Chapter 16
The Pennington ballroom glowed.
There was no other word for it. Candlelight spilled from chandeliers and sconces alike, gilding the polished floor until it gleamed like molten gold.
Music drifted through the space—strings, breath, and rhythm woven together so seamlessly that Edward felt it before he fully registered the sound. Conversation layered over it in murmurs and laughter, silk brushing silk, boots gliding, voices rising and falling in familiar cadence.
It had been too long.
Edward stood at the edge of the room, one hand resting lightly on the back of a chair he had not yet claimed, surveying the scene with the detached awareness of a man long unused to being observed.
The ton filled the space easily, bodies moving as though drawn by habit and memory rather than intent.
Faces turned as he entered—some with polite surprise, others with frank curiosity. A few with recognition that sharpened into speculation.
The Duke of Averleigh had returned.
Julian stood a short distance away, in the watchful custody of the Penningtons’ governess, already half-asleep from the day’s travel and stimulation. Edward had watched until he was certain the boy was settled—comfortable, secure—before allowing himself to step fully into the evening.
Charlotte was not immediately visible.
He told himself that was for the best.
Lady Amelia, however, wasted no time.
She appeared at his side with accustomed ease, her gown a delicate shade of winter blue that caught the candlelight with every movement. Her smile was warm, her posture impeccable, her presence unmistakably intentional.
“Edward,” she said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to speak his name so familiarly again. “You made it.”
“As promised,” he replied, inclining his head.
Her gaze flicked briefly across the room, then returned to him. “You are quite the topic of conversation.”
“I suspected as much.”
She laughed softly. “Do not pretend you are surprised.”
“I never do.”
They moved together through the crowd, Amelia’s hand resting lightly on his sleeve—never gripping, never clinging, but always present.
She spoke of mutual acquaintances, of the season’s gatherings, of who had married and who had disappointed expectations. Edward listened, responding where courtesy required, his attention divided between her words and the subtle ways she positioned herself beside him.
Claiming him.
It was not unwelcome. Not entirely. Amelia was elegant, composed, well-suited to these spaces in ways Edward would never be. She understood the rhythms of society, the unspoken agreements, and the power of being seen and admired. There was comfort in that. Safety.
And yet—
His gaze drifted.
Lady Victoria West was seated near the far windows, her posture modest, her expression attentive rather than animated.
She wore mourning still, though softened by pale lavender rather than black. A young boy sat beside her, legs swinging as he watched the dancers with wide-eyed fascination.
Edward found himself pausing.
Amelia noticed at once.
“Ah,” she said lightly. “Lady Victoria.”
“You know her?”
“Of course. We were introduced earlier.” Her tone remained pleasant, but something tightened beneath it. “She is recently widowed.”
“As am I,” Edward replied without thinking.
Amelia glanced at him sharply, then smoothed her expression. “Yes. Of course.”
They were introduced moments later.
Lady Victoria rose, offering a small, composed smile. Her voice was gentle, her manner reserved. Conversation came easily—surprisingly so. They spoke of children first, of the strange balance between protection and letting go, of how grief reshaped even the most mundane routines.
“I often wonder,” Lady Victoria said quietly, “whether I am doing him a disservice by shielding him too much.”
Edward nodded. “I have wondered the opposite. Whether I have demanded too much resilience too soon.”
Their sons exchanged glances across the space, curiosity mirrored.
It was … easy.
Edward felt the quiet pull of possibility. Lady Victoria was kind. Thoughtful. Grounded. She understood loss without spectacle. She would be a sensible match. A gentle one. A woman who could provide Julian with stability, companionship, and care.
And yet—
His thoughts betrayed him.
Charlotte would have laughed with Julian. Would have crouched to his level, whispered some nonsense to coax a smile. Would have seen the boy first, not the expectations attached to him.
The comparison unsettled him.
Amelia, watching closely, did not miss the shift.
She intervened smoothly, drawing Edward back into conversation with a pointed question, her charm sharpened just enough to remind him of her presence. Lady Victoria excused herself shortly after, her departure polite, unremarkable.
Amelia lingered.
Edward felt the press of the room then—the heat, the noise, and the expectation. He excused himself with his normal courtesy and stepped through the open doors into the gardens.
The night air was a relief.
Frost silvered the hedges, moonlight pooling across the gravel paths. Music drifted faintly from within, muted now, distant. Edward drew a breath he had not realized he was holding.
“Cornered already?”
Christopher emerged from the shadows with a grin, coat unbuttoned, expression far too amused.
“I escaped,” Edward replied dryly.
Christopher laughed. “Amelia has not lost her touch.”
“Nor her intent.”
“And the widow?” Christopher arched a brow. “Practical. Kind. Suitable.”
Edward frowned. “You sound like a ledger.”
“I learned from the best.”
They walked slowly, boots crunching softly against the frost.
“Amelia is determined,” Christopher continued. “She sees an opening and intends to fill it.”
“I am not an estate in need of management,” Edward said coolly.
Christopher hummed, hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed the frost-limned beds. “You are, unfortunately, a duke with a son.”
Edward did not dignify that with a response.
“And yet,” Christopher continued, voice turning thoughtful, “you looked more alive speaking with Lady Victoria than I have seen you in two years.”
Edward stopped walking and turned sharply. “That is a misinterpretation.”
Christopher only smiled. “It is an observation. Which is precisely why Amelia is irritated.”
Edward exhaled through his nose. “You find this amusing.”
“I find you amusing,” Christopher replied lightly. “You stride about the room like a man under siege, while half the county considers you the most eligible widower in three shires.”
Edward resumed walking, jaw set. “If this is your attempt to push me toward a suitable match, you may spare yourself the effort.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t presume,” Christopher said. “Suitability is your particular obsession, not mine.”
They paused near the far edge of the garden, where the lantern light thinned, and the music from within the house dulled to a distant murmur. Edward folded his arms, the cold sharpening his thoughts.
“If you are so invested in matrimony,” he said evenly, “perhaps you should turn your attention to your own prospects.”
Christopher arched a brow. “Ah.”
“You are no longer a boy,” Edward went on. “You have estates. Responsibilities. A name that will require more than charm to sustain it indefinitely.”
“My dear Edward,” Christopher said mildly, “is this concern for my future, or an attempt to redirect the conversation away from your own?”
Edward did not answer at once.
Instead, he said, “You have spent a decade avoiding permanence as though it were a disease. At some point, that ceases to be independence and becomes evasion.”
Christopher regarded him with new interest. “That sounded remarkably like advice.”
Edward’s mouth tightened. “Take it or leave it.”
For a moment, Christopher said nothing. Then—unexpectedly—his expression shifted. The humor softened, something quieter taking its place.
“There is someone,” he said suddenly.
Christopher’s expression shifted—uncertain, unguarded. “I did not expect it. She is … unlike anyone I have known.”
Edward blinked. “You?”
“Yes, me.” Christopher huffed a quiet laugh. “She is kind. Reserved. Not impressed by anything I say. Which is unsettling.”
Edward studied his friend. “You have never spoken this way before.”
“I know.”
“Who is she?”
Christopher hesitated. “I will tell you when I am certain.”
Edward nodded slowly. “Then I am pleased for you.”
Christopher smiled, genuine now. “Thank you.”
They turned back toward the house.
That was when Edward saw her.
Charlotte moved along the edge of the garden, cautious, deliberate, as though she wished not to be noticed. Her shawl was drawn close, her steps measured. She paused near the hedges, glancing back once before continuing.
Edward’s breath caught.
Christopher followed his gaze and chuckled softly. “Go,” he murmured. “I will keep the wolves at bay.”
Edward hesitated only a moment before following.
He approached slowly, mindful not to startle her.
She turned at the sound of his steps, eyes widening before she composed herself. “Your Grace—I did not hear—”
“I am sorry,” he said quietly. “I did not mean to frighten you.”
She shook her head. “It is nothing. I only needed air.”
“Is Julian—?”
“Sleeping,” she assured him. “The Penningtons’ governess kindly offered to sit with him.”
Relief eased something tight in his chest.
“You look unwell,” Edward said before he could stop himself.
She smiled faintly. “I am merely overtired.”
He did not believe her.
They stood in silence for a moment, moonlight tracing the lines of her face.
“You spoke earlier,” Charlotte said softly, “of Julian needing a mother.”
Edward nodded. “It is … unavoidable.”
She glanced toward the house. “Lady Amelia would suit the role.”
The words struck harder than expected.
“Yes,” Edward said. “In principle.”
And yet—
“I do not want that role filled by just anyone,” he said, the truth escaping before he could restrain it.
Charlotte’s breath caught. Her gaze lifted to his at once, eyes wide with something like wonder … and caution. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The garden seemed to hold its breath with them, the lantern light pooling softly at their feet, the distant music muted by distance and foliage.
Edward became acutely aware of how close she stood. Of the faint warmth she carried, lingering even in the winter air. Of how easily he could reach for her—and how ruinous that would be.
She smiled then. Not coy. Not calculated. Just a small, startled curve of her mouth, as though she, too, were surprised by what had been spoken aloud.
“I see,” she said softly.
They laughed—not because it was amusing, but because the tension demanded release. A brief, breathless sound, shared and intimate, born of nerves and the shared knowledge that they had strayed somewhere dangerous.
Edward felt it then—the moment tipping. Desire threading itself through restraint, tightening with every second he did not step away. The realization struck hard and unwelcome: he wanted her. Not abstractly. Not politely. But with a pull that threatened reason.
He could sense Christopher somewhere behind them, a silent sentinel, and still the pull did not lessen.
This was precisely how mistakes were made.
Edward stepped back at once, the movement abrupt enough to shatter what hovered between them. He straightened, shoulders squaring, the Duke of Averleigh settling over him like armor he had nearly forgotten to wear.
“I should not keep you,” he said, his voice cool, formal—closed. “I ought to return to the house.”
The shift was unmistakable.
Charlotte’s smile faltered. For a moment, something flickered in her eyes—surprise, perhaps, or hurt—before composure slid carefully back into place. She inclined her head. “Of course, Your Grace.”
Edward did not wait for her to move.
He turned away first, the decision sharp and deliberate, as though retreat were the only thing standing between him and ruin. He did not look back. He did not allow himself even the smallest glance that might undo him.
Behind him, the garden fell silent.
Charlotte remained where she was, lantern light casting her half in shadow, half in moonlight—warmth still lingering in the space he had abandoned.
Edward walked on, each step determined, controlled, his pulse thundering with everything he refused to acknowledge.
Only when the house rose before him did he finally exhale—slowly, intentionally—trying to convince himself he had done the right thing.
Charlotte was his governess. He was her employer.
And whatever had nearly taken shape in that garden could never be allowed to exist.
Still, as he crossed the threshold and the door closed behind him, one truth pressed heavily against his ribs:
Restraint had never felt so much like loss.