That gave Liam pause—only a flicker, but enough.
“Do you fear my behavior will reflect upon you,” Liam asked lightly, “or upon Ashford?”
“Upon the family,” Edward said flatly. “Upon the name.”
Liam studied him for a moment longer, then tipped his head. “How dutiful.”
“It is not duty that concerns me,” Edward replied, his voice colder now. “It is consequence.”
Liam’s grin returned—smaller this time, sharper. “Very well. You needn’t worry. I have no intention of missing the Solstice ball for any woman—questionable or otherwise.”
Edward’s gaze flicked briefly to him. “That is not what I—”
But Liam had already turned, the contracts tucked beneath his arm.
He paused at the door. “You should try attending one of these events yourself someday, Edward. They prefer their dukes visible. Less … funerary.”
Edward’s expression hardened. “Goodnight, Liam.”
Liam gave a lazy salute and strode out, the door closing softly behind him.
Silence rushed back in.
Edward remained seated, his gaze drifting inevitably to Eleanor’s portrait.
The painter had captured her gently amused. Her eyes were bright with something he could never quite name. They did not change. They did not dim. They simply watched.
His throat tightened.
Grief was not an account to be balanced. It did not lessen with time.
He rose and crossed the room, stopping before the portrait, bitterness rising—not at her, but at the world that had taken her and left him standing in her place.
“I tried,” he said quietly.
She did not answer.
At last, Edward returned to his desk, dipped his pen, and wrote—because ink obeyed rules that grief never would.
And wondered, without allowing the thought a voice, whether the ache would ever fade. Or if he would only grow more practiced at carrying it.
Chapter 7
Charlotte lay rigid beneath the thin coverlet, listening to the steady, unfamiliar rhythm of another woman breathing in the dark.
Clara Bennet slept soundly in the opposite bed, one arm flung carelessly over the quilt, unaware of the storm of thoughts turning restlessly beside her.
The room was cold. Or perhaps she only felt cold.
Charlotte stared at the ceiling until the shadows blurred together, her mind circling the same moments again and again—the snow, the duke’s eyes, the way his voice had gone sharp with restraint. She had meant to be calm. Measured. Useful.
Instead, she felt unmoored.
Careful not to wake Clara, she slipped from the bed and drew on her slippers, easing the door open inch by silent inch.
The corridor beyond lay dim and still, lit only by a single guttering lamp at the far end. Ashford seemed to sleep uneasily, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath.
Charlotte wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and hurried toward the back stair, drawn by the promise of air, of space—of something beyond the suffocating weight of thought.
