The numbers blurred together. Rent owed. Roof repairs delayed. Tenant disputes. Correspondence unanswered. Matters Thomas would have dispatched in a morning, with a pen that never hesitated and a mind that never seemed to tire.
Edward closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temples.
“Damn it,” he muttered.
The words echoed faintly, swallowed by the room’s high ceilings and book-lined walls. His study—once a place of quiet refuge—now felt like a tribunal.
The portraits along the walls watched him in judgment, generations of Thorntons rendered in oils and gilt, their expressions stern, knowing, disappointed.
Thomas’s portrait hung opposite the desk.
Edward did not look at it.
He reached instead for the pen, only to let it fall again with a sharp clatter against the desk. The sound grated against his nerves. Too loud. Too sudden.
He leaned back in his chair and exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, counting the seconds until his pulse steadied.
Two years. It had been two years since everything had changed—since a single summer had taken his brother, his wife, and the life he had known, and left him with a title he had never sought and a son he barely knew how to reach.
Duke of Averleigh.
The words still felt ill-fitting, like a coat tailored for another man.
Edward turned his chair toward the window.
Below, in the frost-bitten garden, Julian was in the midst of some energetic pursuit—charging through the dead grass with a wooden sword in hand, his laughter sharp and wild. A maid hurried after him, skirts gathered awkwardly, calling his name with a mixture of panic and resignation.
Edward’s mouth tightened.
The last governess had lasted three weeks.
The one before her barely ten days.
Seven in total, if he counted carefully. Six women, each arriving with stiff posture and hopeful determination, each departing with some variation of apology, complaint, or thinly veiled relief.
He had told himself it was for the best. That Julian needed discipline, not indulgence. Structure, not sentiment. He had filled the boy’s days with lessons, rules, and expectations, believing that order might compensate for everything else he could not give.
Yet the sight below told a different story.
Julian swerved suddenly, skidding across a patch of damp earth, and the maid yelped as she nearly lost her footing. Edward’s hand tightened on the arm of his chair.
He had dismissed the previous governess’s complaints as exaggeration, the result of softness and poor training. Boys were boys. Julian was spirited. That was all.
And yet—
A sharp knock sounded on the door.
Edward straightened instantly. “Enter.”
Mrs. Channing stepped inside with measured efficiency, her posture rigid, hands clasped before her as though they might betray her if left unattended.
Her hair—once dark—had faded to iron-gray, pulled back into a severe knot that never seemed to loosen. She wore her usual expression of polite endurance, lips pressed thin, eyes alert.
“Your Grace,” she said.
Edward inclined his head. “Mrs. Channing.”
“A matter requires your attention.” She paused, as though bracing herself. “The new governess is expected this afternoon.”
