Chapter 9
At last, the nursery fell quiet. The candle burned low on the table, a faint pool of gold trembling across the sleeping child’s face. Her tiny chest rose and fell beneath the pale muslin blanket, the faintest sigh escaping her lips now and then, as though she were dreaming of sunshine.
Beatrice lingered beside the cradle, unwilling to leave.
“Mrs. Hart,” she said quietly, turning to where the housekeeper stood near the hearth, folding linen with practiced care. “If she stirs or shows the slightest discomfort, send for me at once.”
Mrs. Hart smiled, patient and kind. “You do not need to worry, Your Grace. I have raised several babes in my lifetime, and I dare say I still have a way with them. Go rest, Your Grace. You will do her no good by falling over from fatigue.”
Beatrice managed a small smile. “I shall try to remember that,” she murmured.
She lingered longer than she meant to, unwilling to move, her fingers resting on the edge of the cradle as if the faintest touch could keep the world steady.
Just a moment more, she told herself, though she had already taken three.
She brushed her fingertips once more across the baby’s brow, then pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. When she finally moved, her body felt heavy with weariness, and her mind refused all peace.
The house was still, but her thoughts were not. Somewhere between the cradle and the door, she grew aware of the faint warmth in her hands, a ghost of the moment when Edward’s fingers had brushed hers as he handed her the spoon.
It had been the smallest touch, entirely ordinary, and yet it lingered with the peculiar vividness of something she ought to forget and could not.
She had told herself it was only gratitude for the broth, for his insistence that she eat.
But gratitude should not make one’s breath catch, nor should it leave a restless pulse beneath one’s skin hours later.
“That is nonsense,” she whispered to herself, quiet enough so as not to make a sound. “Ridiculous. Entirely ridiculous.”
She drew a slow breath, as though the air itself might cool the memory. Memory, however, did not obey.
She stepped into the corridor and gently closed the door behind her.
It was only a touch. Not a promise. Not a confession. You are overtired, that is all.
She drew her shawl closer and started toward her chambers, only to collide, quite hard, with something warm and very much alive. Or rather, someone.
Her breath escaped in a startled gasp.
Before she could stumble back, two strong hands caught her by the elbows, steadying her. “Good heavens!”
Edward stood before her. He was in his shirtsleeves, his collar open, his cravat undone and hanging loose around his neck. His dark hair was mussed, as if he had run his fingers through it more than once. The candle in his hand threw dancing light across his face.
For a moment, Beatrice forgot how to breathe.
Her husband looked too handsome with his disheveled, half-wicked, and utterly unrepentant grin. And then she realized where his gaze had fallen—her robe.
The thin silk caught the light with every small movement she made, the lace at her throat rising and falling with every breath. His eyes flickered there for a heartbeat too long before he lifted them back to hers, a faint, knowing smile curving his mouth.
Color flooded her cheeks. “You should announce yourself before appearing in corridors like some specter, Duke.”
Edward tilted his head, his smile widening. “And deprive you of the pleasure of nearly fainting into my arms? I’d be a poor husband, indeed.”
“I did not faint,” she said sharply, drawing herself up. “I merely misstepped.”
He made a sound halfway between a laugh and a hum. “Then the floor should count itself blessed.”
Beatrice’s blush deepened. “If you think flattery will excuse—”
“Oh, I never rely on flattery,” he said easily. “Only truth. And the truth, Duchess, is that you look entirely too…”
He shifted then, the faint movement catching the light.
His open collar gaped just enough to reveal the column of his throat and a sliver of muscle beneath.
The fabric stretched across his shoulders as he folded his arms, and for one ridiculous, breathless moment, Beatrice forgot what she had meant to say.
“… distracted to be wandering about alone,” he finished, a touch of amusement flickering in his eyes.
Her pulse stuttered, heat rising sharply up her neck. “I was checking on the nursery,” she said, a little too quickly.
“Ah, maternal devotion at midnight. How admirable.”
She crossed her arms, glaring up at him. “And what excuse do you have for prowling these halls at such an hour? Or do you often haunt your own corridors half-dressed?”
He grinned. “Only when I suspect a duchess might be about.”
