Chapter 8

Eight

G rant sat at the head of the table, his imposing figure casting a long shadow across the polished surface. His dark gaze was fixed on Charlotte, who sat to his left, her blonde curls catching the flickering light from the fire behind him.

“Lady Charlotte,” he said, his deep voice breaking the silence, “I have a proposal for you.”

Charlotte nearly chocked on his eggs, her mind racing with possibilities. Could he have discovered her true intentions, the purpose behind her presence here? She forced herself to appear composed, though her heart thundered beneath her calm exterior.

“Yes, Your Grace?” she replied, her voice a careful, controlled murmur as she lowered her fork.

His expression softened almost imperceptibly. “I would like to assist you in securing a suitable husband.”

Charlotte blinked, her shock evident despite her best efforts. A proposal to help her find a husband? Of all the scenarios she’d envisioned, this hadn’t even crossed her mind.

“I… I am not sure I understand,” she stammered, momentarily losing her polished veneer.

He sat his glass down, his tall frame seeming to fill the room. “It’s quite simple,” he said. “You are a woman of admirable qualities, and it would be a shame to see them go unappreciated. With my support you could secure a match that will help to restore your family’s standing.”

Charlotte studied his face, trying to discern any hint of mockery or ulterior motives, but his expression remained sincere.

“That is… quite kind of you, Your Grace,” she managed, her voice wavering slightly. “But I am not certain you understand…”

“Nonsense,” he interrupted, waving away her objections. “In fact, I have already set plans in motion. Madame Lefevre, the finest dressmaker in London, will be here soon to fit you for a gown suitable for my Christmas ball. I have also sent for my mother.”

Charlotte’s eyes widened. “A gown?” she echoed, struggling to grasp the generosity of his gesture. “I couldn’t possibly accept?—”

“You can, and you will,” Grant said firmly, though his tone was warm. “Consider it an investment in your future.” He reached for the jam.

A mixture of gratitude, suspicion, and confusion swirled within her. She had come here with a purpose, and yet the duke was offering her something that could potentially help her far more than her own plan for revenge. She would be a fool to refuse.

“Your Grace, I do not know what to say,” she said, glancing down at her hands, tightly clasped in her lap.

Grant’s expression softened. “Then say nothing. Simply accept the gift in the spirit it is offered.”

When she looked up, Charlotte found herself captivated by the sincerity in his gaze. In this moment, he seemed less like the powerful figure who had led her family to ruin and more like a man capable of kindness and compassion. The realization left her feeling unsteady.

“Thank you,” she said softly, the words feeling unexpectedly genuine. “I shall do my best to make the most of this opportunity.”

Grant nodded, satisfied. “Excellent.” He signaled for a footman to clear away the table. “Let us move to the drawing room then, shall we?”

Charlotte offered an agreeable smile, then stood as a footman pulled out her chair.

Grant offered his arm, then led the way, his confident stride an unshakable reminder of his authority. Charlotte could not help but feel a pang of uncertainty. She had come to Ravenscroft Manor with a clear goal—to avenge her family’s losses. And yet, this unexpected generosity unsettled her more than she could have anticipated.

Just as she began to gather her thoughts, they entered the drawing room. Madame Lefevre stood in the center of the room, a whirlwind of silks and lace spilling over her arms.

“Ah, Lady Charlotte! Enchantée!” Madame Lefevre declared, her arms laden with fabric in shades of gold, emerald, and sapphire. “His Grace has told me all about you, ma chère. We shall make you the belle of the ball, non?”

Charlotte was momentarily overwhelmed by the dressmaker’s exuberance. She drew in a steady breath. “Yes, that would be lovely,” she replied.

Grant’s steady voice cut through the excitement. “Madame Lefevre, perhaps you could show Lady Charlotte the gowns?”

“Mais oui, Your Grace!” With a flourish, Madame Lefevre spread out three gowns on the chaise longue. Charlotte’s breath caught at the sight of them, each one more exquisite than anything she’d worn since her family’s fall from grace. Perhaps more stunning than anything she had ever worn.

As she ran her fingers over the delicate fabrics, Charlotte felt the weight of her conflicting emotions. Accepting one of these gowns was tantamount to accepting aid from the very man she had sworn to ruin. Yet here she was, unable to resist the allure of what they represented—a chance to reclaim a part of her life that had been stolen away. He owed her this and more.

“The gold silk,” Grant remarked thoughtfully. “It will complement Lady Charlotte’s coloring beautifully.”

Charlotte’s cheeks warmed at his words, and she found herself unable to meet his gaze. Instead, she focused on Madame Lefevre, who was already circling her with a measuring tape.

“Arms out, my lady,” the dressmaker instructed, her nimble fingers working with brisk efficiency. “Ah, such a lovely figure! We shall make you irresistible, ma chère.”

As Madame Lefevre adjusted the fit, Charlotte’s mind drifted to the upcoming ball. It would be the second time she stepped into society since her family’s disgrace—a chance to secure a respectable match and, with it, the possibility of restoring her family’s honor. And with Ravenscroft behind her, there was a real possibility. The weight of that responsibility settled heavily on her shoulders.

If only Papa could see me now, she thought, a bittersweet pang in her chest. He would be so proud to see her in such fine attire again. Though he certainly would not approve of her accepting such a gift from the duke. It simply was not done.

“A penny for your thoughts, Lady Charlotte?” Grant’s voice was pitched low, meant for her ears alone.

Charlotte started, realizing she’d been lost in contemplation. “I was just… thinking about the importance of this ball, Your Grace. I have no wish to disappoint.”

Grant’s gaze softened, his usual guarded expression yielding to something gentler. “I have every confidence you will carry yourself admirably.”

Though his words were meant to reassure, they only deepened her turmoil. How could she reconcile her gratitude for his help with the burning desire for retribution? Still, she could not forget the misery he had caused her family. One good deed—several good deeds—could not undo all they had suffered at his hand.

As Madame Lefevre continued her work, Charlotte glanced at her reflection in the nearby mirror. The contrast between her simple muslin dress and the shimmering gold silk of the gown was stark, a vivid reminder of her family’s losses. For Mama, for Henry, for all we have lost, she reminded herself fiercely. She could not afford to falter now.

Yet, she could not help but wonder about the man who had, unwittingly or not, begun to unravel her desire for recompense. Was he truly the villain she had believed him to be?

Grant observed Madame Lefevre’s progress with a contemplative air, his gaze lingering on Charlotte’s poised figure. The gold silk of the gown caught the light beautifully, enhancing the quiet grace with which she carried herself. There was something almost regal about her, he mused. How different might things have been…

He halted the thought abruptly, unwilling to give voice to such speculations. His duty lay in upholding his family’s legacy, not in dwelling on what might have been. And yet, as he watched her, he felt a strange stirring of admiration—and something even more dangerous.

“Your Grace,” Madame Lefevre’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “Would you care to comment on the fit of the bodice?”

Grant cleared his throat, realizing he had been staring. “I’m sure your expertise is more than sufficient. I trust your judgment completely.”

Charlotte glanced up, her cheeks flushed as their eyes met. For a brief moment, neither spoke, the air between them thick with unspoken thoughts.

Before the silence could stretch further, the door to the drawing room opened with a soft, authoritative click, and the Dowager Duchess of Ravenscroft swept into the room, her presence immediately commanding attention. “What do we have here?” She asked.