Chapter 10
Beatrice didn’t bother knocking twice. The door to the study swung open with a soft creak, letting out the scent of ink, paper, and the faint trace of sandalwood that always seemed to cling to Edward.
He looked up from his desk. Morning light fell across his papers, catching in the gold threads of his waistcoat. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and he sat with that infuriatingly casual posture that somehow made him look even more authoritative.
Beatrice felt her heart skip a beat, before she remembered herself.
“Duke,” she greeted, meaning to sound brisk.
“So formal already?” His mouth curved. “Have I offended you before you’ve even spoken?”
She stepped forward, ignoring his teasing. “I’ve seen the wet nurses.”
“And?”
She sighed. “I didn’t like either of them.”
He set down his quill and leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled. “What was wrong with them?”
Beatrice hesitated. She had rehearsed a dozen sensible answers on the way to the study, but none of them fit now.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “They were pleasant enough. Capable. There was nothing to object to.” She exhaled softly, frustrated. “Still, I couldn’t seem to—” She stopped, searching for the right word.
“To what?”
Her fingers tightened on the folds of her gown. “Nothing. I simply—” She huffed, frustrated with herself. “Something in me didn’t settle.”
He looked at her for a long moment, the set of his jaw thoughtful, his eyes steady.
“Then we’ll look for others,” he decided at last, his voice calm, almost mild. “There’s no need to rush.”
Beatrice’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “That’s all?”
The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Were you expecting a duel over it?”
“I was expecting an opinion,” she replied, too quickly.
“You’ve already formed one,” he said softly. “I imagine it isn’t the women themselves who trouble you, but the thought of letting anyone else near her.”
Beatrice hesitated, then exhaled. “I… suppose that’s true.”
His mouth curved. “God forbid anyone else so much as breathes near her.”
That calm observation caught her off guard.
She blinked. “You make it sound as though I’m being sentimental—”
Edward’s eyebrow rose ever so slightly. “I only sound that way because you are.”
“I’m managing well enough on my own,” she insisted, folding her hands to keep them from fidgeting.
“I know you are,” he allowed. “You always are. But I’ll remind you again, Duchess, that managing isn’t the same as taking care of yourself.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” she said, too briskly.
He smiled faintly, leaning back in his chair. “That’s exactly what you said last night, before I had to make you eat.”
Her lips parted in indignation. “You did not make me—”
“I recall spoon in hand,” he interrupted smoothly, “and a very stubborn duchess refusing to open her mouth until I threatened to sit there all night.”
“That is not how it happened.”
“Mm.” He leaned back further, the movement pulling his waistcoat open a little more, the light grazing the column of his throat. “Convenient memory you’ve got there, Duchess. Very convenient that you remember it differently.”
She exhaled, half exasperated, half amused. “And what if I did refuse?” she asked, lifting her chin. “What then? Would you have fed me broth again?”
He tilted his head, his lips curling into that lazy, knowing smile. “Broth is only one method,” he replied. “I can think of far better ways to make you obey, Duchess.”
His gaze flicked briefly to her mouth before finding her eyes again, and for one dizzying second, every thought fled her.
The words hung between them, quiet but deliberate.
Heat rushed to her cheeks before she could stop it. She opened her mouth to reply, found no proper words, then turned sharply toward the door.
Edward’s laugh followed her, low and velvety. “I’ll take that as surrender.”
“Take it as restraint,” she retorted over her shoulder, though her voice wasn’t nearly as steady as she wished.
She reached for the handle when he gave a short, amused laugh. “And yet you came looking for me before noon.”
“To tell you about the nurses,” she said, turning to face him. “Not to—”
“To what?” he prompted, with that infuriating smile.
She shot him a look that should have frozen him where he sat. “Good day, Duke.”
“Beatrice.”
She froze.
“Try not to terrify the next two candidates,” he called, amusement lacing his voice.
“I make no promises,” Beatrice said, glancing back just long enough for him to catch the spark in her eyes.
He laughed, an unguarded sound that chased her out into the corridor and refused to leave her even after the door closed behind her.
Outside in the corridor, she exhaled, pressing a hand to her cheek. It was warm. Far too warm.
“Impossible man,” she muttered, though the corners of her mouth betrayed her.
The morning light had turned pale and fine, washing over the nursery in quiet gold.
Near the hearth, Mrs. Hart was checking the linens, her calm voice carrying softly as she directed one of the maids. Her hands kept moving even as she spoke.
