They stood in silence for a moment, the library humming softly around them—the crackle of the fire, the faint creak of settling shelves.
Edward gestured vaguely at the room. “You are standing in a library filled with evidence that I am not entirely opposed to ideas,” he said dryly.
Her smile widened. “I see that.”
He hesitated, then added, “Mary Wollstonecraft argued much the same inOriginal Stories from Real Life. That children learn best when guided toward reason and virtue through lived experience, not merely rote instruction.”
Her eyes lit at once.
“I love that book,” she said, the words tumbling out before she could restrain them. “It was one of the first that made me feel … understood. As though learning could be something alive.”
Edward studied her anew, something shifting subtly in his chest. “You may make use of the library,” he said. “Borrow whatever you wish.”
Her expression softened into something like gratitude. “Thank you.”
He turned toward the nearest shelf, compelled by an impulse he did not entirely understand. His fingers traced familiar spines until they found one worn at the edges—a slim volume, its cover faded from years of handling.
He drew it free.
“Julian used to favor this,” he said, more quietly than he intended. “Before bed.”
She looked at the book, then at him. “May I?”
He nodded and held it out. Their fingers brushed as she took it.
The contact was fleeting—barely more than a whisper of skin—but it sent a sharp, unexpected jolt through him, like a spark snapping between wires. Edward stepped back at once, heart thudding, the movement abrupt enough that she startled.
“I—” He shook his head, searching for composure. “You may read it to him, if you think it helpful.”
Her grip tightened slightly on the book. “I would like that.”
Edward inclined his head, already retreating. “Good afternoon, Miss Fenton.”
“Good afternoon, Your Grace.”
He did not look back as he left the library, the air between them charged and unfinished.
Only once the door closed behind him did he allow himself to breathe.
The echo of her presence lingered—her voice, her warmth, the unsettling ease with which she had unsettled him.
Edward pressed his palm briefly to his brow, as though to steady his thoughts.
This, he told himself firmly, was a complication he could not afford.
And yet, as he strode down the corridor, the image of her standing amid the shelves—book in hand, eyes bright with possibility—refused to leave him.
Some doors, once opened, were not so easily closed.
Chapter 9
Charlotte stood alone in the library long after the duke had gone, the silence pressing in from every side.
The book lay cradled in her hands as though it possessed weight beyond paper and binding. For a moment, she did nothing at all—did not breathe properly, did not think sensibly—only stared at the shelf from where he had taken it, as if expecting him to step back into the space he had left behind.
Her hand tingled.
Absurd.
