Christopher’s gaze sharpened. “You’re troubled.”
“Astute.”
“This is different,” Christopher said quietly. “You’ve worn grief like armor these past two years. Tonight, you look … frayed.”
Edward didn’t answer at once. Then, flatly, “The war leaves its marks.”
“Some visible,” Christopher said, glancing briefly at the scar on Edward’s brow. “Others less so.”
Edward looked away.
They spoke of Eleanor—briefly, guardedly. Of Julian. Of the impossible balance between discipline and tenderness.
And then, without quite knowing how it had happened, Edward said, “The new governess is … competent.”
Christopher paused. “That may be the least convincing thing you’ve ever said.”
Edward frowned. “I meant only—”
“You haven’t spoken of another woman in two years,” Christopher said mildly. “Not once.”
Something cold settled in Edward’s chest. “It is nothing.”
Christopher leaned back, studying him. “If you say so.”
The silence returned, sharper now.
“It is late,” Edward said abruptly.
Christopher rose, unoffended. At the door, he paused. “Be careful, Edward.”
“Of what?”
“Of pretending you’re untouchable.”
The door closed softly behind him.
Edward stood alone once more.
The fire had dimmed again. He returned to his desk and forced his attention back to the ledgers, though the numbers swam.
Snow. Laughter. A figure spinning where grief should have ruled.
He bent lower over the page, jaw set.
Some thoughts were best left unexamined. Some fires—once lit—were dangerous to acknowledge at all.
The latch clicked again.
Edward stiffened as the door opened without a knock.
Liam strode in as though he owned the room, the house, and perhaps the very air. He wore a coat cut a shade too fashionable for a winter spent on an estate, his cravat tied with that effortless arrogance of a man who had never had to fight for anything more difficult than admiration.
“My dear cousin,” Liam drawled, eyeing the ledgers. “If devotion were measured in ink stains, you’d already be canonized.”
“It’s late,” Edward said.
“And yet you are awake.” Liam shut the door behind him and smiled as though this were a private entertainment arranged for his benefit. “Which means either you’ve discovered a hidden pleasure in accounts—or Ashford is nearer ruin than you’ve admitted.”
