Chapter 8
Edward did not return to his study.
He turned instead toward the library, his stride sharp and purposeful, as though the mere act of movement might burn away the agitation coiled beneath his ribs.
The door closed behind him with more force than strictly necessary, the sound echoing off the shelves lined with leather-bound volumes he had not touched in years.
His hands curled at his sides.
The pianoforte.
The realization struck him again, unwelcome and insistent. He had not heard it—not truly heard it—in two years. Not since Eleanor’s hands had last moved across the keys, coaxing life from the instrument with a grace that felt effortless and unearned by the rest of the world.
And yet today—
It had been dreadful.
Uneven. Hesitant. Painfully amateur.
And still, it had stopped him mid-step.
Edward dragged a hand through his hair and began to pace.
He had known, the instant the sound reached him, that it was wrong. That it did not belong to any lesson he had sanctioned. That it violated the carefully ordered structure he had imposed upon Ashford in the wake of loss.
And yet his feet had carried him toward it before his mind had fully caught up.
The sound had pulled him.
Lured him, like a memory half-forgotten.
He stopped abruptly and stared down at the carpet, jaw tightening.
Julian had been laughing.
The image rose unbidden—his son’s face lit with something unguarded, something fleeting and rare. Not the sharp mischief Edward had learned to expect. Not the defensive bravado. But laughter. Real laughter. The kind that reached the eyes before it could be smothered.
Edward closed his eyes. When was the last time he had heard that sound?
He searched his memory, turning over moments with increasing urgency. Julian as a smaller boy, perhaps. Before the war. Before illness had hollowed the house. Before silence had become the rule rather than the exception.
Nothing came.
The absence struck him like a physical blow.
He resumed pacing, anger sharpening into something more ominous—something too close to envy to be comfortable.
Charlotte Fenton.
The governess had stood between him and that moment, unbowed. Had spoken to him—challenged him—with a calm that bordered on audacity. No servant had ever done so. Not once. Not without fear. Not without apology.
He should have been furious. Instead, something unsettling had stirred beneath the anger.
Candor, he thought grimly. That was what it was. Unvarnished, unafraid candor. He had spent the better part of his life surrounded by men who deferred or flattered, by staff who obeyed and retreated, by society that smiled and whispered behind gloved hands.
Miss Fenton had done none of those things.
He turned sharply, stopping before one of the tall windows that overlooked the grounds. The gardens lay quiet beneath the winter sky, their paths pale with frost.
“She is a servant,” he muttered aloud.
The words rang hollow. She had not behaved like one. And worse—he had admired it.
The admission sat like a spark against dry tinder. Perilous. Ill-advised. Entirely inappropriate.
And yet—
Edward’s shoulders sagged as regret seeped in, slow and heavy.
He had been too harsh.
The certainty came with unwelcome clarity. He had seen Julian’s shoulders slump, had felt the shift in the room as joy curdled into compliance. He had done that. Again.
Played the villain.
He pressed his palm flat against the window, breath fogging the glass.
This was not the father he had intended to be.
Nor, he suspected, the man Eleanor would have wanted him to become.
A sudden movement behind made him stiffen.
“Good God, Edward, must you stalk your own house like an aggrieved specter?”
Edward turned sharply.
Christopher leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression equal parts amusement and concern. He had removed his coat, cravat loosened, his presence entirely too casual for Edward’s current state of mind.
“How did you—” Edward stopped himself and exhaled sharply. “Never mind.”
Christopher stepped fully into the room and shut the door behind him. “I heard you were in here terrifying the furniture.”
Edward scoffed. “If you’ve come to mock me—again—I’m not in the mood.”
“I came to see whether you’d survived the night,” Christopher said lightly. “You were still at your desk when I left, and I rather suspected you’d declare war on a bookcase before dawn.”
Edward turned away. “Leave it.”
Christopher didn’t. He crossed the room and stopped a few paces off, expression sharpening. “What happened?”
