Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
That evening, the fragile peace Richard had tried to cultivate collapsed into something colder and more familiar.
The Duke of Hawksford dined alone.
He sat at the long table, the candles burning steadily, the courses arriving in proper order, untouched.
He forced himself through several mouthfuls out of sheer habit, but the food tasted of nothing.
His attention remained fixed not on the plate before him, but on the empty chair at the opposite end of the table.
Victoria’s place.
“Has Her Grace eaten?” he asked at last, setting his cutlery down with deliberate care.
Mrs. Davies hesitated, as if she had anticipated the question and dreaded answering it. “No, Your Grace. The Duchess has not yet taken supper. The child has been unsettled all day. Her Grace has been with her almost constantly.”
Something tight and unpleasant twisted in Richard’s chest.
He pushed his chair back abruptly. “That will be all.”
He did not wait for a reply. He rose and left the dining room at once, his appetite wholly extinguished, not by the lack of food, but by the knowledge that Victoria had gone without it. Again.
He found himself striding toward the nursery with longer steps than propriety required, irritation building with each one.
He told himself it was concern for order, for health, for reason.
That was easier than admitting the truth: the idea of her exhausting herself for a child that was not hers, and certainly not his, filled him with something dangerously close to fear.
The nursery door stood ajar.
He paused at the threshold.
Victoria sat in the lamplight, rocking Melody in her arms. The glow softened her features, gilded the loose fall of her hair, and traced shadows beneath her eyes that made her look achingly fragile.
She had discarded her corset again, her gown falling naturally over her body, unguarded and intimate in a way she never allowed herself in company.
They looked … natural together.
The image struck him with startling force. A mother and a child, his mind supplied unbidden. And the thought that followed it was worse still:
Who was to say she was not meant to be this child’s mother?
He hardened his jaw.
He had not come here to indulge sentiment.
“Where is Mrs. Hughes?” he demanded, his voice sharper than he intended as he stepped into the room. “Why is she not with the child?”
Victoria glanced up, startled, instinctively tightening her hold on Melody. “I sent her to bed,” she replied. “She needed rest.”
“And you did not?” he asked.
She shifted uncomfortably. “I am perfectly well.”
“You have not eaten,” he said flatly.
“I will—”
“When?” His temper flared before he could stop it. “Tomorrow? After you collapse? Do you imagine this—” He gestured sharply toward the infant. “—is accomplished by starving yourself?”
Her eyes flashed. “I am caring for a child. One that is not even mine, need I remind you.”
“Nor is it mine,” he snapped. Then, catching himself, he lowered his voice, but not the force behind it. “And yet you behave as if your own well-being is irrelevant. Do you think an infant benefits from a caretaker who has starved herself into illness?”
Her chin lifted. Proud. Unyielding. Infuriating.
“I am managing,” she said stubbornly.
And then, her stomach betrayed her as an unmistakable, hollow growl echoed through the room.
Richard closed his eyes briefly, drawing in a breath through his nose. When he opened them again, his anger had cooled into something far more dangerous: resolve.
Without asking permission, he stepped forward and gently but firmly took Melody from Victoria’s arms.
She stiffened instantly. “Richard—”
“You will go downstairs,” he said, his voice brooking no argument. “You will eat. Now.”
“She will cry,” Victoria protested, reaching out reflexively. “She only settles for me.”
“She will survive thirty minutes without you,” he replied. “And you will not faint under my roof.”
The baby fussed softly, as if sensing the change. Richard adjusted his grip, acutely aware of how large and unrefined his hands felt around such a small body.
Victoria hesitated, torn between obedience and instinct. “It is nothing personal,” she said quietly, color draining from her face. “It is simply that … you are a man.”
He stiffened.
“I assure you, duchess,” he said coolly, “that I am fully capable of sustaining an infant’s life for half an hour. Go.”
Her stomach growled again, louder this time.
That decided it.
She cast Melody one last anxious look before turning and leaving the room. The door closed softly behind her.
Immediately, the baby began to cry.
Not fuss. Cry.
“Now then,” Richard muttered under his breath. “That will do.”
The baby’s cries only sharpened.
“No, no—there is no cause for alarm,” he continued, adjusting his hold. “You are quite safe. Entirely safe.”
She wailed.
