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“An understandable mistake. It looks very like something one ought to flatten,” he said gravely.

“Alexander,” Eleanor warned, her eyes narrowing.

He bent to kiss her cheek, hiding his grin. “I shall say no more.”

“That would be a novelty.” Eleanor glanced toward the clock and sighed, brushing a bit of ribbon from her skirt. “I must find the letter Mother wanted us to take. Whitcombe put it somewhere safe, which means neither of us has seen it since.”

She left them with a request that Alexander refrain from damaging anything, her skirts swishing through the doorway. Charlotte watched the door close, then turned to him with one brow arched. “Does she often entrust you with her possessions under protest?”

“Most of my life.”

“How wise of her,” Charlotte said, her mouth twitching.

He came nearer, stopping beside Charlotte’s chair. She had pushed up her sleeves a little above her wrists, and a length of yellow ribbon lay across her lap. It was bright against the dark blue of her gown. He remembered those hands upon his shoulders, and the quiet trust with which she had rested against him afterward. Her breath slow and warm against his skin... The memory sent such a rush of tenderness through him that he had to look away.

“Eleanor has put you to work,” he said, when he could trust his voice.

“I was invited for tea,” Charlotte said, lifting her chin. “The hat came afterward.”

“Would you have come had she warned you?” he asked.

“Certainly,” she said. “I would merely have arrived with an argument for fewer feathers.”

He smiled, and she looked down at the ribbon, a faint flush rising along her cheekbones. For a moment, neither spoke. The room was bright with afternoon sun, the light slanting golden across the carpet. It caught in the loose curls at her neck. Alexander lowered his voice, so that only she could hear. “May I tell you that I have missed you?”

Charlotte’s fingers paused on the ribbon, a small, startled stillness. “Yes,” she said.

“I have,” he said, and the words felt like stepping off a ledge.

She lifted her face to his, and something soft and unguarded moved across it. “I thought you might call,” she said quietly.

He felt the admission more keenly than he expected, a quick, warm pang beneath his ribs. “I wanted to,” he said. “I was uncertain whether you would welcome me.”

“You might have asked,” Charlotte said, with gentle reproach.

“I suppose I may have,” he conceded

He had been congratulating himself upon giving her room. He meant to give her space, not give her reason to think he had lost interest. Had he hurt her? A pang tightened in his chest.

Charlotte set down the feather and smoothed it flat against her knee. “You need not look so solemn,” she said. “I have survived three days without your conversation.”

“I am glad,” Alexander said. “Though I had hoped to be somewhat difficult to do without.”

“You would be unbearable if I encouraged you.” She winked.

“I suspect I am already,” he admitted.

Her smile answered him, slow and warm, lighting her whole face. He drew a chair nearer and sat, taking care to avoid the surviving feathers, which seemed to quiver in indignation. “What may I do?” he asked.

“Hold this,” she said.

She placed the hat in his hands. It was lighter than he expected and less attractive up close. Its broken crown sagging against his palm like a wounded creature. Charlotte picked up a length of ribbon and considered it against the damaged brim, her head tilted. Alexander held still as she worked. Her concentration showed in the small furrow between her brows and the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth.

“You are enjoying this,” he observed.

“A little,” she admitted.

He quirked a brow. “The restoration of a ruined hat?”