Julian stopped short.
Charlotte frowned in concentration and tried again. The melody—if it could be called that—lurched awkwardly, notes colliding rather than flowing. She grimaced and kept going.
Julian stared at her as though she had lost her senses.
“That’s wrong,” he said at last.
“Yes,” Charlotte agreed cheerfully. “I know.”
“You missed that one,” he added, pointing.
“And that one,” she said, nodding. “And probably several more.”
Julian’s mouth twitched despite himself. “You’re supposed to do this first.” He moved closer, reaching past her to demonstrate.
Charlotte obediently followed his instruction. The sound improved only marginally.
Julian huffed. “No—like this.”
He guided her hand, small fingers precise and confident. Charlotte watched him with open admiration.
“You are very good,” she said.
“I know,” he replied, without arrogance—only fact.
She laughed. “Naturally.”
She tried again. Missed another note.
Julian groaned. “Miss Fenton.”
“I did warn you.”
He shook his head, clearly torn between exasperation and amusement. “You can’t rush it.”
“I am not rushing,” she protested. “I am simply … failing.”
That did it.
Julian laughed—a sharp, surprised sound that seemed to escape before he could stop it. Charlotte joined him at once, the pair dissolving into helpless laughter that echoed brightly off the walls.
It felt—astonishingly—easy.
Then the door flew open and both of them froze.
Edward stood in the doorway, coat immaculate, expression thunderous.
Charlotte jumped to her feet at once, heart leaping into her throat. Julian straightened, hands clasped tightly in his lap.
“Is the pianoforte,” Edward asked coolly, “now part of Julian’s curriculum?”
Charlotte swallowed. “No, Your Grace.”
“I did not think so.” His gaze flicked to the open lid. “Julian’s schedule is quite clear. It is to be followed.”
“Yes,” Charlotte said—and then, before she could stop herself, “but children are not.”
Silence fell.