Edward hesitated.
Then, to his own surprise, the words spilled out.
“The pianoforte,” he said flatly. “They were playing it. Laughing.”
Christopher blinked. “And?”
“And I stopped it,” Edward snapped. “Because it was not on the schedule. Because order matters.” His voice faltered, just slightly. “Because I did not recognize the sound until it was too late.”
Christopher studied him carefully. “You miss it.”
Edward did not answer at once.
“Yes,” he said finally. “I miss it.”
Silence settled between them.
“And Julian?” Christopher prompted.
Edward’s throat tightened. “I cannot remember the last time he laughed with me.”
The admission felt like a wound opened to air.
Christopher’s expression softened. “That does not mean you’ve failed him.”
“It feels like it does.”
Edward turned back toward the window. “Thomas would have known what to do. Eleanor would have—” His voice broke off. “They would have done this right.”
Christopher stepped closer. “You are not them.”
“I know.”
“And Julian does not need them now,” Christopher continued. “He needs you.”
Edward laughed humorlessly. “You make it sound simple.”
“It isn’t,” Christopher said gently. “But neither is it hopeless.”
Edward’s thoughts drifted, unbidden, back to the governess. To the way she had spoken to Julian. To the calm certainty in her voice—neither defiant nor disrespectful, but earnest. As though she believed Edward capable of something better.
“I should not think of her,” he said abruptly.
Christopher’s brows lifted. “Of whom?”
Edward closed his eyes briefly. “The governess.”
Christopher went very still.
“That,” he said slowly, “is new.”
Edward’s jaw tightened. “It means nothing.”
“Perhaps,” Christopher replied. “Or perhaps it means you are waking up.”
Edward turned sharply. “Do not encourage foolishness.”
“I encourage happiness,” Christopher said quietly. “For you. For Julian. For this house.” He paused. “You are allowed to want that.”
Edward shook his head. “Wanting does not make it appropriate.”
“No,” Christopher agreed. “But denying it has not made you whole, either.”
The words landed with quiet force, and Edward looked away, chest tight.
Christopher sighed and stepped back. “I should go before you throw me out.”
Edward did not stop him.
At the door, Christopher paused. “For what it’s worth,” he added, “I think Eleanor would have laughed at that piano.”
The door closed softly.
Edward remained where he was, the echo of that dreadful music lingering in his mind—not the sound itself, but what it had awakened.
Joy. Longing. Regret.
The library felt too small all at once.
He had not meant to raise his voice. He rarely did.
That, perhaps, was what unsettled him most. Anger, he understood. Authority, restraint, distance—those were languages he spoke fluently. But the sharp twist of regret that followed? The unease that clung to him now, persistent as a burr beneath skin?
That was unfamiliar territory.
Edward turned sharply, intending to cross to the window, when the door opened behind him.
He froze.
For a split second, irritation flared—another interruption, another demand upon a temper already stretched thin. He turned, prepared to dismiss whoever it was without ceremony.
And then he saw her.
Miss Fenton stood just inside the threshold, hands clasped before her as she had the habit of doing, her posture guarded but not timid.
Light from the tall windows caught in her hair, softening it into something almost luminous. Her expression was composed, but there was a flicker in her eyes—hesitation, perhaps, or resolve.
Edward’s irritation faltered.
Something else took its place.
It was absurd. Entirely so. He was a grown man, seasoned by war and loss, not a green boy undone by a pretty face. And yet—his pulse betrayed him, quickening with an unfamiliar flutter low in his chest, like the sudden lift of wings.
Butterflies, he thought incredulously.
The notion annoyed him enough that his jaw tightened.
“Your Grace,” she said, her voice gentle, carrying effortlessly through the room.
He did not answer at once.
She took a few tentative steps forward, stopping well short of him. “I wished to speak with you. About earlier.”
Edward folded his arms, a reflexive gesture, and inclined his head slightly. “Go on.”
