Page 47 of The Duke’s Christmas Redemption

Charlotte absorbed this unexpected glimpse into William’s past with careful attention.

“Thank you, Mr Fletcher. I’m glad to see the repairs progressing so well.”

She continued along the path, her mind spinning with new understanding. How often had William walked this way in his youth, accompanying his mother on her morning rounds? Did he remember those happier times when he inspected the repairs, or did the weight of his father’s legacy still press too heavily for such recollections?

The path curved around an ancient yew hedge, and Charlotte’s breath caught at the sight before her. William stood at the crest of a small rise, his tall figure outlined against the autumn sky. He had disposed of his coat in deference to the mild weather, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up as he examined, with his estate manager, what appeared to be architectural drawings.

Something about his posture – the quiet authority, the careful attention to detail, the way the morning sun caught the auburn highlights in his dark hair and limned the strong lines of his face in gold – made her heart ache with newfound understanding.

This was the man she had glimpsed occasionally through his stern facade: capable, conscientious, and possessed of a deep sense of responsibility that had nothing to do with his father’s failures.

As though sensing her presence, he looked up. Their eyes met across the distance, and Charlotte felt the impact like a physical blow. All her carefully prepared speeches, all her determined composure, seemed to desert her in the face of that direct grey gaze.

William dismissed his estate manager with a quiet word, his eyes never leaving Charlotte’s face. For a moment, neither of them moved – the autumn breeze stirring her skirts, lifting tendrils of hair that had escaped her bonnet, while his shirt sleeves billowed gently in the morning air.

“Your Grace,” he said finally, his deep voice carrying clearly across the distance between them. “I had hoped to encounter you this morning.”

Charlotte forced herself to move forward with careful dignity, though her heart thundered.

“I understood from Mrs Walden that you wished to discuss the tenant cottage repairs.”

“Among other matters.” William rolled up the architectural drawings with precise movements that betrayed some inner tension. “Would you...” He paused, seeming to gather his thoughts. “That is, might I request the pleasure of your company for a turn about the grounds? The morning is unusually fine.”

“I should like that very much.”

Charlotte fell into step beside him as he led them along a path that wound through the newly harvested fields. The sound of their footsteps on the packed earth seemed unnaturally loud in the morning quiet.

They walked in silence for several minutes, maintaining a properly decorous distance that nonetheless crackled with awareness. Charlotte could feel the warmth radiating from his tall frame, could catch the familiar scent of sandalwood that clung to his linen shirt.

“The Morris and Fletcher cottage looks much improved,” she ventured finally, when the silence grew too heavy to bear.

“Yes.” William’s hands clasped behind his back in a gesture she had come to recognise as evidence of deep thought. “Tom Fletcher mentioned that you often pass that way on your morning walks.”

“I like to see how the repairs progress.” Charlotte kept her voice carefully neutral, though her pulse quickened at this evidence that he had discussed her with the tenants. “The improvements make such a difference to the families’ comfort.”

William’s stride faltered slightly.

“You were right about that,” he said quietly. “About many things, perhaps.” The admission hung in the air between them, weighted with so much significance that it made Charlotte’s breath come short. Before she could respond, however, he continued. “My mother used to walk these paths each morning,” he said, his voice holding a note that she had never heard before. “She knew every tenant by name, understood their needs, their struggles. After she died...” He stopped walking abruptly, staring out across the autumn-touched fields. “After she died, my father seemed to forget that Alverton was more than just account books and profit margins.”

Charlotte’s heart ached at the pain evident in his voice. Without conscious thought, she moved closer, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched.

“Will you tell me about her?”

His profile was stern in the morning light, but something in his expression softened at her quiet request.

“She would have liked you,” he said after a moment. “Your determination to help, your attention to detail... even your willingness to challenge my decisions when you believe them to be wrong. She was much the same.”

They had reached a small rise overlooking the valley where Alverton Grange stood proud against the autumn sky. William gestured to a weathered stone bench beneath an ancient oak tree, its last leaves painting dappled shadows across the grass.

“Shall we rest a moment?” His voice held careful formality, though something deeper lurked beneath. “The view here is particularly fine on clear mornings.”

Charlotte seated herself with precise grace, arranging her skirts as William stood beside the bench, his tall figure casting a long shadow across the grass. The morning sun caught the signet ring on his hand as he gripped the architectural drawings – the Alverton seal that represented all of the responsibility that he had shouldered so young.

“I have been thinking, over this past two weeks,” he said finally, his deep voice pitched low, “about partnerships, and trust, and the nature of marriage.”

Charlotte’s heart quickened, but she kept her voice steady.

“Indeed?”