Page 31 of The Duke’s Christmas Redemption

Chapter Eight

The night deepened around them as they worked, servants occasionally appearing to add more candles or stoke the fire. Charlotte found herself becoming increasingly aware of William’s every movement – the careful way that he dipped his quill, the slight furrow in his brow as he concentrated on difficult calculations, the unconscious grace with which he reached for each new ledger.

“If we reduce the planned renovations to the south wing...” He paused, running one finger down a column of figures.

“No,” Charlotte said quietly. “The estate must maintain its dignity, even in crisis. What about the new carriages you’d planned to order?”

William glanced at her sharply.

“How did you know about those?”

“Mrs Walden mentioned them. The current ones are serviceable enough for another year, surely?”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips.

“You’ve been making good use of your time here, haven’t you? Learning all of Alverton’s secrets.”

“Not all,” Charlotte replied, her heart quickening at that hint of warmth in his voice. “But enough to understand what can wait and what cannot.”

Their eyes met over the ledgers, and something electric passed between them. William’s usual stern expression had softened into something more contemplative, almost tender.

A knock at the library door shattered the moment.

“Your Grace?” Peters’ worried voice carried through the heavy wood. “Physician Morton sends word – the Fletcher infant’s fever has risen again.”

Charlotte was on her feet before she could think, but William’s hand caught her wrist. His touch sent sparks racing up her arm, despite the gravity of the situation.

“It’s nearly midnight,” he said softly. “You’re exhausted. Let Physician Morton handle this.”

“I must go.” Charlotte met his concerned gaze steadily. “Mary Fletcher needs more than just medical care right now. She needs to know she’s not alone.”

William’s fingers tightened slightly on her wrist, and she saw the battle in his eyes – duty warring with the desire to protect her. Finally, he nodded.

“I’ll come with you.”

“William, you don’t have to—”

“We’re in this together, remember?” He released her wrist to reach for his coat. “And I won’t have my Duchess walking the estate alone at night, illness or no illness.”

The possessive note in his voice when he said ‘my Duchess’ sent a shiver down Charlotte’s spine that had nothing to do with the late hour’s chill. As she gathered her shawl, she watched him issue swift, precise orders to Peters about lanterns and medical supplies. This crisis was showing her a side of William that she’d only glimpsed before – capable, decisive, and unexpectedly protective. The coldly practical Duke who had dismissed her concerns about tenant cottages was becoming something else entirely – a partner she could admire, perhaps even...

Charlotte pushed that dangerous thought away. They had a crisis to manage. Personal feelings, no matter how confusing or compelling, must wait. But as they stepped out into the moonlit night, William’s steady presence beside her felt like more than just duty. Perhaps Mrs Walden had been right – sometimes crisis revealed truths that prosperity concealed.

The moonlit walk to the Fletcher cottage gave Charlotte ample time to observe William’s changed demeanour. Gone was the stern, unapproachable Duke who had dismissed her concerns so readily in those first difficult weeks. In his place strode a man fully engaged in his responsibilities, yet somehow softer around the edges.

He matched his pace to hers without comment, one hand occasionally hovering near her elbow when they crossed rougher patches of the lane. The gesture seemed unconscious, as though some deep-seated instinct to protect had overcome his usual reserve.

“The moon is bright enough,” he said quietly as they approached the cottage. “Perhaps we might spare one of our lanterns for the sickroom?”

“An excellent thought.” Charlotte’s heart warmed at his consideration. “Mary mentioned how difficult it is to judge Emma’s colour by candlelight alone.”

William’s swift glance held approval, though he said nothing. But as they neared the cottage door, he surprised her by speaking again.

“You’re good with them,” he said softly. “The tenants. They trust you already.”

“They trust Alverton,” Charlotte corrected gently. “I merely try to be worthy of that trust.”

His intake of breath suggested that he might respond, but they had reached the cottage. Physician Morton’s grave face greeted them at the door.