Her answering smile was gentle, unguarded. It caught him off balance.
Edward returned it before he quite realized he meant to. The expression felt unfamiliar —unused, tentative—but real.
“You should smile more,” she said lightly, then faltered, the impropriety of the remark dawning on her. “That is—entirely inappropriate advice for a governess to give.”
The smile lingered, despite himself.
She inclined her head, then turned back toward Julian, leaving him standing there with a foolish warmth in his chest he did not immediately recognize.
Later, in his study, Edward took up his pen and replied to the Penningtons’ invitation.
He accepted.
He confirmed Julian’s presence, the overnight stay, and added—after a moment’s hesitation—that Julian’s governess would attend to the boy’s needs.
The ink dried slowly.
Edward leaned back in his chair, staring at the letter.
For the first time in years, he was stepping forward instead of retreating.
And though he told himself it was for Julian alone, the image that lingered most vividly was not his son’s anticipation—but Charlotte’s smile, and the ease with which it had found him.
He folded the letter and rang for it to be sent.
The house felt different already.
Chapter 16
The Pennington ballroom glowed.
There was no other word for it. Candlelight spilled from chandeliers and sconces alike, gilding the polished floor until it gleamed like molten gold.
Music drifted through the space—strings, breath, and rhythm woven together so seamlessly that Edward felt it before he fully registered the sound. Conversation layered over it in murmurs and laughter, silk brushing silk, boots gliding, voices rising and falling in familiar cadence.
It had been too long.
Edward stood at the edge of the room, one hand resting lightly on the back of a chair he had not yet claimed, surveying the scene with the detached awareness of a man long unused to being observed. The ton filled the space easily, bodies moving as though drawn by habit and memory rather than intent.
Faces turned as he entered—some with polite surprise, others with frank curiosity. A few with recognition that sharpened into speculation.
The Duke of Averleigh had returned.
Julian stood a short distance away, in the watchful custody of the Penningtons’ governess, already half-asleep from the day’s travel and stimulation. Edward had watched until he was certain the boy was settled—comfortable, secure—before allowing himself to step fully into the evening.
Charlotte was not immediately visible.
He told himself that was for the best.
Lady Amelia, however, wasted no time.
She appeared at his side with accustomed ease, her gown a delicate shade of winter blue that caught the candlelight with every movement. Her smile was warm, her posture impeccable, her presence unmistakably intentional.
“Edward,” she said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to speak his name so familiarly again. “You made it.”
“As promised,” he replied, inclining his head.
Her gaze flicked briefly across the room, then returned to him. “You are quite the topic of conversation.”
