Their eyes met.
Charlotte’s pulse stuttered, a strange, unbidden jolt that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with being seen. Not assessed. Not greeted. Simply observed.
The figure vanished at once, the curtain falling back into place as though he had never been there.
Her breath escaped slowly. The duke, she thought. The idea carried weight, though she had no notion yet of what kind of man he was—only that he watched his domain from above, unseen.
The front door opened.
Mrs. Channing stood waiting, her posture rigid, her expression carved from stone. She looked Charlotte over with quick, assessing eyes, pausing briefly at her travel-worn hem, her bare hands, her hair tucked loosely beneath her bonnet.
“Miss Fenton,” she said, without warmth or unkindness. “You are expected.”
Charlotte inclined her head. “Thank you for receiving me.”
Mrs. Channing did not respond. She turned at once and led Charlotte inside.
The air within the manor was colder than Charlotte expected. Drafts whispered through the high-ceilinged hall, carrying the faint scent of dust, extinguished fires, and something older—something long unused. Their footsteps echoed sharply against the stone floors.
“As you have been informed,” Mrs. Channing said briskly, “the position has seen some … turnover.”
“So I understand.”
“Six governesses in as many months.”
Charlotte kept her expression composed, though her stomach tightened. “I see.”
“You may consider that warning enough.” Mrs. Channing glanced at her briefly. “His Grace does not tolerate incompetence. Nor indulgence.”
Charlotte met her gaze steadily. “Neither do I.”
Mrs. Channing studied her for a moment longer than necessary. Then she said, more quietly, “His grace loves the boy.”
The admission seemed to cost her something.
“He simply does not know how to reach him.”
Charlotte absorbed that in silence.
The housekeeper’s mouth thinned, and whatever softness had surfaced was gone as quickly as it came.
They passed through a series of corridors and rooms—formal parlors kept immaculate but unused, doors closed as though sealing away ghosts. The manor felt paused, suspended in a moment it had not yet learned how to leave behind.
“This is the schoolroom,” Mrs. Channing said, gesturing to a door they did not enter. “Lessons are conducted according to a strict schedule. No deviations.”
“Of course.”
“And this—” Mrs. Channing began, only to be cut off by a sudden burst of sound.
Laughter.
High, sharp, untamed.
The door at the end of the corridor flew open.
A boy burst through barefoot, cheeks flushed crimson, hair plastered with snow and melted ice. He skidded to a stop when he saw Charlotte—and before she could react, he scooped upa handful of snow from somewhere behind him and flung it squarely at her face.
Cold exploded against her skin.