He grimaced. “I am aware that this is not persuasive.”
He tried again, softer. “We are merely … changing circumstances. That is all.”
The crying hitched, then surged.
“Very well,” he said quietly. “Let us approach this logically.”
He began pacing.
“Crying achieves nothing,” he told her, as if reasoning with an adult. “It does not alter the facts of the matter.”
Another sharp cry.
“Yes, I see your objection,” he sighed. “You disagree.”
He paused, then lowered his voice further. “I am not your enemy.”
The baby’s cries wavered.
“There,” he murmured. “That is better. You may protest, but you need not panic.”
A small whimper replaced the scream.
“Good,” he said. “We are making progress.”
He exhaled slowly. “If it is constancy you require, then constancy you shall have.”
His voice settled into a low, even cadence. “This is the sound of things continuing. Nothing is ending. Nothing is wrong.”
Silence.
“Excellent,” Richard whispered. “A most reasonable outcome.”
Gradually, the cries diminished.
Encouraged, he spoke. “If you are determined to remain awake,” he murmured, his voice gentler than he remembered it ever being, “then we may as well make use of the time. Let us discuss Alexander of Macedon.”
To his astonishment, the baby quieted completely.
She stared at him.
Her tiny fingers reached out and curled around his thumb.
Richard stopped walking.
The world seemed to narrow to that single point of contact. Something deep within him, something armored and long neglected, gave way. He stared at her hand, at the trust implicit in the gesture, and felt a crack spread through his carefully constructed restraint.
He continued speaking, his voice low and steady, until her eyelids fluttered closed.
When at last he placed her in the cradle, he lingered, watching her chest rise and fall. He had not known it was possible to feel so … altered by something so small.
He straightened, gathering himself, donning once more the mantle of the duke.
When he turned, Victoria stood in the doorway.
She was smiling.
“You listened,” he said accusingly, though the warmth creeping up his neck betrayed him.
“I did,” she replied simply.
Her gaze lingered on him, not amused now, but open. Unarmored. There was gratitude there, and something softer still, something he did not know how to receive without breaking it.
“You were very good with her,” she remarked, entering the room.
“It was merely sound structure,” he said at once, as if he might lecture his way out of the moment. “Consistency. The human mind, even at that age, responds to pattern.”
She moved closer, a step at a time, her smile deepening. “Naturally. Infants thrive on Hellenistic history.”
Despite himself, his mouth curved. He looked away, briefly, as though he might regain control by doing so.
“I only wanted you to eat,” he said, his voice quieter now. Stripped of its edge. “You looked—” He stopped himself. Rephrased. “You were not well.”
He became aware, with uncomfortable clarity, of how near she stood. Of the warmth of her body. Of the faint scent of soap and milk and something uniquely hers.
He took a step toward her, and he noticed her inhale sharply.
The sound struck him like a confession. He felt it as keenly as if she had laid her hand upon his chest.
He should have stopped then. Should have reminded himself of the year between them, of the distance he had insisted upon.
Instead, he leaned in.
“You forget,” he murmured, his voice lowered.
Her lashes fluttered. She did not move away.
“I must remind you,” he continued, his breath brushing the shell of her ear now, his restraint thinning with every syllable, “that I am your husband, after all.” He hesitated, then added, so quietly it might have been mistaken for a thought rather than a confession, “And that it is my responsibility to see you cared for.”
Not commanded. Not corrected.
Cared for.
Her color bloomed instantly. He felt the shift in her, the way her composure wavered, the way her hand lifted uncertainly, hovering between them, as if she did not quite trust herself to close the distance.
His own hand rose, stopping just short of her waist. Not touching. Never touching. But close enough that the space between them seemed to hum.
For one suspended moment, he forgot everything else.
Then—
Melody whimpered.
The sound cleaved the air like a blade.
Richard pulled back at once, as though struck. His hand fell. His jaw tightened. He turned toward the cradle, breath uneven, his restraint slamming back into place.
“Get some rest. You deserve it,” he told Victoria.
Her face softened, her eyes still sparkling in the dim candlelight.
“I … I shall,” she whispered.
“Good,” he nodded. “Good night, duchess.”
“Good night, duke.”
And with that, he left the nursery, forcing the surge of want from his blood.