Chapter 7
Edward arrived home earlier than planned, the journey’s chill still clinging to his coat.
It had been only a week since the wedding, and yet the reality of it had settled around him with surprising weight. He tugged at the fastenings of his gloves as he stepped through the open doors, anticipation of blessed solitude tightening in his chest.
Instead, the moment he crossed the threshold, he stopped.
The house… looked wrong. Not overtly, but he felt it in the warmth of the air, the faint scent of lavender and milk that did not belong in a bachelor’s residence. In the absence of that cavernous silence that used to greet him like a loyal hound.
His gaze sharpened.
Rolls of carpet had disappeared from the busiest paths. A polished side table held a small knitted blanket folded with impossible care. A vase of fresh flowers sat on the console table.
He hadn’t ordered the flowers. He couldn’t remember the last time flowers had been in the house at all.
He shrugged off his unease and handed his gloves to a waiting footman. “Where is Her Grace?” he asked.
“In the library, Your Grace,” the footman replied.
Edward nodded curtly and made his way to the library, rolling his shoulders to ease the stiffness of travel.
He stepped into the library, his hand curling into a fist at his side. Not out of anger. No, that would have been easier. What stirred instead was a knot of something very warm and very alarming that sparked beneath the ribs he had always kept well-armored.
He turned slowly, taking in more. Nearby, where his favorite books once stood in a proud line, sat feeding bottles, washed and arranged in neat formation. A schedule lay on the writing desk, bearing a hand he recognized from the wedding registry.
Feeding, naps, laundry, and wet nurse interviews.
Then he saw the empty cradle.
It was tucked into the window alcove—his window alcove—where he used to toss unread newspapers and the occasional decanter he hadn’t quite managed to finish. Now the space was softened with cushions and a delicate quilt draped over the railing, tiny stitches forming clumsy daisies.
A rocking chair sat by the hearth, the cushions plumped. A small, cheerful rug lay under it, soft enough that an infant would not bruise a knee should they ever crawl. It stood out in a room otherwise defined by straight-back chairs, tall bookshelves, and the quiet order of a proper library.
In two days, his wife had done what he had never once attempted: she had made his house cozy.
He exhaled sharply through his nose.
Careful, Edward. Approval is a luxury you cannot afford.
He needed a moment. A glass of brandy.
“Davens,” he called, smoothing his gloves with unnecessary precision. “Fetch the Duchess. I would like to speak with her.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Davens turned to go, but stopped as footsteps sounded outside the library.
Beatrice walked in with a blanket nestled securely in the crook of her arm. She looked composed, entirely at ease in a place Edward had always found sterile. Her blue gown softened the line of her shoulders, and the firelight caught gently in her hair.
She paused upon seeing Edward there.
The unexpectedly domestic sight drove a small, involuntary breath from his chest.
He cleared his throat. “You’ve made yourself… comfortable.”
She didn’t look at him. “There was much that needed changing.”
“So I see.” His gaze flicked once more to the cradle. “Efficient as ever.”
She didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she rubbed her bare arm with a natural calm that made his throat tighten. She belonged in the scene far more than he ever would.
He tore his gaze away. “I’ll have Davens fetch you—”
“No.” She turned to face him at last, her expression composed and resolute. “You are here now, and there are matters we must discuss.”
The shift in her tone instantly put him on guard.
“Your Grace,” she said, her voice even, “we must speak about the child.”
His jaw clenched. “There is nothing to discuss.”
Her chin lifted a fraction. “A man who leaves his crest boldly stitched on a baby’s blanket should expect questions.”
The denial snapped out of him, harsher than intended. “The child is not mine.”
Beatrice stilled. For a heartbeat, she simply stared at him, disappointment blooming on her face.
Her grip tightened just slightly on the blanket, as though his denial had struck her hard. “You left,” she bit out. “Without a word. Without so much as a note. On our wedding night.”
Edward’s pulse thudded. Whether it was irritation at himself or her, he wasn’t sure.
“I had business in London,” he said.
“Oh?” she scoffed, the single syllable laced with scalding disbelief. “Business of so urgent a nature that you assumed your wife needed no explanation? That I should simply assume abandonment?”
His silence hung thick and damning. His breathing had quickened, and he hated that she noticed.
“While you were gone,” she pressed on, anger simmering beneath her composure, “servants came with supplies you ordered, and two cradles arrived. A wet nurse was engaged for interview. And this blanket…” She tightened her hold on the blanket.
“Your crest, Edward. One does not accidentally mark a child so boldly.”
He looked, just once, at her flushed face and quickly turned away, as though burned. “I owe you no explanations,” he muttered.
“I was prepared for many things,” she continued. “I knew what the world called you—what I called you. A rake, unreliable, led by whims rather than sense. But I did not think you would prove them right so quickly.”
His silence only fed her anger.
She took another step, close enough that he could smell lavender, milk, and something new. “If you expect me to raise a child under your roof while you live in denial, you will find I am not so easy to dismiss.”
Her eyes sparked like flint against steel, demanding truth.
Edward rubbed a hand over his jaw. Cornered, he reached for humor, the easiest armor he owned.
“You give me far too much credit for stamina,” he drawled, raising an eyebrow, “and far too little for sense.”
The retort hung between them, but Beatrice didn’t flinch.
He dragged a hand through his hair, frustration loosening into something weary. His sigh surrendered before he did.
“Beatrice,” he said quietly. “I did not… disappear for pleasure.”
Beatrice frowned, her lips parting.
“I went to London to find answers.”
Her eyebrows drew together, tension fading into confusion. “Answers?”
“About the child,” he clarified. “About her family, the one she was supposed to have.”
