Was it irritation that kept him in her thoughts? Or something else entirely?
Charlotte rose and paced the small room once, then twice, before forcing herself to stop.
Tomorrow would come soon enough.
Tomorrow, she would meet Julian properly. Tomorrow, she would begin the work she had come to do.
And Edward Thornton—Duke of Averleigh—would be her employer. Nothing more.
She undressed slowly and slipped into bed, her thoughts finally quieting as exhaustion took hold.
Even as sleep crept closer, one image lingered stubbornly in her mind.
Dark eyes. A scarred brow. And a man carrying more grief than he allowed the world to see.
Charlotte closed her eyes and willed herself not to think of him again.
Tomorrow would demand all of her attention.
Chapter 6
Edward returned to his study long after the house had settled into silence.
The corridors lay dark but for a handful of lamps, their light stretching thin across stone and shadow. He moved without haste, boots soundless, his presence as habitual and unnoticed as the cold that lingered in Ashford’s bones. The house slept as it always did—uneasily.
The study greeted him with familiar disorder.
Ledgers crowded the desk and side tables, some bound in cracked leather, others loose and inked with his own precise hand. Correspondence lay unopened beside reports awaiting signature.
The fire had burned low, embers glowing dully beneath ash, offering only the memory of warmth.
Edward closed the door behind him and stood still for a moment, one hand braced against the wood.
He had not meant to linger. He had not meant to watch her.
And yet the image returned with unwelcome clarity—the governess in the snow, hair unbound, laughter caught on her breath as though the cold itself had startled it from her. The ease of her movement. The absence of restraint.
He exhaled sharply and crossed the room.
Work. That was the answer. It always had been. Before the war, during it, after. Work did not demand feeling. It did not ask him to examine wounds best left closed.
He sat and opened a ledger with decisive force.
The numbers blurred almost at once.
Irritation flared. He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, jaw tightening. Deferred repairs. Neglected accounts. Tenant concerns requiring attention that he had not addressed.
Thomas would have known where to begin. Where to press. Where to yield.
Edward saw only failure, column after column.
He shoved the ledger aside and reached for another.
Still, his thoughts strayed.
Miss Fenton. Three-and-twenty.
The knowledge settled heavily, unwelcome in its persistence. Too young. Entirely inappropriate.
