Page 6 of How to Seduce a Duke this Autumn
Yet, despite the crushing weight of her past pain and her determination to rip that fateful night from her memory completely, her thoughts slipped to the Cross family. She imagined their mourning—once thick as the black wool they must have worn, heavy with solemn silence. Back then, since the late duke had been sick for a while, many would have brushed his death off, but Adam… Adam would have to carry the burden. He always carried more than his share. And now, with himfinally taking his seat, the burden was a title. He would never be just Adam again, the boy sitting across the dinner table with a smile at the ready for her. A friendship lost.
Yet it felt like she’d lost more. She pressed trembling fingers to her lips, her remorse eclipsed by an ache she couldn’t name. Just a year ago, they might have had a wedding, and instead, there had been a funeral. Had Adam felt heavy stepping into those shoes? To bury a father and become the head of a family and a large estate in the same breath?
But she couldn’t ask him.
She never spoke to him again after that dreadful night.
Charlene sucked the air in and pinched the bridge of her nose. If she could shed her skin and become someone else, she’d do it in a heartbeat. But she couldn’t. This was her life and a girl of her standing, the daughter of an earl, her reputation felt more fragile than the antique Chinese vases at the British Museum. And yet, somehow, it was intact—even if just on the outside.
Charlene sighed, curling her arms around her knees.
Well, his return didn’t change anything. She’d steer clear of him. She’d flit about to her heart’s content. And she wouldnotget entangled with a Cross ever again.
Not this time. Not even the handsomest young duke.
*
A few streets east in Mayfair…
Adam folded hisapology, slipping it into his pocket. He had rewritten it countless times, stripping it of words and explanations more and more—there was nothing he could say to erase his failure. A mere apology still felt inadequate. He needed a lifetime to live down the shame of that night. Adam was ashamed for his brother. What David had done was inexcusable.
He couldn’t blame Charlene for not speaking to him.
And yet, especially on this day, he needed Charlene more than anyone else in the world.
But he didn’t know how to go to her.
How do we go back to how things were?
Charlene,
I failed you. I miss you.
Adam Cross, Duke of Rotheworth
The scent of ink wax had long since cooled. A flicker of unease stirred in his chest—not just a dissatisfaction with words, but something far deeper, a clawing awareness that words alone could not repair what had been broken. And on this day, the weights pulling his heart into the abyss seemed unbearable.
And when he stepped out of his study and walked through the hall, even the family chapel loomed, its familiar stillness offering no comfort despite the flowers and respects Mother paid his late father there every day. Beeswax candles flickered in sconces along the stone walls, their flames listless, casting shadows that bled into every crevice. Dampness clung to the air, sharp and tangible, as though the earth itself mourned within these stones—his childhood home had become his responsibility. His burden. He breathed deeply, but the taste of smoke and damp only drove the knot in his chest tighter. A faint prickle settled at his nape, a sense of being watched, though he knew he was alone.
I have to fix this alone, too.
His eyes drifted upward, tracing the muted hues cast by the stained-glass windows. Colors that had once seemed vibrant in his youth now dissolved into pale shards of sunlight across the floor, fractured and distant. His jaw tightened as he dropped his gaze to the limestone beneath his boots, the dull surface crackedin places, worn by years of footsteps far heavier than his own. He shifted his weight, the faint leather scuff breaking the oppressive quiet.
Beyond the closed oak doors came the faint tread of footsteps, distant but deliberate, a sound that set his senses on edge. Movement would not change the truth. Nor would it quiet the growing sense of failure clawing at him from the inside out.
I wish I could speak to Charlene.
But the price of keeping the scandal at bay had been to keep his distance from her.
How cruel, he thought, that he shared a face with the man at the root of this misery. His twin brother, who didn’t even have a heart, unleashed such heartbreak.
He closed his eyes, just for a moment, as the weight in his chest pulled, dragging his thoughts into an unfathomable depth he could not name. This was not mere doubt or frustration with poorly chosen words. No matter how well one masked it, this was deeper, rawer, the kind of pain that festered. A lump rose in his throat, unbidden and unwanted, and he swallowed hard against the sensation. The taste of ink lingered faintly on his tongue, a bitter reminder of his morning’s toil.
Somehow, he had to make up for his failure to prevent all this.
If only I could turn back time.
And still, the note he’d written to Charlene burned against his chest, its presence more cutting than any accusation. An apology undelivered was no less heartfelt—and yet it was like a spell uncast. Unless he delivered the apology, Adam knew it had no effect. And yet, all year, he hadn’t given it to her—for how could mere words grasp what he felt so deeply?