He looked away, toward the small knitted blanket, the cradle, anything except her.
“There was no mother waiting in tears. No guardian knocking on doors. No hopeful soul searching for a missing heiress.” His voice roughened. “Whoever left her did so with no intention of returning.”
Beatrice’s breath caught. “Oh…”
Edward swallowed, the admission scraping its way out. “I will keep looking. But until I have proof, we are… responsible for her. For now.”
As though deciding the moment had grown far too serious, a loud hiccup sounded from somewhere in the house, most likely the nursery. The sound was sharp enough to startle them, even separated by the wall.
Beatrice froze mid-breath. “Oh—”
Edward’s composure fractured in the same instant. His jaw relaxed, his shoulders dropped, and something warm flickered in his eyes. Exhaustion did not dull it. If anything, it made the instinctive tenderness shine brighter.
Without thought, they both turned toward the library door. And then their eyes met.
They stepped into the nursery, the room warm with lamplight and the faint scent of lavender.
The maids flocked toward Beatrice at once, all fluttering hands and anxious curtsies, but it was Mrs. Hart, solid and unmovable as an oak tree, who efficiently dismissed them with a firm clap.
“Let the poor mother breathe,” she muttered, already adjusting the swaddle.
Beatrice attempted to mimic the woman’s swift, confident motions… and produced something that resembled a crumpled pastry. The baby kicked one little leg free as if in condemnation.
“Drat,” Beatrice muttered under her breath.
A shadow came closer. Edward.
“I can—” she began, but he was already beside her, his fingers brushing hers as he took the corner of the blanket.
“Here,” he murmured, his voice unexpectedly gentle. “You’ve twisted the tuck. It’s meant to go under, not around.”
She stared at him, incredulous. “How do you know that?”
“My younger cousin,” he replied, his eyes on the blanket. “His parents died young. I spent half my childhood helping my mother raise him. Swaddling was… unavoidable.”
The knot came together neatly under his hands—clean, secure, perfect. Of course it did.
The baby responded by letting out a small wail of protest.
Edward winced like he had been struck. “Oh no, don’t do that. We’re doing this correctly, I promise—”
Beatrice had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.
He shifted immediately, rocking the cradle gently until the little girl’s cries faded into soft, sleepy breaths.
And Beatrice found herself staring.
Edward looked so strangely right there—sleeves rolled, head bent, soothing a child that startled at the world. A man she had only known as chaos and charm suddenly revealed a capability she had not dared imagine.
The realization startled her enough to make her back stiffen.
Foolish.
Edward glanced back at her and cleared his throat. “If she had stronger lungs, she’d wake half of Bath.”
“You are the only one loud enough to accomplish that,” she shot back, folding her arms.
His eyes narrowed. “I was whispering.”
“That was not whispering.”
“It was—it was barely speech!”
“Barely speech that could echo down the square,” she countered.
They froze as the baby’s tiny mouth turned down in warning, like soldiers facing cannon fire.
“And now look what you’ve done,” Edward hissed.
“What I have done?” Beatrice whispered furiously. “You’re the one arguing!”
“You raised your voice first!”
“I did not—hush!”
They hovered over the cradle, united in terror, glaring at each other in absolute silence.
For one absurd, suspended moment, not even the baby dared to breathe. Then she let out a soft sigh and melted further into sleep.
Beatrice exhaled, only realizing then how close Edward stood, his shoulder nearly brushing hers, his warmth too near.
She looked away quickly. The nursery suddenly felt too small.
Edward lingered, watching the baby a moment longer before stepping back, and she could not decide whether relief or disappointment hit harder.
Mrs. Hart excused herself at last, leaving them alone.
Beatrice eased the door mostly shut, careful not to make a sound. The hallway outside was cooler, quieter, and far too aware of the man standing beside her.
Edward drew in a breath, his shoulders squaring as though he was preparing himself for battle.
“I meant what I said,” he began. “I will find whoever abandoned her. And I will find who thought it clever to drag my family into this mess.”
His voice was low, controlled, but under it simmered humiliation and something sharper. Fear, perhaps.
Beatrice folded her hands before her, trying to still the strange flutter beneath her ribs. “You believe someone deliberately caused the scandal?”
“Someone always does.” He looked away, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “I will not have our lives turned into fodder for gossip.”
Our. He had said our.
The word struck something tender in her chest, though she knew better than to indulge it.
“And if you can’t find them?” she asked softly.
He turned back to her, his green eyes shining with steely determination. “I will find them,” he assured her. “Whoever is behind this will regret choosing my house as their playground.”
Beatrice let the promise sink in, the steadiness she had not expected from a man with such a reputation for recklessness.
But then his expression shifted just slightly, and he looked almost uncertain.
“And until then?” she asked, as though dreading his answer.
He drew a breath, his spine straightening. “Until then, the child stays with us. Here. Under our protection.”
Beatrice gave a single nod. “Then we keep her safe,” she said firmly. “She deserves to be safe, no matter her origins. No matter the motive.”
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The air felt frozen, as if it dared not shift between them. His eyes held hers, drawing her in with their softness. Her breath snagged in her throat at the sight of it.
Her pulse leapt, heat curling low in her stomach. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and she forgot how to breathe.
His proximity did something to her chest. Her lips parted before she realized it, anticipation flaring within her.
For the briefest moment, she wanted him to close the distance between them. She wanted to know what his mouth would feel like against hers. But the thought of what came after slammed into her just as quickly.
Beatrice stepped back, needing the space. Needing the reminder of who he was… and the circumstances that had brought about their marriage.
“Good night, Duke,” she said, her tone polite once more.
He hesitated, then inclined his head. “Good night… Duchess.”