Not childish, exactly. But unguarded. As though the world had not yet taught her caution, or she had chosen—deliberately—not to heed it.
Edward’s thoughts snagged, uncomfortably, on the memory of the night before.
The kitchen. The moonlight. The audacity of her standing there alone and demanding to know whohewas, as though Ashford Manor were not his by right, as though he were no more than a trespasser in his own home.
He should have been angry.
Instead, he had been … startled.
By her steadiness. By the absence of fear once recognition dawned. By the way she had spoken to him—not fawning, not deferential beyond what courtesy required. As if he were simply a man.
It had been years since any woman had looked at him that way.
The realization unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
Edward shifted his stance, folding his arms behind his back. He told himself he was only observing. Assessing. A duke had every right to know the temperament of those in his employ.
Still, he could not ignore the contrast.
The other governesses had been older. Proper. Tight-lipped. They had worn their hair pinned severely, their expressions permanently strained.
They had looked at Julian with exasperation or fear, and at Edward with expectation—each one quietly hopeful that she might be the exception, the one who would be noticed.
Miss Fenton was nothing like them.
She moved as though the cold did not trouble her, as though the house looming behind her was not an edifice of grief and discipline. She bent to scoop snow into her bare hands, laughing again when it slipped through her fingers.
Edward felt a sharp, unwelcome twist of guilt.
Eleanor.
The name surfaced unbidden, heavy and immediate. His wife had loved winter mornings. She used to say the snow made everything honest—no place for decay to hide.
He stepped back from the window.
This was foolishness. Idle curiosity. He had work to do.
Yet even as he turned away, Charlotte—Miss Fenton—stopped short in the snow.
Slowly, she looked up.
Their eyes met through the glass.
Edward’s heart lurched, traitorous and sudden.
He stepped back at once, heat rising sharply to his face. He had not meant to be seen. He had not meant—
A shout cut through the quiet.
“Miss Fenton!”
Edward strode instinctively back to the window.
Julian burst from the side door, bundled carelessly, his boots mismatched, his expression bright with mischief. Mrs. Channing followed close behind, calling his name sharply.
Edward’s mouth tightened.
Before anyone could intervene, Julian scooped up a snowball and hurled it.
