Chapter 24
Edward did not rush.
Annoyance burned clean and sharp beneath his ribs, but he would not give William the satisfaction of seeing it. He paused only long enough in the corridor to compose his features before entering the study.
He heard the door behind him open again—but did not turn.
Of course, she would follow.
When he stepped fully inside, William was already there.
He stood near the fireplace with an air of careless ease, gloved hands clasped behind his back, posture relaxed as though he had been invited to warm himself rather than forced upon the household at an improper hour.
Charlotte entered a heartbeat later.
William’s gaze flicked to Edward first—and then, with unmistakable satisfaction, to Charlotte.
“Well,” William drawled lightly, the faintest curve to his mouth. “I did not expect to find you both in such domestic comfort.”
Edward closed the door behind him with deliberate calm.
“To what do we owe the disturbance?” he asked coolly.
William’s expression shifted at once into something resembling contrition. “I hope I am not intruding. I could not rest without speaking further. Particularly knowing Charlotte has … found shelter.”
His emphasis did not go unnoticed.
Edward moved—not toward William, but subtly toward Charlotte, closing the distance without appearing to do so. Not shielding her. Not openly.
But near enough. Charlotte stiffened.
A muscle ticked in Edward’s jaw. “Explain yourself.”
William glanced toward Charlotte with a theatrical softness. “I have reason to believe certain individuals are still interested in the Westbrook affair. The accident was no simple tragedy.”
Edward did not look at Charlotte. He would not.
William continued, tone low and earnest. “I have made inquiries. I wished to make amends for my past failings. I was … unworthy then. I admit it.” He bowed his head slightly, the picture of remorse. “But I could not ignore what I discovered.”
“And that is?” Edward pressed.
William’s gaze lifted, locking onto Edward’s with something darker beneath the humility.
“There were transactions,” he said carefully. “Between George Westbrook and your late brother. Before my own involvement.”
The room seemed to tighten.
Charlotte’s breath caught audibly.
Edward felt something inside him go cold.
“Choose your next words with care,” he said quietly.
William raised his hands in placation. “I mean no insult. Only truth. Thomas was … ambitious. And George Westbrook was near ruin. They became entangled in certain arrangements. Large sums. Dangerous associates.”
Charlotte’s face had drained of color.
“Shady dealings,” William continued softly. “Men who do not accept loss gracefully. When Westbrook could not repay—”
“That is enough,” Edward said, his voice no longer calm.
William pressed on regardless. “It may explain why the carriage was tampered with. Why hostility grew. These people are not forgiving.”
“You lie,” Edward snapped.
William blinked as though wounded. “I gain nothing from falsehood.”
“You gain everything,” Edward shot back. “You seek to tarnish a dead man to elevate yourself.”
“I seek only to protect her,” William said, turning toward Charlotte again. “If Thomas’s actions placed her father in danger, she deserves to know.”
Edward took a step forward.
“Thomas was a man of honor.”
William’s expression flickered—almost pitying. “Even honorable men possess weaknesses.”
Edward’s hand curled into a fist.
“Your brother had a weakness for cards,” William went on quietly. “For risk. For high stakes. There are rumors he funded certain ventures through less respectable means.”
The words struck like stones.
Edward closed the distance between them in two strides.
“You will not speak of him that way in this house.”
William flinched only slightly, then recovered, lifting his chin. “I do not accuse. I report.”
He turned again to Charlotte, lowering his voice. “I promise you, I will uncover proof. I will clear my own name—and his. I will honor what remains of our families.”
He reached for her hand.
Edward saw red.
Before William’s fingers could brush her skin, Edward seized his arm and shoved him back.
The movement was swift and unmistakable.
William staggered half a step, shock breaking through his composure.
“Do not touch her,” Edward said, each word edged.
William stared at him—then laughed softly.
“What are you protecting her from?” he asked. “From truth? Or from the possibility that your own family stands at the center of this?”
Edward stepped forward again, and this time there was no mistaking the threat in his posture.
“You will leave,” he said. “Now.”
William’s eyes sharpened.
“You are closer to the truth than you think,” he said quietly. “Be careful what you uncover, cousin.”
Edward held his gaze without blinking. “If you return without invitation, you will not be received so civilly.”
William studied him a moment longer, then inclined his head with infuriating calm.
“As you wish.”
He turned to Charlotte one last time. “I meant what I said.”
She did not answer.
When the door closed behind him, the silence that followed felt heavier than before.
Charlotte remained standing, trembling slightly.
Edward forced himself to breathe.
When he turned toward her, she was staring at him—not frightened, not grateful.
Demanding.
“What do you know?” she asked.
Her voice was steady now. Too steady.
He hesitated. That was all it took.
“You are searching,” she said, anger breaking through the shock. “You have been searching, and you did not tell me.”
“I needed certainty,” he said sharply. “Not rumor.”
“This concerns my parents.”
“And you lied to me,” he shot back before he could stop himself.
The words hung between them.
She flinched—but did not retreat.
“I lied about my name,” she said. “Not about their deaths.”
“I chose to trust you,” he said, his voice lowering. “I chose to accept that there were reasons you could not speak. Allow me the same grace.”
Her eyes flashed. “Grace? You are investigating my family’s murder in secret.”
“I am protecting you.”
“From what?” she demanded. “From the truth?”
“From speculation that could destroy more than it reveals.”
