Page 33 of The Duke’s Christmas Redemption

“Soon.” His grey eyes studied her face with an intensity that made her breath catch. “Charlotte, I... that is, I wish to say...”

A knock at the door interrupted whatever admission he’d been about to make. Peters entered with a stack of urgent messages, and the moment shattered like fine crystal dropped on a marble floor.

“Your Grace, Physician Wilson requests instruction about the quarantine arrangements, and Lady Margaret asks what you wish her to do to assist...”

William’s expression shifted back to its usual businesslike mien, though something softer lingered in his eyes when he looked at Charlotte.

“Rest,” he repeated firmly. “I will manage things until you wake.”

As Charlotte made her way upstairs, she found herself remembering how he’d looked in the Fletcher cottage – strong yet gentle, authoritative yet kind. The William she’d glimpsed this night was a man she could admire, perhaps even love, if he would only let her see more of his true self.

But that was a thought for another time. For now, she would rest, gathering strength for the challenges ahead. They had made progress this night, not just in managing the crisis, but in finding ways to work together – it gave her hope for her life ahead, a ray of sunshine where before, things had been mostly grey.

It was, she reflected as she drifted towards sleep, a beginning. And beginnings, her mother had always said, were the most important part of any journey.

Through her window, the rising sun painted Alverton’s grounds in growing light, promising another day of trials and opportunities. But for the first time since her marriage, Charlotte felt truly hopeful about what that day might bring.

The last thing she remembered before sleep claimed her was the warmth of William’s hand on her elbow, and the way his voice had softened when he called her name.

*****

Early September 1817

The stillroom at Alverton Grange had never been so busy.

Charlotte stood amidst organised chaos as maids sorted medicinal herbs and prepared treatments under Mrs Walden’s watchful eye. The pungent scent of dried yarrow mingled with fresh mint and the sharper note of willow bark, creating an atmosphere both medicinal and oddly comforting.

“The feverfew supply runs low, Your Grace,” Mrs Walden reported, consulting her carefully maintained inventory. “And we’ve barely enough willow bark to last the week, should new cases arise.”

Charlotte made a note in her own ledger, trying to ignore the weariness that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in her bones. A fortnight of tending the sick had left its mark on everyone involved in the crisis, though thankfully the number of new cases had begun to slow.

“Perhaps we might send to York for more supplies?” she suggested, rubbing her temple where a headache threatened. “The apothecary there usually—”

“Your Grace should sit down before she falls down,” Mrs Walden interrupted with the particular tone that meant she would brook no argument. “You’ve been on your feet since dawn, and it’s nearly noon.”

“There’s too much to be done,” Charlotte protested, though she allowed herself to be guided to a chair. “The inventory must be completed before—”

“Before His Grace returns from his morning ride and finds his Duchess has exhausted herself yet again?” The housekeeper’s raised eyebrow held volumes of meaning. “I think not, Your Grace. The maids and I can manage the counting well enough.”

Charlotte opened her mouth to object, but movement in the doorway caught her attention. William stood there, still in his riding clothes, his cravat slightly loosened from his morning exercise. Something in his expression made her heart flutter – concern, perhaps, or that particular softness she’d begun to glimpse more frequently since the night they’d spent tending little Emma Fletcher.

“Mrs Walden appears to have the right of it,” he said quietly, stepping into the room. “You look pale, Charlotte.”

The use of her given name, still rare enough to send warmth spreading through her chest, suggested real worry rather than mere courtesy. Charlotte straightened in her chair, unwilling to admit to the fatigue that made her head spin.

“I am perfectly well,” she assured him, though the slight tremor in her hands as she reached for her ledger betrayed her. “There is simply so much to be done, and with supplies running low—”

“Then perhaps an extra pair of hands might prove useful?” William moved further into the room, his presence somehow making the familiar space feel different – more intimate, despite the bustle of working maids. “I find myself at leisure this morning, and I do know something of inventory management.”

Charlotte stared at him, wondering if fatigue had begun to affect her hearing. The Duke of Alverton, offering to help count medical supplies? Surely she must have misunderstood.

But no – there he stood, his grey eyes holding that new warmth she’d begun to treasure, one eyebrow raised in silent question as he awaited her response.

“I... that is...” Charlotte gathered her scattered thoughts. “Your assistance would be most welcome, Your Grace, but surely you have more pressing matters to attend to?”

“The estate’s prosperity depends upon the health of its people,” William replied, removing his riding gloves with deliberate care. “I can think of no more pressing matter at present.”

The simple statement, delivered in his deep voice, sent an unexpected warmth through Charlotte’s chest. This was a side of William she’d seen emerge more frequently since the night at the Fletcher cottage – thoughtful, considerate, unexpectedly gentle.