Chapter 8
Edward woke up before dawn, far earlier than usual. He stared up at the ceiling, frowning as if the patterns on it had betrayed him.
He was not a man who woke up early without reason. And yet here he was, his heart annoyingly alert and his mind refusing the comfort of sleep.
He tried lying still. It lasted all of thirty seconds.
With a low curse, he swung his legs out of bed and dressed himself poorly, according to his valet’s standards. His cravat was knotted with the efficiency of a soldier, not that of a gentleman.
His hair was still damp from the cold water he had splashed on his face, and he was already seated at the small writing desk in the corner, scribbling irritated notes into a ledger illuminated by the weakest sliver of morning light.
He tackled the estate accounts first. Numbers that had waited weeks could apparently not wait ten more minutes. Anything to keep the stillness at bay.
The clock chimed softly as footsteps approached. Mr Davens entered at the exact time he always did and stopped dead.
“You’re awake, Your Grace,” he blurted out, then immediately looked horrified at his own boldness.
“So it seems,” Edward replied without looking up.
Mr Davens recovered and moved briskly toward him. “If I had known—”
“You would have arrived sooner, and I would have had to tolerate your fussing sooner,” Edward cut in, closing the ledger. “We both lose.”
Mr Daven’s mouth twitched, the closest he ever came to smiling. “Very good, Your Grace. The proper attire, if you please.”
Edward rose, allowing his valet to take over the business of making him look like the respectable man Society assumed he was. Coat. Waistcoat. A cravat tied properly this time.
Mr Davens stepped back. “Will you be taking breakfast in the breakfast room, Your Grace?”
“Yes.” A pause. “And… has Her Grace come down yet?”
Mr Davens cleared his throat delicately. “Not that I have been informed, Your Grace.”
Edward gave a noncommittal nod, as though he hadn’t woken early with the vague awareness of someone else inhabiting his quiet routines, wondering whether she was all right.
“Fine,” he said, tugging down his cuffs. “Breakfast, then.”
He crossed the room with long, decisive strides, leaving Hargreaves to follow in silence. He descended the staircase, passing one of the footmen, who bowed deeply. Edward nodded once in return, his mind already on the letters awaiting him.
He entered the breakfast room expecting… well, something. A place setting lay opposite his own. The rustle of skirts. Even a polite greeting. Instead, the long mahogany table was set for one.
He stopped short.
“Is Her Grace not joining me this morning?” he asked nonchalantly, as though the answer did not matter.
A footman, newly hired and visibly terrified of him, straightened. “Mrs. Hart reports that Her Grace is in the nursery, Your Grace.”
Edward blinked once. “The nursery?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Edward took his seat, several questions running through his mind.
Mr. Davens stepped in smoothly, pouring the coffee. “She has been there since dawn, Your Grace.”
Edward hadn’t even known she had woken up.
“She missed the bell?” he pressed.
“Apparently, she rang her own,” Mr. Davens replied carefully.
Edward stared at the empty chair across from him. Steam rose from his untouched cup.
“She is aware there is a breakfast table in this house?” he muttered.
The footman’s eyes bulged, unsure if he was expected to respond.
Edward waved a dismissive hand. “Never mind.” He picked up his fork, then set it back down. “She’s… with the child?”
“So I understand, Your Grace.”
He nodded, trying and failing to appear unmoved. “Well, if one must choose between an infant and me, I suppose I know who holds the more captivating conversation.”
Mr. Davens’s mouth twitched before he masked it with a cough.
Edward scowled at his eggs. “Stop that.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
He ate in silence, each bite more mechanical than the last. The chair opposite him remained empty. He told himself that he didn’t notice and that irritation alone curled in his chest when Mr. Davens did not bring a second plate.
Still, he ate, drank his coffee, and ignored the stubborn urge to glance toward the door every few seconds.
Routine would steady him. It always did.
By mid-morning, he was out on the grounds. He inspected tenant reports, rode the boundary fields, reviewed accounts with his steward, and shut down every question about the new Duchess with a mere look.
By the time he returned to the house, his boots were damp with dew and his shoulders were stiff. Once inside, he went straight to his study. The fire had been lit, and he worked, or at least stared at the papers long enough that anyone passing might assume he did.
But by the time the light outside had dimmed to dusk, he found himself staring at the shadows on the carpet instead of the documents in front of him.
Finally, he surrendered to the irritation clawing through his ribs. He rang for Mr. Davens.
The butler arrived with his usual calm efficiency. “Your Grace?”