Her mouth fell open, half in shock, half in disbelief. “You are the most provoking man alive.”
“Possibly.” He leaned one shoulder against the wall, far too casual. “But at least I’m entertaining.”
“Infuriating would be the better word.”
“Ah, but you’d miss me if I weren’t.”
“I’d regain my sanity.”
“Sanity’s overrated. You’ve had twenty-one years of it. Try wildness for a change; it would suit you.”
Beatrice’s heart thudded far too quickly for propriety’s sake. “I would very much like to retire, Duke, before you say something even more absurd.”
Edward didn’t move immediately. The candlelight caught in his eyes, softening the teasing into something gentler. “I was only checking the corridor,” he said, his voice lower now, almost thoughtful. “I’ll post a footman outside your door tonight. Ring if you need anything.”
Her chin lifted. “Thank you, Duke, but that won’t be necessary.”
He smiled slowly, far too sure of himself. “Unless, of course, you mean to ring for me.”
Her breath caught despite herself. “I doubt such a service is included in our arrangement.”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Pity,” he murmured, tilting his head as though studying the effect his words had on her. “I was beginning to think this marriage might not be so dull, after all.”
Heat prickled unhelpfully at her throat. She wished she could summon a polished retort, something crisp and unbothered—anything except the flutter behind her ribs.
She exhaled sharply, though she couldn’t quite summon her usual composure. “You are impossible.”
“Mm.” His gaze dipped to her mouth before rising again. “And you are far too proper for your own good.”
Her spine went rigid, ready to deny it, ready to defend herself. But when the corner of his mouth curved, her resolve wavered.
“Proper,” she repeated, trying for dignity. “Someone must be.”
He stepped closer, close enough that she felt the brush of his breath and the quiet warmth of him. “We make quite the pair, don’t we?”
The words were light, almost careless. But his voice was low. And she felt it—felt him—far too keenly.
She lowered her gaze, gathering what poise she could. Her heart thrummed painfully against her stays.
A pair. The idea sat in her chest like something dangerous.
“We make… something,” she said quietly, unable to meet his eyes. “Though I imagine neither of us expected it to look like this.”
He let out a soft breath—almost a laugh, almost something else. “No,” he agreed. “But perhaps that’s not entirely unfortunate.”
The admission hovered between them, warm and startling.
Beatrice swallowed, her fingers tightening slightly around the hem of her shawl. She could not trust her voice then, couldn’t trust her own thoughts. So she inclined her head instead, a gesture meant to convey composure.
“Careful, Duchess. If you look at me like that, I may forget myself.”
She stared at him, torn between indignation and something far more dangerous. His humor should have irritated her. Instead, it made the air between them feel perilously alive.
“Goodnight, Duke,” she said, proud of how steady her voice sounded, though her pulse beat wildly at her throat.
“Goodnight, Beatrice.”
The sound of her name, quiet and unguarded, startled her more than any jest. He had never said it like that before. Without the armor of sarcasm. Without distance.
She turned quickly toward her room, before he could see the color rising in her cheeks, but his next words stopped her before she could cross the threshold.
“You did well today. With the baby.”
She paused, her hand on the door handle. The simple kindness in his voice caught her unaware.
“I only did what was needed,” she muttered after a moment.
“I know,” he murmured.
Beatrice had no answer for that. She could only incline her head and slip through her door, closing it behind her before the warmth in his eyes could undo her entirely.
The echo of his voice lingered longer than it should have. She pressed a hand to her chest, willing her heart to slow.
It was only his usual charm.
The man could probably flirt with a statue and make it blush. Yet, as she undressed and climbed into bed, the warmth of his gaze refused to leave her.
The next morning, a knock sounded at her door before she was ready to open her eyes.
“Your Grace?” Alice called softly.
Beatrice blinked against the pale light slipping past the curtains. Her head felt heavy, her body stiff from a night spent turning between sleep and dreams. She had dreamt of corridors and candlelight and a man’s low laughter that refused to leave her even now.
“You may come in,” she said, her voice still hoarse with sleep.
Alice entered with a tray. “Tea for Your Grace.”