She took a step back, frustration radiating from her.
“I deserve to know.”
“And you will,” he said, more gently now. “When I have something worthy of placing in your hands.”
Her chest rose and fell rapidly.
“I cannot stand in ignorance while you make decisions for me.”
He stepped closer—but stopped himself short of reaching for her.
“Trust me a little longer,” he said quietly. “Please.”
The word seemed to surprise them both.
Her expression wavered, but the anger did not fully leave.
“I need time,” she said at last.
She turned and stepped toward the window, staring out into the darkness of the grounds beyond.
Edward watched her in silence.
He had thought he could shield her. He had not accounted for the fact that she did not wish to be shielded.
And somewhere in the distance, beyond the reach of lamplight and warmth, William Armitage walked away smiling.
Edward did not immediately speak.
The study felt smaller than it ever had before. The fire burned low. The air still held the warmth of her presence by the hearth only minutes ago. That alone made this moment dangerous.
He had already crossed lines tonight—letting his guard lower, giving her the drawing, allowing himself to look at her the way he had.
Protecting her in front of William without calculation. It had been instinct, and instinct, in matters of the heart, was a treacherous thing.
Christopher’s voice echoed in his mind with irritating persistence. You deserve happiness. Eleanor would have wanted you to live. Edward had dismissed it earlier. Now he was not so certain he could.
William’s insinuations still coiled in the room like smoke, but beneath the anger and suspicion was something far more immediate. Far more consuming.
Her.
Charlotte stood near the desk, rigid, confusion and hurt warring across her features as though the floor beneath her had shifted twice in one night—and he had been part of that.
He moved instinctively. “Charlotte,” he said, more softly than he intended.
She turned toward him. The sight of her—eyes bright with emotion, mouth parted as though bracing for whatever he would say next—unraveled the last of his restraint. He crossed the space between them and took her hand. He did not think. He simply did it.
Her fingers were cool against his palm. Fragile. Real.
“Trust me,” he said quietly, the words leaving him without armor. “I am not withholding the truth to wound you. I am trying to protect you.”
Her breath caught, but she did not pull away. “Protect me from what?” she asked, voice trembling despite her effort to steady it.
“From whatever this becomes. From him. From … the past.” He tightened his hold slightly, as though afraid she might slip away if he loosened it.
“This house,” he continued, the confession building without his permission, “died when Eleanor died. So did I.”
He had not meant to say that aloud, and yet now that he had, he could not take it back.
“I walked its corridors, and everything felt hollow. Julian laughed, and I heard it as though from a distance. I spoke, I managed affairs, I fulfilled my duties—but I did not feel.” His gaze lifted to hers. “Until you came.”
Charlotte went utterly still.
“I have never seen my son so happy,” Edward said, his voice roughening. “He is lighter. Braver. He speaks more. He plays again.” He drew a breath that felt almost incredulous. “And I have not felt this alive in years.”
Silence followed, heavy and fragile. Charlotte looked at him as though he had handed her something breakable and sacred all at once.
“I did not expect …” she began softly, then faltered. “Edward, I—” She swallowed. “I have never been so happy as I have been at Ashford. Not since … before.”
Her eyes softened, and something inside him gave way.
“The nightmares,” she continued, voice barely above a whisper, “have grown less frequent. I still see the crash sometimes. I still hear it. But here …” She glanced around the study as though it were something sacred. “Here it does not follow me so closely.”
Edward’s thumb traveled unconsciously over the back of her hand. “I am pleased you are happy,” he said, meaning it with a depth that frightened him. “And I would do anything to keep it that way.”
The fire shifted behind them, casting long shadows up the walls. The air between them thickened, charged and fragile.
He became acutely aware of her proximity—the faint warmth of her skin beneath his fingers, her subtle scent, something clean and understated and entirely her. His heart began to race.
He did not recall leaning closer. He only knew that suddenly the distance between them had narrowed to almost nothing. Her breath mingled with his.
Her gaze dropped briefly to his mouth before lifting again, startled by her own awareness. His free hand hovered at her waist, uncertain, restrained by the last threads of propriety.
This was madness.
And yet, for once in his life, he did not wish to retreat.
He began to bend toward her.
A sharp crack split the silence. The wind struck the side window with sudden force, rattling the panes violently against their frame. The sound shattered the moment.
Charlotte startled and pulled back at once, her hand slipping from his as though burned. Reality flooded in, cold and merciless.
“This is …” she began, breath uneven. “It is late.”
Yes. It was.
She stepped back fully now, composure gathering around her in careful layers. “I should retire,” she said, eyes avoiding his.
Edward stood frozen where she had left him. “Yes,” he managed. “Of course.”
She paused at the door, fingers tightening briefly on the handle. “Goodnight,” she said softly.
Then she was gone.
The study felt cavernous in her absence. Edward remained where he stood, the echo of her warmth still lingering in his palm. He lifted his hand slowly, as though surprised to find it empty.
His chest felt exposed—raw in a way battlefields and scandals had never managed to accomplish. He was not merely protecting her. He was not merely moved by gratitude.
He was in love.
The realization settled into him with terrifying clarity, and for the first time since Eleanor’s death, it did not feel like betrayal. It felt inevitable.
Edward closed his eyes briefly and exhaled. Outside, the wind continued to batter the glass. Inside, he stood alone in the quiet, entirely undone.