Chapter 4
Edward stood at the window longer than he intended.
The morning had dawned pale and brittle, the sky stretched thin with winter light. Snow had fallen again during the night, softening the grounds in white silence.
He had risen early, as he always did, hoping to find order in the hours before the household stirred. Instead, his attention had been stolen at once.
Miss Fenton stood in the gardens below.
She drifted without purpose at first, as though uncertain what to do with the open space.
Then she laughed—softly, to herself—and turned in a slow, careless circle, her boots leaving shallow impressions in the untouched snow. Her cloak lay abandoned on the bench nearby, and her hair—
Edward’s jaw tightened.
Her hair was unbound.
Long, pale strands fell freely down her back, catching the light, catching the snowflakes as they drifted down. They clung there, bright against the gold of her hair, melting slowly. It was wholly improper. No lady of sense went about so exposed, particularly on a duke’s estate.
And yet—
She looked unbearably young.
Not childish, exactly. But unguarded. As though the world had not yet taught her caution, or she had chosen—deliberately—not to heed it.
Edward’s thoughts snagged, uncomfortably, on the memory of the night before.
The kitchen. The moonlight. The audacity of her standing there alone and demanding to know who he was, as though Ashford Manor were not his by right, as though he were no more than a trespasser in his own home.
He should have been angry.
Instead, he had been … startled.
By her steadiness. By the absence of fear once recognition dawned. By the way she had spoken to him—not fawning, not deferential beyond what courtesy required. As if he were simply a man.
It had been years since any woman had looked at him that way.
The realization unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
Edward shifted his stance, folding his arms behind his back. He told himself he was only observing. Assessing. A duke had every right to know the temperament of those in his employ.
Still, he could not ignore the contrast.
The other governesses had been older. Proper. Tight-lipped. They had worn their hair pinned severely, their expressions permanently strained.
They had looked at Julian with exasperation or fear, and at Edward with expectation—each one quietly hopeful that she might be the exception, the one who would be noticed.
Miss Fenton was nothing like them.
She moved as though the cold did not trouble her, as though the house looming behind her was not an edifice of grief and discipline. She bent to scoop snow into her bare hands, laughing again when it slipped through her fingers.
Edward felt a sharp, unwelcome twist of guilt.
Eleanor.
The name surfaced unbidden, heavy and immediate. His wife had loved winter mornings. She used to say the snow made everything honest—no place for decay to hide.
He stepped back from the window.
This was foolishness. Idle curiosity. He had work to do.
Yet even as he turned away, Charlotte—Miss Fenton—stopped short in the snow.
Slowly, she looked up.
Their eyes met through the glass.
Edward’s heart lurched, traitorous and sudden.
He stepped back at once, heat rising sharply to his face. He had not meant to be seen. He had not meant—
A shout cut through the quiet.
“Miss Fenton!”
Edward strode instinctively back to the window.
Julian burst from the side door, bundled carelessly, his boots mismatched, his expression bright with mischief. Mrs. Channing followed close behind, calling his name sharply.
Edward’s mouth tightened.
Before anyone could intervene, Julian scooped up a snowball and hurled it.
It struck Miss Fenton squarely in the face.
Edward winced.
The sound of her surprised gasp reached him even from above. Julian whooped and bolted toward the house, laughter ringing out across the grounds.
Edward did not hesitate.
He left the study at once, descending the stairs two at a time, his stride long and furious. The foyer echoed with Julian’s footsteps as the boy skidded to a halt, turning pale when he saw his father’s expression.
“Julian.”
The single word snapped like a whip.
Julian straightened, shoulders hunched, defiance wavering. “I was only—”
“Enough.” Edward’s voice was low, controlled, far more ominous than shouting. “You will go back outside. You will apologize. At once.”
Julian’s mouth twisted. “She was smiling.”
“That is not permission.”
Mrs. Channing appeared at the door, lips pressed thin.
Edward opened the door himself and gestured sharply. “Now.”
Julian trudged past him, boots dragging.
Edward followed, stopping just inside the threshold as Julian approached Miss Fenton. She stood brushing snow from her lashes; her cheeks flushed from cold and surprise. She did not look angry. She looked startled—and patient.
Edward did not miss that.
“I’m sorry,” Julian muttered, staring at his boots.
Miss Fenton crouched slightly to meet his eye level. “That’s quite all right,” she said gently. “Thank you for saying so.”
Julian glanced at her, startled by her calm.
