His gaze drifted, unbidden, toward the sound of laughter echoing down the corridor—his son’s bright and unrestrained, and beneath it, Charlotte’s softer note, warm and unmistakably alive.
Something loosened.
Perhaps loving again was not betrayal. Perhaps it was survival.
And yet, even as the truth settled, restraint rose to meet it. His position. His name. The lines society drew so clearly and punished so mercilessly when crossed. The knowledge that wanting her was one thing—but claiming her was another entirely.
In his heart, he already knew.
Charlotte was not a passing comfort. She was not a convenience. She was possibility—life unfolding forward instead of closing in on itself.
And he longed, with an ache that bordered on pain, for the freedom to follow his heart.
To choose the present. To dare the future.
Even if doing so would require him to risk everything he had once believed unmovable.
Chapter 23
That evening, Ashford no longer felt like a mausoleum.
It felt lived in.
Flowers crowded every available surface—mantels, tables, the small escritoire near the window. Julian had insisted on arranging most of them himself, resulting in a rather enthusiastic collection of stems that leaned precariously in every direction.
The servants had outdone themselves in the kitchen: warm bread, roasted meats, sugared pastries. Even the air seemed lighter, scented faintly with crushed greenery and beeswax.
They ate together in the smaller dining room. Not formally. Not stiffly.
Julian spoke almost without pause.
“And then the rabbit ran straight into the bramble, and Papa couldn’t follow because he said it would ruin his coat—”
“It would have ruined more than that,” Edward corrected mildly.
“And Miss Fenton says the trees remember everything,” Julian continued, undeterred. “That the roots grow around old stones and keep secrets.”
Charlotte smiled. “I said forests are patient, not that they are gossips.”
Edward huffed a quiet sound that might have been amusement.
They laughed—truly laughed—and the sound startled Charlotte with its ease. She could not remember the last time she had sat at a table and felt something so close to belonging.
Julian leaned back in his chair as his cheeks flushed with contentment. “This is good,” he declared. “The only thing that would make it better is if Mama were here too.”
Silence fell—not heavy, but tender.
Charlotte’s heart tightened. “I wish I might have met her,” she said gently. “She sounds remarkable.”
Julian brightened instantly. “She was. She never scolded much. Papa says she used to sing terribly loud in the mornings.”
“I do not recall saying that,” Edward replied dryly.
“You did,” Julian insisted. “And she liked strawberry jam, even when Cook said it was out of season.”
Edward’s mouth softened despite himself. “She did.”
“She made the house smell like flowers,” Julian added. “Even in winter.”
