He did not believe her.
They stood in silence for a moment, moonlight tracing the lines of her face.
“You spoke earlier,” Charlotte said softly, “of Julian needing a mother.”
Edward nodded. “It is … unavoidable.”
She glanced toward the house. “Lady Amelia would suit the role.”
The words struck harder than expected.
“Yes,” Edward said. “In principle.”
And yet—
“I do not want that role filled by justanyone,” he said, the truth escaping before he could restrain it.
Charlotte’s breath caught. Her gaze lifted to his at once, eyes wide with something like wonder … and caution. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The garden seemed to hold its breath with them, the lantern light pooling softly at their feet, the distant music muted by distance and foliage.
Edward became acutely aware of how close she stood. Of the faint warmth she carried, lingering even in the winter air. Of how easily he could reach for her—and how ruinous that would be.
She smiled then. Not coy. Not calculated. Just a small, startled curve of her mouth, as though she, too, were surprised by what had been spoken aloud.
“I see,” she said softly.
They laughed—not because it was amusing, but because the tension demanded release. A brief, breathless sound, shared and intimate, born of nerves and the shared knowledge that they had strayed somewhere dangerous.
Edward felt it then—the moment tipping. Desire threading itself through restraint, tightening with every second he did not step away. The realization struck hard and unwelcome: he wanted her. Not abstractly. Not politely. But with a pull that threatened reason.
He could sense Christopher somewhere behind them, a silent sentinel, and still the pull did not lessen.
This was precisely how mistakes were made.
Edward stepped back at once, the movement abrupt enough to shatter what hovered between them. He straightened, shoulders squaring, the Duke of Averleigh settling over him like armor he had nearly forgotten to wear.
“I should not keep you,” he said, his voice cool, formal—closed. “I ought to return to the house.”
The shift was unmistakable.
Charlotte’s smile faltered. For a moment, something flickered in her eyes—surprise, perhaps, or hurt—before composure slid carefully back into place. She inclined her head. “Of course, Your Grace.”
Edward did not wait for her to move.
He turned away first, the decision sharp and deliberate, as though retreat were the only thing standing between him and ruin. He did not look back. He did not allow himself even the smallest glance that might undo him.
Behind him, the garden fell silent.
Charlotte remained where she was, lantern light casting her half in shadow, half in moonlight—warmth still lingering in the space he had abandoned.
Edward walked on, each step determined, controlled, his pulse thundering with everything he refused to acknowledge.
Only when the house rose before him did he finally exhale—slowly, intentionally—trying to convince himself he had done the right thing.
Charlotte was his governess. He was her employer.
And whatever had nearly taken shape in that garden could never be allowed to exist.
Still, as he crossed the threshold and the door closed behind him, one truth pressed heavily against his ribs:
