Chapter 13
Edward read the letter twice before folding it and setting it aside.
Liam had always written as though the page were a stage and he the principal actor—grand turns of phrase, confident assurances, bold plans sketched with a man’s optimism and very little caution.
New ventures. Expanding interests. A request—carefully couched, politely phrased, but unmistakable all the same—for capital.
Edward leaned back in his chair, eyes lifting to the ceiling.
Liam was family. A cousin, yes, but close enough in age that they had grown up half-companions, half-competitors.
He had always chased opportunity the way others chased pleasure, convinced that the next venture would be the one that settled him.
Edward had indulged him before. He had refused him before.
Tonight, he was not certain which impulse would win.
Perhaps, he thought, it was time to help him. Or perhaps he simply lacked the energy to argue.
The fire had burned low by the time he rose. The house had long since settled, the corridors hushed in that particular way of great estates at night—too large ever to sleep truly, too quiet to be entirely at ease.
He extinguished the lamp and retired, mind still turning over figures and obligations until exhaustion finally claimed him.
Sleep did not last.
He woke with a sharp intake of breath, heart pounding, his body already braced as though for impact.
For a moment—always the same cursed moment—he did not know where he was.
The dark pressed in. The air felt too thick.
He could smell smoke that was not there, hear shouting that dissolved the instant he focused on it.
It took effort to remember Ashford. The bed. The walls. The silence.
Edward pushed himself upright, dragging a hand down his face. His shirt clung faintly to his skin, damp with sweat. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there until the worst of it passed, until the war receded once more into memory where it belonged.
Sleep would not return.
He pulled on his dressing gown and left his chambers, his steps carrying him instinctively toward the library. Books had always been his refuge in such moments—orderly, contained, obedient to reason in a way the past never was.
The door stood ajar.
Edward slowed, surprise sharpening his senses. He pushed it open quietly and stopped just inside the threshold.
Charlotte sat curled in one of the high-backed chairs near the hearth, a candle guttering on the table beside her. She wore a simple nightgown, pale and unadorned, with a small shawl drawn loosely around her shoulders.
Her hair lay unbound, spilling down her back in soft disarray. She looked smaller like this. Younger. Entirely unguarded.
For a moment, he simply watched.
The candlelight touched her face gently, catching in the curve of her cheek, the line of her mouth as she read. The housekeeper’s governess. His employee. And yet—here, in the quiet of the night—she looked nothing like a figure who belonged to rules or roles.
Edward felt the pull of it before he could stop himself and resented it at once.
She sensed him then, lifting her head abruptly. Her eyes widened, color rising faintly in her cheeks as she recognized him.
“Your Grace,” she said, already setting the book aside and rising. “I—please forgive me. I did not mean to intrude. I could not sleep.”
He held up a hand. “You are not intruding.” The words came more gently than he intended. “The library is … not forbidden.”
She hesitated, relief flickering across her face before she nodded. “Thank you.”
She gathered her shawl closer, and only then did Edward notice how tightly she held herself—as though the stillness she projected required effort.
“I find it helps,” she said, gesturing vaguely to the shelves. “After the accident.”
His attention sharpened. “The accident?”
She nodded, gaze dropping briefly to the book in her hands.
“The carriage. The one that killed my parents.” Her voice did not waver, but something was guarded in the way she spoke, as though choosing each word precisely.
“I still hear it sometimes. The splintering wood. The horses.” She swallowed.
“Reading gives my mind something else to hold.”
Edward felt a chill trace its way down his spine.
For a moment, he thought to ask more—where, how, whose fault—but the words lodged fast in his throat. The questions felt intrusive. Too sharp.
And she had already given enough.
“I’m sorry,” Charlotte said quickly, mistaking his silence. “I should not have said anything. I did not mean to—”
“No,” he interrupted, forcing himself back into the present. “You did nothing wrong.”
He stepped further into the room then, drawn by something he did not entirely trust. He took the chair opposite hers, leaving an appropriate distance between them.
“I do not sleep well either,” he said after a moment. The admission surprised him even as it left his mouth. “After the war.”
She looked at him with quiet attentiveness, not pity, not curiosity—simply listening.
“I wake believing I am still there,” he continued, his gaze fixed on the fire.
“That if I open my eyes quickly enough, I might prevent what comes next. And then I remember.” His jaw tightened.
“That my brother is dead. That my wife is dead. That the title passed while I was gone.” He exhaled slowly.
“It is a peculiar sort of grief. To mourn what you did not witness.”
Charlotte’s voice was very soft when she spoke. “I am sorry for your losses.”
He nodded once, unable to look at her.
The silence between them felt different now—less strained, more … shared.
When he finally lifted his gaze, he was acutely aware once more of her appearance: the way the candlelight caught in her hair, the faint shadows beneath her eyes, the vulnerability she had not tried to disguise. It unsettled him more than anger ever could.
He straightened abruptly, as though the quiet had become threatening. “I have been considering remarriage.”
The words seemed to hang in the air between them, too large for the room, too intimate for the hour.
Charlotte blinked, caught off guard. For a moment, she said nothing at all. The candlelight wavered, casting brief shadows across her face as she searched for the right response.
Edward felt suddenly exposed by his own admission. He had not meant to say it so plainly—had not meant to invite her opinion at all. And yet, once spoken, the thought demanded completion.
“How do you think Julian would take it?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral. “If I were to … pursue such a course.”
Her gaze lifted to his then, steady and considering. Whatever surprise she had felt was quickly mastered, replaced by the thoughtful composure he was coming to recognize.
“I believe,” she said slowly, “that he would resist at first.” She offered a small, apologetic smile, as though anticipating the difficulty rather than condemning it. “Change unsettles him. Especially when it touches what he has already lost.”
Edward absorbed this in silence.
“But he is a good boy,” she continued, more firmly now. “He loves deeply. And he wants to be understood.” She hesitated, then added, “In time, if he felt secure—if he believed the choice was made with care—I think he would come to accept it.”
For you, she did not say.
Not for himself.
The distinction struck Edward with unexpected force.
Edward studied her, struck by the generosity of the answer—and by the restraint beneath it.
“Thank you,” he said, though he was no longer certain for what.
She rose then, clearly sensing the moment had gone far enough. As she did, the shawl slipped, revealing a pale scar along her forearm. It was long. Clean-edged. Old enough to have healed, but not to have faded.
She noticed his gaze and drew the fabric back into place at once.
“Marks remain,” he said quietly. “Even when the past is finished with us.”
She met his eyes, something unreadable flickering there. “Yes,” she agreed. But her voice was less steady now.
“I should go,” she said. “Goodnight, Your Grace.”
“Goodnight.”
He watched her leave, the door closing softly behind her.
Edward remained seated long after, the fire burning low.
A carriage accident is a coincidence, he told himself.
It must be.
And yet—for the first time in years—he was not certain the past was content to remain buried.