Another silence followed—different now. Less sharp. More aware.
“You should not wander at night,” he said at length. “Ashford is … not forgiving to strangers.”
“I am not a stranger,” Charlotte said before thinking. “Not anymore.”
He looked at her then—really looked—and the weight of his attention made her breath catch. There was nothing warm in his expression, nothing soft. And yet beneath it, something stirred. Recognition, perhaps. Or curiosity.
Or something more dangerous.
“That remains to be seen,” he said quietly.
The embers in the hearth shifted, collapsing inward with a soft hiss. The sound echoed too loudly in the stillness.
Charlotte stepped back, suddenly aware of the impropriety of the hour, the place. “I should return to my room.”
“Yes,” he agreed at once. “You should.”
She stepped toward the door, then paused. Against her better judgment, she turned back.
“Your son,” she said. “He is—spirited.”
A corner of his mouth twitched. “That is one word for it.”
“I intend to stay,” she said gently. “If you will allow it.”
Something unreadable crossed his face.
“We shall see,” he replied.
Charlotte inclined her head once more and left the kitchen, her heart unsteady, her thoughts in disarray.
Behind her, Edward Thornton stood alone in the moonlight, watching the space she had vacated.
And for the first time in two years, Ashford Manor did not feel entirely asleep.
Chapter 4
Edward stood at the window longer than he intended.
The morning had dawned pale and brittle, the sky stretched thin with winter light. Snow had fallen again during the night, softening the grounds in white silence.
He had risen early, as he always did, hoping to find order in the hours before the household stirred. Instead, his attention had been stolen at once.
Miss Fenton stood in the gardens below.
She drifted without purpose at first, as though uncertain what to do with the open space.
Then she laughed—softly, to herself—and turned in a slow, careless circle, her boots leaving shallow impressions in the untouched snow. Her cloak lay abandoned on the bench nearby, and her hair—
Edward’s jaw tightened.
Her hair was unbound.
Long, pale strands fell freely down her back, catching the light, catching the snowflakes as they drifted down. They clung there, bright against the gold of her hair, melting slowly. It was wholly improper. No lady of sense went about so exposed, particularly on a duke’s estate.
And yet—
She looked unbearably young.
