnerability in his words. “How did you manage?” she asked gently.

A mirthless smile curved his lips. “By making decisions that others often found… distasteful. Ruthless, perhaps.”

The pain in his voice resonated deeply, stirring a wave of understanding she hadn’t anticipated. She knew the loneliness of bearing such responsibility, the isolation that came with choices few understood.

“Sometimes,” she murmured, “the right path is not always the popular one.”

Her words seemed to reach him, his eyes meeting hers with a new openness. “No,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “But it can be the only path.”

The weight of his words pressed on her heart, a bridge of unspoken understanding forming between them. She saw a man trapped by duty, burdened by expectation. And in his eyes, for the first time, she saw not the enemy she had envisioned, but someone who, like her, had been forced to sacrifice.

Grant’s gaze softened as he looked at her. “The Ravenscroft legacy is… relentless,” he said, his fingers tightening around his glass. “Every choice scrutinized, every mistake amplified.”

A pang of sympathy took her by surprise. She had come here intent on vilifying him, yet in this moment, she saw him not as a ruthless duke, but as a man weighed down by duty.

“And the estate?” she prompted gently, uncertain why she was now so eager to know the whole truth.

His jaw tightened, a glint of determination in his eyes. “I have been forced to be ruthless to save it. My tenants, the lands… I have sacrificed much to ensure that what remains will flourish.”

Charlotte’s heart hitched, her own memories poignant—her father’s debts, the loss of their home’s former grandeur, the desperate measures they had taken—were still taking—to hold onto some semblance of their past life. She nodded, almost imperceptibly, her gaze filled with understanding.

“I know more about sacrifice than you might imagine, Your Grace,” she said, her voice soft, barely above a whisper.

Grant’s expression softened. “I have no doubt you do, Lady Charlotte.”

She hesitated, unsure of what to say next. “My father… he… we lost more than wealth. We lost… our place. And we lost him.”

The admission hung between them, raw and vulnerable, her carefully constructed defenses slipping in the face of his sympathy. “I wish… I do regret the harm done to you.”

For a moment, she saw something in his eyes that made her heart race. A gentleness, an understanding that reached beyond the confines of their facades. Grant exhaled, his broad shoulders easing, the imposing duke now a man sharing his burdens with a willing listener.

“There are nights,” he murmured, his voice roughened by an emotion she couldn’t place, “when the silence of these halls is louder than any ballroom.”

Charlotte felt herself drawn to him, an inexplicable urge to reach out, to touch his hand and offer comfort. “And how do you bear it?” she whispered, her tone tentative.

A faint, rueful smile curved his lips. “One impossible choice at a time.”

She swallowed, her gaze locked on his. “And does it ever… become easier?”

The fire’s warm glow softened his features, and she glimpsed the vulnerability beneath his stoic mask. He looked away, his voice barely audible. “No. But one learns to bear it with more… grace, perhaps.”

Her heart raced as she studied him, this man she had come to despise yet found herself understanding more deeply than she could have ever anticipated.

He leaned back crossing his legs at the ankles. “It seems to me that securing a suitable husband would resolve your problems and elevate you back to your prior status. I cannot help but wonder why you have yet to marry. Why you relegated yourself to the shadowed corners of society rather than show the ton what you have shown me.” Grant arched a curious brow. “If you had allowed the gentlemen of the town to see you, one surly would have swept you away.”

Charlotte’s cheeks flushed as she averted her gaze to the fire. Perhaps he was correct, but any chance she’d had was long past. No peer would marry her now. Destitute, embroiled in her fathers scandal, and without a dowry. “I fear one cannot change the past, Your Grace.”

“Perhaps not,” he agreed.

She rose, hands smoothing her skirts. “I should return to my chamber, Your Grace. I find myself once more in need of rest.”

Grant stood as well, his frame casting a long shadow across the room. “Of course, Lady Charlotte. Thank you for… your company.”

At the door, Charlotte paused, looking back. Their eyes met, and she saw something in his gaze that made her heart skip—a hint of gratitude, perhaps, or a silent acknowledgment of the bridge they had built between them.

“Until later, Your Grace,” she whispered.

“Indeed, Lady Charlotte. Until later,” he replied, his deep voice filling the stillness of the room.

She slipped into the corridor, the cool air contrasting with the warmth that lingered in her chest. Her mind was a tumult of conflicting emotions. She had set out to punish the villain who had brought her family low, yet now… now she was left with more questions than answers.

In her chamber, she crossed to the window, staring out at the snow dusted gardens below. Her reflection in the glass was a ghostly reminder of the woman she had been, before everything had changed. Before she had started to see a reflection of herself in him.

“I am not sure I can do this.” she whispered, the words escaping like a confession.

As she unpinned her hair and let her golden curls tumble free, Charlotte wrestled with a truth she had never anticipated: she had come seeking vengeance, but had found something altogether different—an unexpected understanding that threatened to unravel everything she had thought she knew.