Beatrice sat by the cradle, one hand resting on the little girl’s belly as she gurgled in response to a dangling ribbon.
“There,” she cooed. “You’ve had your bath, you’ve eaten. You’ve no cause to scowl at me now.”
A warm smile curved her mouth as the baby stretched her tiny fingers toward the ribbon. Beatrice’s smile grew as her fingers curled and uncurled with serious effort, a soft grunt escaping as she did so.
When the baby’s mouth stretched into a gummy grin, Beatrice gasped softly, laughter slipping out before she could stop it.
It was ridiculous that such a small creature could disarm her so completely. She caught herself and shook her head.
“She’s far too young to understand a thing,” she murmured, as if the child might be listening.
“You’d be surprised, Your Grace. Babies understand far more than they let on, especially when someone loves them,” Mrs. Hart called from across the room, a smile in her voice.
Beatrice said nothing, though her throat felt strangely tight.
She exhaled and brushed her hand lightly over the edge of the cradle. “You’ve disturbed my schedule.”
Mrs. Hart smiled, coming closer. “Then she’s already doing her job, Your Grace.”
Beatrice’s gaze drifted to the window, where light spilled softly across the carpet. “I suspect she’ll prove many things before long,” she said, half to herself.
“Only good ones, I hope,” Mrs. Hart replied mildly.
The baby gave a soft coo as if in agreement, her small fists batting at the air.
Beatrice’s gaze softened. “You hear that? You have an ally already.”
Mrs. Hart smiled faintly at the baby. “A formidable one, I should say.”
Beatrice said nothing to that. Her hand lingered near the cradle’s edge, her mind already turning to the day ahead.
She should have been in her study by now. The steward was waiting to review the repairs accounts, and a letter from Lady Halverton, written in a familiar looping hand, awaited her attention. Yet she lingered.
It was easier here. The nursery was quiet, warm, and predictable in a way the rest of the house was not. Beyond these walls, there was the soft shuffle of servants through polished corridors, the muted thud of boots, the constant hum of things being done.
It was a mystery to her how so many people, all seemingly capable, lost the ability to decide anything the instant she appeared. If she paused in a corridor too long, someone was bound to ask her opinion on flower arrangements or roof repairs—sometimes both, in the same breath.
It occurred to her, after the third inquiry about chimney drafts, that she needed someone in the house, apart from Edward, who spoke to her as Beatrice, not as the Duchess.
Hence, she had written to her sister two days ago, asking her to visit with their mama. A decision made almost without thought. The house had felt too still, and her sister’s presence, for all its chaos, might bring something that the walls of Wrexford sorely lacked.
She would have to leave the nursery soon, she reminded herself. She was expected downstairs within the hour. Still, she stayed a moment longer.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
A footman entered, bowing. “Lady Cecily to see Your Grace, along with Lady Moreland.”
Beatrice’s head snapped up. “Show them in,” she instructed, rising quickly.
The moment her mother and sister crossed the threshold, a smile spread across her face.
Cecily’s bonnet was slightly askew, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her curls escaping from their pins. A small basket swung from her arm, overflowing with toys that looked charming but questionably useful.
Behind her followed their mother, composed and elegant, her presence filling the room with gentle poise. She carried the faint scent of violets and travel, refined even after hours on the road.
Beatrice’s breath caught. For the first time in what felt like ages, she was looking at people who belonged to her. The sight of Cecily standing there, alive and smiling and entirely herself, was almost too much. She could have wept from sheer relief.
“Cecily,” she breathed, hurrying across the room. “Mama.”
Cecily’s face split into a grin as she handed her bonnet to a maid. “You see, Mama? I told you she’d look like she might cry.”
“I most certainly will not,” Beatrice said, though her voice betrayed her. She reached for her sister’s hands and held them tight, laughing a little at how absurdly good it felt just to see her. “Thank heavens you survived the ordeal.”
Cecily let out a breathless laugh. “You make it sound as though we rode through cannon fire instead of puddles.”
Lady Moreland stepped forward, her gloved hands cool but firm as they wrapped around Beatrice’s. “It was hardly pleasant, my dear, but Cecily insisted we come once we received your letters. She was quite sure you’d lost all sense of proportion living out here in such… tranquility.”
“Peace, Mama,” Beatrice corrected gently. “It’s called peace.”