Chapter 12
By the time Edward returned home, the lamps along the drive had already burned low.
His shoulders ached from the long day—a meeting with his steward, a tedious half-hour with the magistrate about boundary disputes, and finally a dinner with some investors that had dragged on far longer than necessary.
His head throbbed faintly.
A footman at the door hurried forward, and Edward handed his coat to him, feeling the familiar urge to head straight for his study, pour himself a glass of brandy, and forget the world existed.
“Good evening, Your Grace.”
“Everyone abed?” he asked, rubbing his brow.
“Most of them, Your Grace. The servants retired a few hours ago.”
Edward nodded and dismissed the man. He climbed the staircase, loosening his cravat as he did, his mind conjuring an image of Beatrice that morning.
She had looked composed and alert, with those thin lines of exhaustion around her eyes. He had meant to speak with her before leaving, but duty had dragged him out the door before sunrise.
He made his way toward his chambers, passing her door out of habit, and froze.
Her door was slightly ajar, and a very faint glow spilled into the hallway.
He hesitated, then pushed the door open gently. The room was dim, the fire no more than glowing embers. Beatrice slept curled up on her side, one arm flung lightly over the blankets, her breathing soft and even. Beside her lay the baby, equally asleep, one tiny fist pressed to her mouth.
Edward let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding.
He approached quietly, lifting the little girl with practiced care. She grunted at first, wrinkling her tiny nose, but stayed asleep. Relief washed over him.
Good. Excellent. Perfect.
He turned toward the nursery, but only made it three steps inside before disaster struck. The baby’s eyes opened, round and offended, and she began wailing with all the force of a child who believed the world had just wronged her.
Edward froze.
“Oh God,” he whispered. “No. No, no—shh. Please.”
He tried walking in circles and bouncing her, but she only wailed louder.
“Please,” he whispered, as if negotiating with a hostile diplomat. “Your mother—your… Beatrice needs sleep. For both our sakes.”
He tried rocking her again, but the baby wailed with renewed vigor, turning red with outrage.
“No, no, no,” he muttered under his breath. “Look here, there’s no need for theatrics. I’m very tired, you’re very small. Surely we can come to an understanding—”
The baby howled.
Edward didn’t want to wake Beatrice, but the cries were piercing enough that they might have already reached her.
He tried once more, bouncing the baby slightly, rubbing her back.
“All right, little one,” he murmured, his voice softening despite himself. “You’ve made your point. Whatever it is.”
The baby hiccupped mid-cry. And then screamed louder.
“Good God,” Edward muttered. “You’re half the size of a loaf of bread—how do you produce so much noise?”
The baby answered by screaming directly into his cravat.
He winced. “Unnecessary. Very unnecessary.” He then attempted humor. “You know, most women find me charming.”
The baby shrieked louder.
“And I seem to have offended you,” he sighed, utterly defeated. “Excellent.”
He glanced toward the door, praying Beatrice hadn’t woken up.
“All right,” he murmured. “Let’s negotiate. You do not wake the Duchess, and I—what do babies even want? Warmth? Rocking? Guarantees of stability?”
“I suppose,” a voice said behind him, cool and far too amused, “the two of us are the only women in the world who won’t fall for your charms, Duke.”
Edward nearly dropped the baby. He spun around.
Beatrice was leaning against the door frame, her arms crossed, her hair mussed, her eyes warm with sleep and unmistakable amusement. A silk robe wrapped around her figure, teasing her curves.
Edward’s mouth went dry.
“Duchess,” he managed, breathless, “I-I didn’t want to wake you.”
“You failed,” she said calmly, stepping into the nursery.
He stiffened, suddenly self-conscious, still holding the squalling baby like an awkward first-time father.
“She woke up,” he muttered, bouncing the child awkwardly. “I didn’t do anything. I swear I wanted to bring her in here.”
Beatrice blinked, clearly fighting a smile. “Yes… I gathered.”
Edward looked down at the red-faced bundle in his arms as she wailed louder, her tiny fists windmilling in dramatic protest.
“Give her here,” Beatrice murmured.
He hesitated. “I can manage—”
He attempted a gentle rock, but the motion only made the baby arch her back and shriek with fresh indignation.
