Chapter 2
Edward Thornton had never trusted silence.
Not the kind that crept through Ashford Manor in the early hours of the afternoon, heavy and expectant, settling into corners where laughter once lived.
Not the kind that pressed against the tall windows of his study while the winter sky hung low and colorless beyond them. And certainly not the kind that followed him now—thick with duty, grief, and unfinished accounts.
He sat behind the broad oak desk that had belonged to his brother, shoulders stiff, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on a ledger he had read twice already without absorbing a single line.
The numbers blurred together. Rent owed. Roof repairs delayed. Tenant disputes. Correspondence unanswered. Matters Thomas would have dispatched in a morning, with a pen that never hesitated and a mind that never seemed to tire.
Edward closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temples.
“Damn it,” he muttered.
The words echoed faintly, swallowed by the room’s high ceilings and book-lined walls. His study—once a place of quiet refuge—now felt like a tribunal.
The portraits along the walls watched him in judgment, generations of Thorntons rendered in oils and gilt, their expressions stern, knowing, disappointed.
Thomas’s portrait hung opposite the desk.
Edward did not look at it.
He reached instead for the pen, only to let it fall again with a sharp clatter against the desk. The sound grated against his nerves. Too loud. Too sudden.
He leaned back in his chair and exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, counting the seconds until his pulse steadied.
Two years. It had been two years since everything had changed—since a single summer had taken his brother, his wife, and the life he had known, and left him with a title he had never sought and a son he barely knew how to reach.
Duke of Averleigh.
The words still felt ill-fitting, like a coat tailored for another man.
Edward turned his chair toward the window.
Below, in the frost-bitten garden, Julian was in the midst of some energetic pursuit—charging through the dead grass with a wooden sword in hand, his laughter sharp and wild. A maid hurried after him, skirts gathered awkwardly, calling his name with a mixture of panic and resignation.
Edward’s mouth tightened.
The last governess had lasted three weeks.
The one before her barely ten days.
Seven in total, if he counted carefully. Six women, each arriving with stiff posture and hopeful determination, each departing with some variation of apology, complaint, or thinly veiled relief.
He had told himself it was for the best. That Julian needed discipline, not indulgence. Structure, not sentiment. He had filled the boy’s days with lessons, rules, and expectations, believing that order might compensate for everything else he could not give.
Yet the sight below told a different story.
Julian swerved suddenly, skidding across a patch of damp earth, and the maid yelped as she nearly lost her footing. Edward’s hand tightened on the arm of his chair.
He had dismissed the previous governess’s complaints as exaggeration, the result of softness and poor training. Boys were boys. Julian was spirited. That was all.
And yet—
A sharp knock sounded on the door.
Edward straightened instantly. “Enter.”
Mrs. Channing stepped inside with measured efficiency, her posture rigid, hands clasped before her as though they might betray her if left unattended.
Her hair—once dark—had faded to iron-gray, pulled back into a severe knot that never seemed to loosen. She wore her usual expression of polite endurance, lips pressed thin, eyes alert.
“Your Grace,” she said.
Edward inclined his head. “Mrs. Channing.”
“A matter requires your attention.” She paused, as though bracing herself. “The new governess is expected this afternoon.”
Edward groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “Already?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Good Lord,” he muttered. “This will be the seventh, then. I had hoped we might at least reach double digits before exhausting the supply of suitable women in the county.”
Mrs. Channing did not smile. She rarely did. “This young woman comes with a recommendation.”
Edward lifted a brow. “They all do.”
“From Mr. Hathaway,” she continued evenly. “The town clergyman.”
That gave him pause. Edward regarded her more closely. Mr. Hathaway was not a man given to frivolity or poor judgment. If he had put his name behind this girl, it meant something—though whether that something would translate to endurance remained to be seen.
“I am told she is well read,” Mrs. Channing added.
Edward snorted. “So they claim. And then they attempt to instruct my son in poetry while he climbs the bookcases.”
“She appears earnest,” Mrs. Channing said carefully. “And … resilient.”
Edward’s gaze flicked back to the window, where Julian had now abandoned the wooden sword in favor of flinging clumps of frost toward the retreating maid.
“Resilience,” he said flatly, “will be tested.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He turned back to the desk, irritation prickling beneath his skin. “The curriculum remains unchanged. Lessons are to be followed as outlined. No deviations. No indulgences.”
Mrs. Channing inclined her head. “Of course.”
He hesitated, then added, “I will meet her myself.”
That earned him a faint, almost imperceptible look of surprise.
“As you wish, Your Grace.”
When she turned to leave, Edward spoke again. “And Mrs. Channing?”
She paused.
“If this one departs before the month is out, I expect a full account.”
Her lips pressed tighter. “Naturally.”
The door closed behind her with a soft click.
Edward sat very still for a moment.
He did not know why he had insisted on meeting the governess himself. In the past, he had left such matters to the housekeeper, content to review reports afterward.
Perhaps it was simple exhaustion. Or perhaps—though he would not admit it aloud—he was tired of being told, over and over, that his son was impossible.
He turned back to the ledgers, but the figures refused to cooperate.
His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the idea of another stranger walking Ashford’s halls, another woman stepping briefly into Julian’s life only to leave it again, carrying with her some fresh failure for which he would be expected to account.
Thomas would have known what to do.
The thought slipped in before Edward could stop it, sharp and unwelcome. His brother had always possessed a rare balance of authority and warmth. Where Edward was methodical and reserved, Thomas had been instinctive, generous with praise, easy in his command.
The estate had flourished under him.
Edward pushed back from the desk and stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. He crossed the room and reached for the decanter on the sideboard, pouring himself a small measure of brandy. He rarely drank during the day—but today—
He stopped, glass hovering in his hand.
No.
It was too early for that. Too early to surrender, even in so small a way.
With a sharp exhale, he set the glass aside untouched and returned to the desk. He picked up his pen, straightened the stack of papers before him, and forced his attention back to the accounts.
Duty first. Always duty.
Outside the window, Julian’s laughter rang out again—too loud, too wild—but Edward did not look up.
He bent over the ledger and wrote his name at the bottom of the page with firm, deliberate strokes, as though the act itself might steady him.
Duke of Averleigh.
The ink dried dark and permanent on the page.