Charlotte lay still in the narrow bed, listening to the manor breathe around her—the soft creak of settling timbers, the distant whistle of wind threading through unseen cracks.
The fire in the small grate had long since burned low, leaving the room chilled and dim. She stared at the ceiling until the shadows blurred, until the memory of snow against her face and laughter echoing down the corridor replayed itself without mercy.
Eventually, she gave up.
She rose quietly, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, and slipped into her slippers. The cold had settled deep in her bones, a hollow ache she could not shake.
She told herself she was only seeking warmth, nothing more. The kitchen hearth would still hold embers. It always did in houses like this—old, practical, prepared.
The corridors were dark, lit only by thin ribbons of moonlight slicing across the floors. Charlotte stepped carefully, mindful of every sound, every breath. Ashford Manor felt different at night—less formal, more watchful. The walls seemed to listen.
The kitchen door yielded with a faint creak.
She stepped inside and closed it softly behind her.
The room was vast and quiet, the long wooden table stretching like a dark river through its center.
Moonlight spilled through the tall windows, pooling silver across the stone floor and catching on the copper pans that hung unused along the walls. The hearth glowed faintly, embers breathing their last.
Charlotte crossed to it, holding out her hands to the lingering warmth. She let herself breathe.
For a moment, there was peace.
Then she heard it.
The unmistakable sound of the back door opening.
Her heart lurched.
Charlotte turned sharply, pulse roaring in her ears. A shadow moved across the threshold, tall and deliberate, framed briefly against the pale light outside. The figure stepped in, cloaked, damp from the night air, boots leaving faint marks on the stone.
Every warning she possessed screamed at once.
“Who is there?” she demanded, her voice steadier than she felt.
The figure paused.
Then—slowly—he straightened and pushed back the hood.
Recognition struck like a physical blow.
The Duke of Averleigh.
For one suspended moment, neither of them spoke.
He looked different than he had from the window—closer now, more solid. Broader. His gaze caught her so suddenly she forgot to breathe.
Her heart answered with an unsteady beat that made no sense at all—and she resented it at once. The candlelight revealed the hard line of his jaw, the faint scar cutting through his brow, the fatigue etched deep around his eyes.
His coat was dark, plain, and functional. This was not the attire of a man returning from society.
This was a man who walked alone.
“I see,” he said at last, his voice low and dry, carrying faintly in the cavernous space. “Either my house has grown bold enough to shelter thieves, or you have mistaken me for one.”
Heat rushed to Charlotte’s face.
“I—” She stopped herself, drawing in a breath. “You startled me.”
