Page 64 of The Duke’s Christmas Redemption

“Your Grace.” He bowed to William, then acknowledged Charlotte with great formality. “I apologise for arriving at such an hour, but certain matters have arisen that require immediate attention.”

William rose with that fluid grace that caught at Charlotte’s breath, even now.

“Of course. We’ll speak in my study.” He did not look at Charlotte as he added, “Peters, please inform Her Grace that I shall be occupied with business matters this morning. She need not wait luncheon.”

The dismissal, though courteously worded, struck like a physical blow.

Charlotte watched them leave, noting how William’s shoulders held rigid tension beneath his perfectly tailored coat. Even his stride had changed - no longer the confident progress of a man secure in his domain, but something more cautious, as though he feared what might await around each corner.

“More tea, Your Grace?”

Peters’ quiet inquiry held carefully concealed sympathy.

“No, thank you.” Charlotte rose, unable to maintain the pretence of eating any longer. “I believe that I shall take some air in the gardens.”

“Your Grace might wish a heavier pelisse,” the footman ventured. “The wind holds a bitter edge this morning.”

The concern in his voice nearly undid her carefully maintained composure. How obvious was their estrangement becoming, that even the servants felt compelled to offer such gentle support?

In her chambers, Sarah helped her change into her walking dress with swift efficiency. The deep green wool that had once drawn William’s quiet praise now seemed to mock her with memories of happier days. Yet as she turned to leave, her lady’s maid spoke with uncharacteristic directness.

“Your Grace... that is, we in the household, we see how His Grace suffers too. Perhaps...”

“Thank you, Sarah.” Charlotte cut her off gently, unable to bear well-meant comfort that only highlighted her own helplessness. “That will be all.”

As Charlotte descended the main staircase, fragments of conversation drifted from William’s study. The heavy oak door muffled most words, but certain phrases carried with devastating clarity.

“...must be dealt with immediately, Your Grace. The implications...”

“I am well aware of the implications.” William’s voice held that careful control that always masked his deepest distress. “The question is how this information reached certain parties.”

Charlotte’s steps faltered. She gripped the banister, its polished wood cool beneath her gloved fingers. Had Caldwell already informed William of her visit to Mr Harrison’s office? Her mind raced through possibilities, each more devastating than the last.

“If Your Grace would consider...” Mr Harrison began, but William cut him off.

“Consider what? How best to explain why my wife...”

He stopped abruptly, and Charlotte’s heart seemed to cease beating entirely. She forced herself to continue down the stairs, though each step felt like walking through deep water. The entrance hall’s familiar grandeur - the family portraits watching from above, the marble floors gleaming in the morning light - seemed suddenly alien and hostile.

The gardens, when she emerged into them, showed the first cruel touch of approaching winter. Frost rimed the edges of fallen leaves, and her breath formed delicate clouds in the morning air. The rose garden her mother-in-law had planted lay dormant now, bare canes reaching towards a steel-grey sky like supplicating fingers. Charlotte walked without conscious direction, her thoughts as tangled as the brambles she passed. Should she have told William immediately about her visit to Mr Harrison’s office? About the proof of Caldwell’s forgeries? Yet how could she, when such revelation would require explaining how she had obtained copies of his father’s documents in the first place?

The one person that he was beginning to trust...

Caldwell’s words poisoned every attempt at rational thought. She had acted from love, from a desperate desire to protect William from threats that he refused to share. Yet in doing so, had she proven herself exactly what he feared - someone who would breach his trust, who would act behind his back, despite his explicit wishes?

The crunch of boots on frosted gravel made her start. She turned to find William standing a few yards away, his greatcoat buttoned against the morning chill, his face holding such defined composure that she felt her heart crack beneath her ribs.

“I saw you from my study window,” he said quietly. “Walking alone in this bitter wind.”

The concern in his voice, masked though it was, nearly undid her completely.

Even now, even with this gulf widening between them, he noticed.

He cared.

“The cold helps one think clearly,” Charlotte managed, though her voice emerged less steady than she might have wished. “And there is much that requires clear thought, these days.”

William’s expression shifted slightly - a minute crack in his studied mask that revealed such pain beneath that Charlotte had to grip her muff tightly to keep from reaching for him.