She shifted the book to her other hand and lifted her fingers, turning her palm slowly, examining it as though it belonged to someone else. The place where his hand had brushed hers felt warmer than the rest of her skin, as though the contact had left some small, defiant mark behind.
This was ridiculous. Utterly, profoundly ridiculous.
Charlotte drew in a sharp breath, squared her shoulders, and very nearly laughed at herself. She had crossed an ocean of grief to reach this place.
She had buried her parents, lost her home, taken a name that was not her own—and now she stood frozen in a duke’s library because his fingers had grazed hers?
She was losing her senses.
With sudden determination, she turned and fled.
She hurried through the corridors, skirts gathered just enough to keep from tripping, her thoughts tumbling over one another in a breathless rush. Foolish. Improper. Dangerous. She had no business reading into a moment that meant nothing—nothing at all.
By the time she reached her room, her cheeks were flushed and her pulse unsteady.
She pushed the door open—and nearly collided with Clara Bennet.
“Oh!” Clara exclaimed, hopping backward with a small gasp, then immediately pressing a hand to her chest. “Miss Fenton—you startled me.”
Charlotte barely registered the words.
Clara stood by the window, her face alight with a dreamy sort of attention, her body angled as though she had been leaning forward for some time. She looked half caught between worlds, one foot planted firmly in the room, the other clearly elsewhere.
“I—” Charlotte stopped short, then tried again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
Clara waved it off absently. “It’s nothing. I was only—” She gestured vaguely toward the glass. “Thinking.”
Charlotte followed her gaze despite herself.
“What’s wrong?” Clara asked at last, turning back to her with a curious tilt of her head. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost. Or a miracle. Or possibly both.”
Charlotte laughed—too quickly, too loudly. “The duke gave me a book.”
Clara blinked. “He—what?”
“And we argued,” Charlotte continued, words spilling now that they had begun. “And then we didn’t. And he quoted Mary Wollstonecraft, and then he agreed with me, and then wetouched hands—just for a moment—and now I think I’ve entirely lost my mind.”
Clara stared.
Once. Twice.
Then she raised both hands. “Stop.”
Charlotte faltered.
“Either,” Clara said firmly, “you tell me what happened slowly and sensibly, or you allow me to return to my very important occupation of gazing wistfully out of windows. I cannot do both at once.”
Charlotte looked at her.
Really looked.
And then, quite unexpectedly, she smiled.
Without another word, she crossed the room and joined Clara at the window.
Outside, the afternoon had softened into something pale and luminous. Snow lingered in scattered patches along the garden paths, and the bare trees stood etched against the sky like fine ink lines. Near the edge of the lawn, two figures stood in conversation.
Edward Thornton was unmistakable, even at a distance—tall, dark, his posture rigid with the familiar restraint she was beginning to recognize.
