Page 69 of The Duke’s Christmas Redemption

“Yet he pushes me away. Each time we draw closer, each time I think that perhaps we might build something real between us, he retreats behind those careful walls.”

“He pushes you away precisely because you’ve made him feel too much.” Margaret moved back to the sofa, her skirts rustling softly against the carpet. “Think, Charlotte. When had William ever failed to master any situation, any emotion, that threatened his carefully maintained order? He hadn’t. Until you.”

The observation struck with devastating accuracy. Charlotte sank into her chair, remembering a hundred small moments - the way that William’s hand had trembled when he helped her from the carriage, how his voice changed when they were alone, the vulnerability in his grey eyes that morning beneath the oak tree when he’d spoken of partnerships and trust.

“I believe,” Margaret continued carefully, “that you terrify him far more than Caldwell ever could. Sir Geoffrey threatens Alverton’s reputation, yes. But you... you threaten the walls William has spent years building around his heart.”

“I never meant to...” Charlotte began.

“Of course you didn’t. Love rarely announces its intentions before laying siege to our careful defences.”

Margaret’s smile held gentle understanding.

“Oh…”

“But Charlotte, consider - why does my brother react so strongly to your attempts to protect him? Not because you went behind his back, though that pains him. But because you proved yourself willing to risk everything - his good opinion, his trust, even his love - to shield him from harm.”

“As he would do for those he...”

Charlotte stopped, the word sticking in her throat.

“For those he loves?” Margaret finished softly. “Yes. And that terrifies him more than any scandal or financial ruin ever could. Because love, real love, cannot be controlled, or managed, or kept safely distant. It demands vulnerability, demands trust, demands that we open ourselves to possible pain.”

The coals settled in the fireplace, sending sparks dancing upward. Charlotte watched them fade, each golden point of light dying like her hopes of reaching William through his careful barriers.

“What am I to do?” she asked finally. “He won’t speak to me, won’t even remain in the same room long enough for me to explain...”

“Then perhaps it’s time to stop trying to explain.” Margaret leaned forward, her expression intent. “Actions speak louder than words, especially with William. You’ve proven you’ll fight for him - now prove that you’ll fight for your marriage, even against his own stubborn nature.”

“How?” Charlotte twisted her handkerchief between her fingers. “How does one fight against such carefully constructed defences?”

“By refusing to let him retreat into solitude. By showing him that love isn’t a weakness to be guarded against, but a strength to be embraced.” Margaret’s voice held quiet conviction. “My brother has spent years building walls to protect himself from pain. But you, my dear sister, have already breached those defences in ways that he never expected.”

Before Charlotte could respond, voices in the corridor drew their attention. It seemed that William had returned earlier than planned.

His deep tones carried clearly through the heavy oak door, though his words were muffled. The answering voice, sharp with barely contained frustration, could only belong to Sir Geoffrey Caldwell. Two calls in three days – this could not bode well, and she still did not know what he had said to William on the earlier occasion…

Charlotte rose instinctively, but Margaret caught her hand.

“Wait,” she said softly. “Listen first.”

“I believe that we have nothing further to discuss, Sir Geoffrey.” William’s voice held that intense control which always masked his deepest emotions. “My answer remains unchanged.”

“Does it?” Caldwell’s laugh cut like broken glass. “Even knowing what your Duchess has been doing? The investigations that she’s pursued behind your back? Tell me, has she shared with you what she discovered in Harrison’s office?”

Through the window, Charlotte saw how the rain had intensified, turning the morning nearly as dark as twilight. The drumming on the glass almost - but not quite - masked the terrible silence that followed Caldwell’s words.

“My wife’s actions are not your concern.” William’s voice emerged in deadly quiet tones, yet Charlotte heard the strain beneath his composure. “Nor will they influence my decisions regarding your supposed claims.”

“No?” Caldwell’s tone dripped false sympathy. “How fascinating. Tell me, Your Grace - does she know about the other set of books? The ones that your father kept hidden in that clever compartment behind his desk? The ones that might explain how Alverton survived those difficult years after his death?”

Charlotte felt Margaret stiffen beside her.

“What is he talking about? I can’t believe that such a thing is true!”

“I don’t know,” Charlotte whispered, her heart thundering against her ribs. “But William...”

The silence from the corridor stretched unbearably. Even the rain seemed to pause, holding its breath for William’s response. When it came, his voice held such studied neutrality that Charlotte felt ill at the sound of it.