“As you startled me,” he replied coolly.
His gaze flicked briefly to the hearth, to her shawl, her slippered feet, and the faint tremor she had not managed to still. It lingered just long enough to feel like an assessment.
“I was not aware the kitchen was open to nocturnal visits.”
“I could not sleep,” she said, lifting her chin. “And it was cold.”
“Is that so.”
The words were neutral. The look was not.
The silence stretched again, taut as wire.
Charlotte became acutely aware of herself—standing alone with a man she barely knew, in the heart of a house ruled by propriety and watchfulness. She should excuse herself. She knew she should.
And yet—
“I thought you were an intruder,” she said, before she could stop herself.
One dark brow lifted. “Did you?”
“Yes.” Her mouth curved despite herself. “You were very quiet.”
That earned her a look—sharp, assessing. For the first time, something like interest flickered across his expression.
“I prefer it that way.”
“I can imagine,” she replied.
The words surprised them both.
He studied her more closely now, as though revising an impression he had not realized was forming. “You are the governess.”
“I am,” she said. “Miss Fenton.”
“Edward Thornton,” he said, without ceremony. “Duke of Averleigh.”
She inclined her head. “Your Grace.”
He did not acknowledge the courtesy beyond a slight inclination of his own. Instead, he shrugged off his cloak and hung it neatly by the door, movements precise, controlled.
“You will find,” he said, “that Ashford keeps its own hours. The house does not welcome rest easily.”
“I have noticed,” Charlotte replied softly.
His gaze sharpened, as though he had not expected agreement.
She hesitated, then added, “Grief does that to places.”
Something shifted.
It was subtle—a tightening at the corner of his mouth, a faint stillness that rippled outward. He said nothing at once, and Charlotte wondered if she had gone too far.
At last, he spoke. “You are observant.”
“I have had reason to be.”
That, too, surprised him.