Edward kept his gaze fixed on the ledger before him, as though the question were merely an afterthought. “Has the Duchess surfaced at all today, Davens?”
“No, Your Grace,” Mr. Davens replied. “She has been in the nursery for the better part of the day. I learned the little one had a touch of fever in the night. It was nothing serious, but the Duchess insisted on staying with her until it broke.”
Edward’s jaw worked, the only betrayal of the odd sensation that tightened his chest. “I see.”
Mr. Davens hesitated, then added, “She also declined meals, Your Grace.”
That did it.
Edward shut the ledger with a snap. “Very well, I’ll go myself.”
He didn’t wait for acknowledgement. He was already moving, his long strides carrying him out of the study and through quiet corridors warmed by hearths.
He stopped before the nursery door, soft lamplight glowing beneath it.
Beatrice sat in the rocking chair by the window, her spine ramrod straight despite the tremors of fatigue in her shoulders. The swaddled baby slept against her chest, tiny fist tangled in her gown as if anchoring herself there.
Outside, dusk had turned the sky a deep lavender, and the last strip of light washed over Beatrice’s face, softening the dark crescents under her eyes and casting her in a fragile grace.
The fire had burned low, leaving the air cool, while the room was illuminated by the faint lamplight.
The newly employed nanny, who sat in the corner, stood up upon seeing him and step out respectfully with a curtsey.
Edward leaned against the doorframe, his arms folded. A posture he hoped looked casual, even though worry had driven him up the stairs the moment he heard the baby had taken ill.
“You’ve been here all day,” he said, more gruffly than intended.
Beatrice started slightly. “She wouldn’t settle. I thought—”
Her words were cut short by a low, unmistakable growl.
Edward’s frown smoothed when he realized it hadn’t come from the baby. “Was that—?”
Beatrice’s cheeks pinkened. “I’m fine.”
Her stomach disagreed loudly.
Edward fought the ridiculous urge to laugh. “You’re starving.”
“I have managed quite well without your commentary,” she hissed, mindful of the baby sleeping against her chest.
He raised an eyebrow, savoring the faint flicker of life in her eyes despite the dark circles beneath them. A smile tugged at his mouth, but he quickly suppressed it. “Seems my Duchess has forgotten she’s human.”
She shot him a glare. “It’s not amusing.”
“Ah, but I must disagree.” He stepped closer, careful not to disturb the tiny bundle in her arms. “Sacrificing your well-being for the child’s, it is a rather theatrical gesture. Quite in keeping with your flair for grand displays.”
“Please don’t make a scene,” she muttered, glancing at the sleeping child.
His voice softened instantly. “I’m not. But you’ve had nothing to eat since morning. You’ll be of no use to her if you faint.”
“I wasn’t thinking about myself.”
“Clearly.”
That earned him another glare, though weaker this time.
She looked exhausted. He noticed the faint tremors in her hands, and something in his chest tightened painfully.
You foolish woman. Why must you always push yourself to the limit?
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You should’ve sent for something. Or for me.”
“I didn’t think you’d want to be disturbed.”
He huffed out something between a laugh and a groan. “You’re my wife, Beatrice. Disturbing me is in your job description.”
Her lips twitched. “How noble of you.”
He arched an eyebrow, a retort hanging on the tip of his tongue, yet something in her expression gave him pause. The silence stretched, gentling the air.
“The fever was mild,” Beatrice whispered, her gaze drifting to the baby’s chubby face, “but she was frightened… and she is so small. Too small to face anything alone.” Her fingers trembled where they cradled the baby’s head. “And I could not just—”
“I know,” Edward cut in quietly. “You did well.”
Her eyes rose to his, searching. Then she seemed to realize something.
“You found out about the fever.”
“Of course I did.” The words came out sharper than he meant. “Though it would have been nice to hear it from you, instead of Davens. He looked at me as though I’d frightened the child into illness myself.”
I should have been told first, he almost added, but he wasn’t sure whether it was his pride or his worry speaking.
He stepped forward. “Come downstairs. Eat something warm. The child’s asleep, and you look ready to collapse. I’ll have the kitchen send up a tray if you prefer, but you will eat. That is not a request.”
For a moment, she hesitated, torn between stubborn pride and sheer exhaustion. He saw it in the set of her jaw. But then her stomach growled again, louder this time.
Edward smirked. “A compelling argument.”
Her shoulders sagged. “Very well.”
She gave a small, embarrassed laugh and finally stood, still holding the baby protectively.