“Thank you.” Beatrice sat up, smoothing her hair with one hand. “Has Mrs. Hart sent word from the nursery?”
“All is well. The babe fed heartily and went back to sleep.”
Relief loosened something in her chest. “Good. I’ll go see her after breakfast.”
By the time she dressed and descended the stairs, the house had come alive with quiet morning sounds, footsteps, murmured greetings, the clatter of dishes from below stairs, and a door closing somewhere. The air smelled of bread and beeswax.
As she stepped into the corridor, a footman met her with a polite bow.
“Good morning, Your Grace. His Grace took his breakfast early,” he said. “He had matters to attend to and asked that you be told he’ll be in his study if you need him.”
“Thank you,” Beatrice replied,
She continued down the stairs, the faint sounds of the waking house following her.
In the breakfast room, the table was neatly laid. She poured herself tea, spread a little jam on toast, and tried to focus on the quiet order of the morning.
After two bites, the memory of the broth Edward had made her swallow the night before came unbidden. Her lips curved despite herself. She had been ready to argue, but he hadn’t mocked her or gloated. He just made her eat.
The warmth of it, of him, lingered longer than it should.
“Your Grace?”
Beatrice looked up to find Mrs. Hart standing in the doorway, her expression calm as ever.
“The wet nurses have arrived. Two of them, as His Grace requested.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hart. Show them to the morning room.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Beatrice followed soon after, smoothing her gown as she entered.
The elder of the pair had a sensible face and steady eyes, the sort of woman who had likely soothed a hundred fretful infants and twice as many anxious mothers. The younger was softer—round-cheeked, warm-eyed, her voice gentle as she bobbed a quick curtsey.
They exchanged introductions, and after a brief assessment, both women seemed perfectly capable. At Beatrice’s invitation, Mrs Hart still at her side, they moved together toward the nursery.
Once there, the elder nurse set to work immediately, her manner brisk but reassuring. She began asking questions about feeding frequency, sleep temperament, colic—the usual litany. Beatrice answered, but her gaze kept returning to the cradle, as if something might happen the moment she looked away.
“Your Grace,” the elder nurse said, straightening, “we are honored to be considered for the position.”
Beatrice gave a polite smile. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
The younger nurse stepped closer to the baby, her hands careful, her expression tender. “What a beautiful girl,” she murmured. “And so alert.”
Beatrice’s chest tightened.
Alert. Yes, the baby always stirred when she heard Beatrice’s voice, her small fists waving in what she almost fancied was recognition.
“May I?” the younger nurse asked gently, her hands extended.
Beatrice hesitated only a heartbeat. “Of course.”
But the moment the woman lifted the baby, something shot through Beatrice—swift, bright, protective. Her hand twitched before she could stop it.
“Mind her head,” she said sharply.
Both nurses blinked. Mrs. Hart looked over in quiet surprise.
The younger nurse adjusted her hold at once, her smile untroubled. “Of course, Your Grace. I have nine years of experience with infants. She’s quite safe.”
A flush crept up Beatrice’s neck. “Yes… Yes, I know.”
She clenched her hands to keep from fidgeting. The nurse was perfectly capable. They both appeared gentle and confident, exactly what one would wish for. And yet, for some reason, the sight made Beatrice’s heart squeeze.
She pressed her lips together and stepped back.
When the interviews ended, she thanked them politely and watched them leave. The moment the door closed, she exhaled and turned back to the cradle.
The baby was kicking lightly, her fists curling in the air.
Beatrice bent down, her voice softening. “I’m afraid I frightened them off, little one. Or perhaps it was you.”
The baby gurgled, and a small smile broke through Beatrice’s fatigue. She brushed her thumb over the child’s cheek, the skin warm and impossibly soft.
“You’ll have the best care,” she whispered, shaking her head. “They are capable women. I should have felt at ease, but I didn’t. Some part of me still doesn’t trust them, and I don’t know why.”
She straightened her gown, glanced once toward the door, and sighed.
“Well,” she muttered under her breath, “there’s only one other person who will have something to say about that.”
A few minutes later, she was on her way to Edward’s study.