She drew a breath. “I wanted to apologize. For the … disruption. I did not intend to undermine your authority, nor to disregard the schedule you set for Julian.” Her gaze lifted to his, steady and open. “If I overstepped, I regret it.”
Edward listened in silence, his thoughts strangely disordered.
She was beautiful—there was no denying it—but not in the reserved, distant way he associated with society women. There was nothing polished or calculating about her. She spoke as she moved, as she thought, with an ease that suggested she did not spend her days weighing each word for effect.
She continued, unaware of the way his attention had narrowed to her alone.
“I will, of course, be more careful in future,” she said.
“And I understand the importance of structure. But—” She hesitated only a fraction of a second before pressing on.
“Children are children. They learn not only through books, but through curiosity. Through trial and error. Through experience.”
Her hands shifted slightly, as though resisting the urge to gesture. “Knowledge and character are not formed by memorization alone. They grow when a child is allowed to ask questions, to explore, to make small mistakes in a safe place.”
She looked at him then—not challengingly, not defensively, but with something like wonder. As though she truly believed he might hear her.
Edward felt the strange sensation again—that unsettling sense of being seen not as a duke, not as an authority to be obeyed, but as a man capable of choice.
He had every intention of responding with a cool dismissal.
Instead, he heard himself say, “I agree.”
The word fell into the space between them, solid and unmistakable.
Miss Fenton blinked. Once. Then again.
Her mouth parted slightly, as though she had prepared for an argument and found herself disarmed by its absence. Color rose faintly in her cheeks.
“You … agree?” she repeated.
Edward cleared his throat, irritated with himself for the warmth creeping into his voice. “Within reason,” he added. “Structure matters. But so does engagement.”
She stared at him openly now, surprise giving way to something brighter. “I—” She caught herself, then smiled, quick and genuine. “I did not expect that.”
Neither had he.
They stood in silence for a moment, the library humming softly around them—the crackle of the fire, the faint creak of settling shelves.
Edward gestured vaguely at the room. “You are standing in a library filled with evidence that I am not entirely opposed to ideas,” he said dryly.
Her smile widened. “I see that.”
He hesitated, then added, “Mary Wollstonecraft argued much the same in Original Stories from Real Life. That children learn best when guided toward reason and virtue through lived experience, not merely rote instruction.”
Her eyes lit at once.
“I love that book,” she said, the words tumbling out before she could restrain them. “It was one of the first that made me feel … understood. As though learning could be something alive.”
Edward studied her anew, something shifting subtly in his chest. “You may make use of the library,” he said. “Borrow whatever you wish.”
Her expression softened into something like gratitude. “Thank you.”
He turned toward the nearest shelf, compelled by an impulse he did not entirely understand. His fingers traced familiar spines until they found one worn at the edges—a slim volume, its cover faded from years of handling.
He drew it free.
“Julian used to favor this,” he said, more quietly than he intended. “Before bed.”
She looked at the book, then at him. “May I?”
He nodded and held it out. Their fingers brushed as she took it.
The contact was fleeting—barely more than a whisper of skin—but it sent a sharp, unexpected jolt through him, like a spark snapping between wires. Edward stepped back at once, heart thudding, the movement abrupt enough that she startled.
“I—” He shook his head, searching for composure. “You may read it to him, if you think it helpful.”
Her grip tightened slightly on the book. “I would like that.”
Edward inclined his head, already retreating. “Good afternoon, Miss Fenton.”
“Good afternoon, Your Grace.”
He did not look back as he left the library, the air between them charged and unfinished.
Only once the door closed behind him did he allow himself to breathe.
The echo of her presence lingered—her voice, her warmth, the unsettling ease with which she had unsettled him.
Edward pressed his palm briefly to his brow, as though to steady his thoughts.
This, he told himself firmly, was a complication he could not afford.
And yet, as he strode down the corridor, the image of her standing amid the shelves—book in hand, eyes bright with possibility—refused to leave him.
Some doors, once opened, were not so easily closed.