Edward cleared his throat. “Inside. Now.”
Julian obeyed without further protest.
Edward remained where he was, acutely aware of Miss Fenton’s presence. She straightened slowly, smoothing her skirts as though the interruption had been of no consequence. Her hair remained loose around her shoulders, catching the pale winter light.
Mrs. Channing stepped forward at once, lips pressed thin. “I did warn—”
“It will not happen again,” Edward said firmly.
Miss Fenton shook her head, the motion small but resolute. “There is no need. He meant no harm.” She paused, then added lightly, “Snow has a way of encouraging poor judgment.”
Edward said nothing. He watched her instead.
She was not flustered. Not indignant. Not eager to ingratiate herself. She treated the incident as neither insult nor ordeal—only a moment passed and finished. No governess before her had done the same.
That, more than the boy’s behavior, unsettled him.
Edward turned away, prepared to return to the house.
“Your Grace.”
Mrs. Channing’s voice cut cleanly through the air, crisp with expectation, as though restoring order by force of habit.
“You have not yet been properly introduced.”
Edward paused.
Miss Fenton stood quietly now, hands folded before her, her expression open and composed.
Up close, the impression struck him with unexpected force. She was young, as he had noticed—her features unlined, her eyes bright, her manner unguarded in a way that felt almost reckless within Ashford’s somber walls.
“This,” Mrs. Channing said crisply, “is Miss Charlotte Fenton, the new governess. Miss Fenton—His Grace, the Duke of Averleigh.”
Edward inclined his head, already aware of the faint absurdity of the moment. “Miss Fenton,” he said. “We have already been introduced.”
Mrs. Channing’s brows knit slightly.
Miss Fenton blinked, momentarily caught off guard, then recovered at once.
Edward’s gaze lingered on her despite himself. The loose fall of her hair only emphasized her youth, lending her a brightness that sat uneasily against the house's gray severity.
“How old are you?”
The question escaped him before he could temper it.
A brittle silence followed.
Miss Fenton regarded him steadily. “That is rather an inappropriate question to ask a lady, Your Grace.”
Edward felt irritation flare—not at her, but at the sudden clarity of his own misstep. He straightened, expression cooling.
“I ask,” he said curtly, “because it is my responsibility to know precisely whom I employ. It is also advisable that the servants and staff of this house remember their position—and conduct themselves accordingly.”
Mrs. Channing’s mouth tightened.
Miss Fenton studied him for a fraction longer than courtesy dictated, her expression unreadable.
“I am three-and-twenty,” she said evenly.
The words were calm. Polite.
And edged.
Edward felt the shift at once.
“And I recall,” she continued after a brief pause, “that I apologized to you last evening.”
Edward went very still.
Mrs. Channing frowned. “Last evening?”
Miss Fenton inclined her head. “When I mistook his grace for an intruder.” Her gaze did not waver. “I believed it my duty not to allow a stranger to wander the house at night—particularly where a child is concerned. I still believe that demonstrated proper respect for the property.”
The words landed cleanly. Measured. Unapologetic.
Edward studied her.
No governess had ever spoken to him this way. Not with fear. Not with flattery. But with conviction—and no apparent concern for whether it pleased him.
For a long moment, he said nothing at all.
His gaze held hers, sharp and searching, until the intensity forced her eyes away. Color rose faintly in her cheeks, though her posture remained unbroken.
There was something in her tone—quiet, restrained—that unsettled him all over again.
Edward turned away abruptly.
“Mrs. Channing,” he said, already striding toward the house, “see that the boy is prepared for lessons. I expect the schedule to be observed.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Edward did not look back as he crossed the threshold.
He did not trust himself to do so.
In his study once more, he closed the door with more force than necessary and stood very still, his back to it, breath measured with effort.
Three-and-twenty.
The knowledge sat heavily in his mind, sharpening every thought he had tried to dismiss—her laughter, her unbound hair, the quiet courage with which she had confronted both his son and him.
This was folly. Distraction. A dangerous one.
He had no business thinking her beautiful—no right to notice it at all.
With a curt motion, he straightened the papers on his desk and reached for his pen.
Work. That was the remedy.
Duty, discipline, distance.
Edward bent over the ledger, forcing his attention back to columns of figures that stubbornly refused to make sense.
Outside, somewhere beyond the walls, a woman laughed softly at the snow.
Edward wrote on, jaw set, determined not to listen.