His gaze held hers, sharp and searching, until the intensity forced her eyes away. Color rose faintly in her cheeks, though her posture remained unbroken.
There was something in her tone—quiet, restrained—that unsettled him all over again.
Edward turned away abruptly.
“Mrs. Channing,” he said, already striding toward the house, “see that the boy is prepared for lessons. I expect the schedule to be observed.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Edward did not look back as he crossed the threshold.
He did not trust himself to do so.
In his study once more, he closed the door with more force than necessary and stood very still, his back to it, breath measured with effort.
Three-and-twenty.
The knowledge sat heavily in his mind, sharpening every thought he had tried to dismiss—her laughter, her unbound hair, the quiet courage with which she had confronted both his son and him.
This was folly. Distraction. A dangerous one.
He had no business thinking her beautiful—no right to notice it at all.
With a curt motion, he straightened the papers on his desk and reached for his pen.
Work. That was the remedy.
Duty, discipline, distance.
Edward bent over the ledger, forcing his attention back to columns of figures that stubbornly refused to make sense.
Outside, somewhere beyond the walls, a woman laughed softly at the snow.
Edward wrote on, jaw set, determined not to listen.
Chapter 5
Charlotte followed Mrs. Channing down the corridor, her steps measured, her hands clasped at her waist as though holding herself together required constant vigilance.
The exchange in the snow lingered with uncomfortable clarity—the duke’s clipped voice, the weight of his gaze, the strange, disquieting sensation of being seen and studied all at once.
She had not intended to unsettle him. Nor had she expected to be unsettled herself.
Mrs. Channing did not speak as they walked. Her pace was brisk, her posture rigid, skirts brushing sharply against the stone floor.
The farther they traveled from the public rooms of Ashford, the quieter the house became. The echoes of footsteps softened. Drafts cooled the air, slipping beneath Charlotte’s shawl and raising gooseflesh along her arms.
The faint scent of lye soap and extinguished hearths clung stubbornly to the walls, as though warmth were a memory the house no longer trusted.
“At the time of your arrival last evening,” Mrs. Channing said at last, without looking back, “the rooms had not yet been fully prepared.”
Charlotte inclined her head. “Of course.”
“Your belongings have been brought here,” Mrs. Channing continued. “You will find them already placed.”
They stopped before a narrow passage, noticeably removed from the grand staircases and formal corridors Charlotte had glimpsed upon her arrival.
“These are the inner rooms,” Mrs. Channing said, her tone neutral but unmistakably final. “You will find them more suitable for your position.”
