Edward felt the familiar tightening in his chest—the old reflex, half guilt and half resignation. “I am aware.”
Amelia smiled, as though she had expected nothing else. “You need not decide at once,” she said gently. “But you should not delay forever, either. Julian will grow whether you are ready or not. And children notice what is missing long before we believe them capable of such things.”
Edward looked away, his gaze drifting to the window, to the bare trees beyond it. “This house has functioned well enough.”
“It has endured,” Amelia corrected. “That is not the same thing.”
She rose and moved closer, stopping just near enough to be felt. “You are respected,” she went on. “Educated. Proper. You understand duty better than most men I know. You deserve a match that will restore balance—to your household, to your life.”
Practical. Sensible. Correct.
Words he had built his existence upon.
Edward breathed in slowly, as though bracing himself. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air too warm.
He told himself she was right.
He told himself that whatever unease stirred when he thought of Charlotte Fenton was irrelevant. A distraction. A passing disturbance easily remedied by resolve and reason.
And yet his pulse refused to settle, beating on as though it had not been consulted on the matter.
“Many would welcome the opportunity,” Amelia added lightly. “You need not look far.”
Edward inclined his head. “I will consider what you have said.”
Her smile deepened—not triumphant but satisfied. “That is all I ask.”
When she suggested a walk in the gardens, he agreed out of obligation more than inclination. Reflection, he told himself. Space to think.
The air outside was sharp, winter pressing in at the edges of the day. Frost crackled faintly beneath their steps, the hedges pale and rigid.
And then Julian appeared.
He came barreling across the path with a laugh torn straight from his chest, Charlotte close behind him, skirts muddied, hair escaped, her face flushed with exertion and joy.
For one brief, unguarded moment, Edward saw them as they were—untethered. Alive.
And everything Amelia had just said began, inexplicably, to feel insufficient.
Edward stopped short.
Charlotte’s cheeks were flushed from the cold, her hair escaped its pins, curls clinging damply to her temples. Julian held something behind his back, grinning with triumph.
Amelia stiffened as mud splattered perilously close to the hem of her dress.
“Oh—Julian,” she said, forcing a smile. “You are quite … energetic.”
Julian beamed. “We were in the fields!”
Charlotte dipped into a quick curtsy. “Your Ladyship.”
Amelia’s gaze flicked over her, cool and assessing. “Is this how the duke’s son is encouraged to present himself?”
Charlotte’s spine straightened. “Children are meant to play.”
“And to learn propriety,” Amelia replied, glancing pointedly at the mud.
Edward cleared his throat. “Appearances do matter, Miss Fenton. Particularly when guests are present.”