Beatrice arched an eyebrow, and Edward handed the baby over without a word.
The moment the infant settled against Beatrice’s shoulder, her cries ebbed, dissolving into little huffs. Edward watched the transformation as if witnessing sorcery.
Within moments, Pip’s breathing evened out, her fist relaxing against Beatrice’s robe.
“How…?” Edward gestured helplessly. “The baby was just…”
“Pip, her name is Pip.” Beatrice rocked the baby once. “Besides, babies have preferences.”
“Oh Pip. I noticed,” he said dryly.
She lowered her gaze to the baby, murmuring something soft he couldn’t hear. Then she brushed a fingertip along Pip’s cheek, and the little girl sighed—a small, contented sound that felt absurdly triumphant.
Edward stood beside them, his arms empty, his pride in tatters. He raked a hand through his hair with a quiet, irritated huff. “Brilliant, Wrexford. Truly brilliant. Outmatched by a creature the size of a teapot,” he muttered under his breath.
Beatrice’s mouth twitched. No, it did not only twitch. It softened, curling into a genuine smile he had never managed to coax from her. Not once. Not with the teasing he wielded like a shield, not with charm, not with anything.
Just like that, a warm feeling curled sharply under his ribs. His heart kicked once in his chest.
Beatrice rocked Pip once more, the movement slow and sure. The baby’s tiny hand curled against her shoulder as she drifted deeper into sleep. Beatrice exhaled, relief softening her features. Only when Pip’s breathing slowed into that soft, steady pattern did she move.
Carefully, she turned toward the cradle, and Edward held his breath without meaning to.
She lowered Pip into the cradle, smoothing the small blanket beside her without causing a single sigh. The baby didn’t stir, not even once. Her little fist opened and then relaxed against the blanket.
Edward stared longer than he should have.
The lamplight caught the curve of Beatrice’s cheek, warming the loose tendrils that had escaped her braid.
There was a softness in her face now, a softness that had nothing to do with him.
And yet, standing this close, he felt caught in its glow all the same.
Beatrice exhaled and brushed her fingertips across Pip’s brow, the gesture tender enough to make something in his chest coil tight. Only then did she straighten and turn back to him.
Edward took a single step toward her. Then another. It shortened the distance between them until she had to tilt her chin up to hold his gaze.
She drew in a quiet breath. Barely, but he saw it. Felt it. His eyes darkened.
“You make this very difficult,” he murmured, his voice dipping lower. “A man might think he should try harder to win over the two of you. I suppose that means I should practice my charm a little harder. On both of you.”
Her eyes narrowed, though faint color rose in her cheeks. “Is that so?”
“You tell me,” he said, his tone warm, coaxing.
She tilted her head, recovering faster than he did. “Try as much as you like, Your Grace. Some of us are immune to rehearsed performances.”
Rehearsed?
The corner of his mouth tugged upward. “Rehearsed,” he repeated softly, as if tasting the word. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”
“I don’t know what you’re doing,” she said honestly, without flinching. “But it feels practiced. You do it so well.”
Edward should have laughed. He should have stepped back. Put space where space belonged. But he did none of that. He didn’t move, and neither did she.
The room seemed to settle around them, heavy with everything they left unsaid. Pip slept on, utterly oblivious to the quiet unraveling of two adults above her.
Edward’s hand rose a fraction, as if he might reach for Beatrice—her cheek, her hair, her hand—even though he didn’t seem sure. He stopped himself at the last moment, his fingers curling into his palm.
Beatrice’s lips parted slightly, and his gaze followed the movement.
A mistake. A painful one.
Desire surged swiftly, impossible to reason with. For one suspended moment, he thought he might give in to it.
He closed his eyes briefly, as if forcing the impulse back into the place where he kept every other want he refused to name.
When he looked at her again, his control had returned. It was fragile, but at least it held.
“Goodnight, Duchess,” he said quietly.
It wasn’t what he wanted to say. Not even close.
Beatrice held his gaze, steady and unreadable. “Goodnight, Your Grace.”
He lingered for half a second too long, then turned away before he could make the mistake he wanted to make.