For a split second, irritation flared—another interruption, another demand upon a temper already stretched thin. He turned, prepared to dismiss whoever it was without ceremony.
And then he saw her.
Miss Fenton stood just inside the threshold, hands clasped before her as she had the habit of doing, her posture guarded but not timid.
Light from the tall windows caught in her hair, softening it into something almost luminous. Her expression was composed, but there was a flicker in her eyes—hesitation, perhaps, or resolve.
Edward’s irritation faltered.
Something else took its place.
It was absurd. Entirely so. He was a grown man, seasoned by war and loss, not a green boy undone by a pretty face. And yet—his pulse betrayed him, quickening with an unfamiliar flutter low in his chest, like the sudden lift of wings.
Butterflies, he thought incredulously.
The notion annoyed him enough that his jaw tightened.
“Your Grace,” she said, her voice gentle, carrying effortlessly through the room.
He did not answer at once.
She took a few tentative steps forward, stopping well short of him. “I wished to speak with you. About earlier.”
Edward folded his arms, a reflexive gesture, and inclined his head slightly. “Go on.”
She drew a breath. “I wanted to apologize. For the … disruption. I did not intend to undermine your authority, nor to disregard the schedule you set for Julian.” Her gaze lifted to his, steady and open. “If I overstepped, I regret it.”
Edward listened in silence, his thoughts strangely disordered.
She was beautiful—there was no denying it—but not in the reserved, distant way he associated with society women. There was nothing polished or calculating about her. She spoke as she moved, as she thought, with an ease that suggested she did not spend her days weighing each word for effect.
She continued, unaware of the way his attention had narrowed to her alone.
“I will, of course, be more careful in future,” she said. “And I understand the importance of structure. But—” She hesitated only a fraction of a second before pressing on. “Children are children. They learn not only through books, but through curiosity. Through trial and error. Through experience.”
Her hands shifted slightly, as though resisting the urge to gesture. “Knowledge and character are not formed by memorization alone. They grow when a child is allowed to ask questions, to explore, to make small mistakes in a safe place.”
She looked at him then—not challengingly, not defensively, but with something like wonder. As though she truly believed he might hear her.
Edward felt the strange sensation again—that unsettling sense of being seen not as a duke, not as an authority to be obeyed, but as a man capable of choice.
He had every intention of responding with a cool dismissal.
Instead, he heard himself say, “I agree.”
The word fell into the space between them, solid and unmistakable.
Miss Fenton blinked. Once. Then again.
Her mouth parted slightly, as though she had prepared for an argument and found herself disarmed by its absence. Color rose faintly in her cheeks.
“You … agree?” she repeated.
Edward cleared his throat, irritated with himself for the warmth creeping into his voice. “Within reason,” he added. “Structure matters. But so does engagement.”
She stared at him openly now, surprise giving way to something brighter. “I—” She caught herself, then smiled, quick and genuine. “I did not expect that.”
Neither had he.
