Christopher’s voice echoed in his mind with irritating persistence.You deserve happiness. Eleanor would have wanted you to live.Edward had dismissed it earlier. Now he was not so certain he could.
William’s insinuations still coiled in the room like smoke, but beneath the anger and suspicion was something far more immediate. Far more consuming.
Her.
Charlotte stood near the desk, rigid, confusion and hurt warring across her features as though the floor beneath her had shifted twice in one night—and he had been part of that.
He moved instinctively. “Charlotte,” he said, more softly than he intended.
She turned toward him. The sight of her—eyes bright with emotion, mouth parted as though bracing for whatever he would say next—unraveled the last of his restraint. He crossed the space between them and took her hand. He did not think. He simply did it.
Her fingers were cool against his palm. Fragile. Real.
“Trust me,” he said quietly, the words leaving him without armor. “I am not withholding the truth to wound you. I am trying to protect you.”
Her breath caught, but she did not pull away. “Protect me from what?” she asked, voice trembling despite her effort to steady it.
“From whatever this becomes. From him. From … the past.” He tightened his hold slightly, as though afraid she might slip away if he loosened it.
“This house,” he continued, the confession building without his permission, “died when Eleanor died. So did I.”
He had not meant to say that aloud, and yet now that he had, he could not take it back.
“I walked its corridors, and everything felt hollow. Julian laughed, and I heard it as though from a distance. I spoke, I managed affairs, I fulfilled my duties—but I did not feel.” His gaze lifted to hers. “Until you came.”
Charlotte went utterly still.
“I have never seen my son so happy,” Edward said, his voice roughening. “He is lighter. Braver. He speaks more. He plays again.” He drew a breath that felt almost incredulous. “And I have not felt this alive in years.”
Silence followed, heavy and fragile. Charlotte looked at him as though he had handed her something breakable and sacred all at once.
“I did not expect …” she began softly, then faltered. “Edward, I—” She swallowed. “I have never been so happy as I have been at Ashford. Not since … before.”
Her eyes softened, and something inside him gave way.
“The nightmares,” she continued, voice barely above a whisper, “have grown less frequent. I still see the crash sometimes. I still hear it. But here …” She glanced around the study as though it were something sacred. “Here it does not follow me so closely.”
Edward’s thumb traveled unconsciously over the back of her hand. “I am pleased you are happy,” he said, meaning it with a depth that frightened him. “And I would do anything to keep it that way.”
The fire shifted behind them, casting long shadows up the walls. The air between them thickened, charged and fragile.
He became acutely aware of her proximity—the faint warmth of her skin beneath his fingers, her subtle scent, something clean and understated and entirely her. His heart began to race.
He did not recall leaning closer. He only knew that suddenly the distance between them had narrowed to almost nothing. Her breath mingled with his.
Her gaze dropped briefly to his mouth before lifting again, startled by her own awareness. His free hand hovered at her waist, uncertain, restrained by the last threads of propriety.
This was madness.
And yet, for once in his life, he did not wish to retreat.
He began to bend toward her.
A sharp crack split the silence. The wind struck the side window with sudden force, rattling the panes violently against their frame. The sound shattered the moment.
Charlotte startled and pulled back at once, her hand slipping from his as though burned. Reality flooded in, cold and merciless.
“This is …” she began, breath uneven. “It is late.”
