Chapter 15
The second morning of the Ravenscourts’ visit dawned grey and cold, the kind of weather that kept the corridors pleasantly quiet until breakfast.
Margaret and Sebastian had settled easily into the rhythm of Wrexford Hall—Margaret trading gentle laughter with Beatrice over tea in the afternoon, Sebastian wandering the grounds as though he owned the estate, and both of them turning the house warmer simply by being in it.
It had been, objectively, a good visit. Yet Edward still found himself in the boxing room before noon, his fists wrapped, his muscles tight.
Sebastian was already stretching when he arrived in the boxing room. The man was insufferably cheerful for someone who had kept him up past midnight, drinking brandy and arguing with him about parliamentary reform.
“Took you long enough,” he called. “I thought marriage had softened you.”
Edward didn’t bother to answer. He stepped into the square space that had been cleared for sparring, the makeshift boundary familiar from years of bouts.
They touched gloves. And then—
Edward threw the first punch harder than he intended. The padded glove struck Sebastian’s raised guard with a satisfying thud.
“Easy,” Sebastian drawled. “I need my face. Margaret would be inconsolable without it.”
“You hold your hands too low,” Edward muttered.
“I hold them perfectly. You, on the other hand, are trying to murder me.”
“You talk too much.”
“Someone must fill the emptiness of your personality.”
Sebastian feinted left, sweat already beading on his brow. Edward mirrored him, his shoulders tight and coiled, the long lines of muscle across his back rippling with each movement. The cool air in the boxing room steamed faintly where they drew close.
“That’s because you’re in a foul mood,” Sebastian replied, circling him with irritating agility. “Margaret says it’s because you’re married. A tragic affliction.”
Sebastian aimed a jab at Edward’s ribs, smug. Edward parried it, rolling his shoulders as he circled, light on his feet despite his size. He landed a blow on Sebastian’s raised arm with a sharp thud.
Sebastian winced. “Good God, man. Are you punishing me for visiting? Because Margaret insisted we come. I merely followed the woman who controls my life.”
Edward snorted despite himself.
Sebastian grinned, recognizing victory. He shook out his arms, his muscles flexing beneath the sheen of sweat. “There it is. A glimmer of humanity.”
Edward bounced back into position, his breathing slowing. His back stiffened, almost rigid with control.
“Oh, come now,” Sebastian goaded. “You should thank me. Margaret’s been desperate to see Beatrice again. And I”—he tapped Edward’s glove with his own—“wanted to witness firsthand how the notorious Duke of Wrexford is taking to domestic bliss after a full day beneath his own roof.”
Edward threw a punch at his friend’s shoulder. Sebastian dodged.
“Bliss,” Edward said flatly, “is not the word I’d use.”
Sebastian grinned, blocking a jab. He shook out his arms, his biceps flexing as he circled, the sheen of sweat on his skin catching the pale light from the high windows. “No? And here I thought you’d finally embraced domestic peace.”
Edward glared at him. “A child was dropped into my arms.”
“Oh, I know,” Sebastian said, stepping back slightly. “I’m only saying that the arrangement suits the two of you more than you’ll admit.” He dodged another punch. “In fairness, it’s almost convincing. The little one is attached to Beatrice.”
Edward stopped moving, long enough for Sebastian’s grin to sharpen.
“There it is,” Sebastian drawled. “That look. You’re besotted.”
Edward snorted. “With the child?”
“No. With Beatrice.”
He swung again. Hard.
Sebastian took the hit to the shoulder with a grunt. “Excellent. That is absolutely a yes.”
“It is not.”
“It absolutely is. Margaret is betting on it. I personally thought you’d last longer before falling apart.”
Edward dropped his hands. “Sebastian.”
Sebastian lifted both hands in surrender. “Fine. Fine. I’ll restrain myself.” Then, after a beat, “At least tell me why you look like someone rearranged your spine.”
Edward wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist.
Beatrice had almost kissed him. Or he had almost kissed her. He still wasn’t sure which. He could still feel the ghost of that night—Beatrice’s breath, her nearness, the way her eyes had flicked to his mouth before she stepped back.
He cleared his throat. “There was… a moment.”
Sebastian’s grin returned full force. “A moment.”
“Yes,” Edward snapped. “And no, nothing happened.”
“Not yet,” Sebastian sing-songed.
Edward reached for the water jug, fighting the urge to throw it at his friend. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re avoiding the subject.” Sebastian crossed his arms over his chest. “Tell me.”
Edward hesitated. Then, grudgingly, he shrugged. “She smiled.”
Sebastian blinked. “Is that… unusual?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re doomed,” Sebastian declared. “You really are in trouble. What did you do?”
Edward looked away. “It wasn’t what I did. It was… how she looked at me.”
Sebastian leaned against the ropes. His mirth faded, replaced with something more thoughtful.
“You know, Ed,” he said quietly, “you’re married. Perhaps it’s time you let yourself want something out of the marriage you’ve found yourself in. Even if you didn’t plan it.”
Edward shut that down immediately. “It isn’t simple.”
“With you, it never is. Fine. We’ll circle back to your emotional inadequacies later.” Sebastian grabbed a towel. “For now, let’s address the more pressing matter: the baby’s father. You’ve been quiet about it. Too quiet.”
Edward peeled off one glove with his teeth, his breathing ragged. “I think it’s Simon.”
Sebastian stilled. “Your cousin? The one who—”
“Yes.”
“That’s… unfortunate.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“But why him?” Sebastian shook his hair widely.
“It adds up. The timing. The secrecy. And—” Edward exhaled through his nose. “Simon was the only one entangled in half a dozen affairs last Season. One of them ended abruptly just before the child appeared. Too neat a coincidence for my liking.”
“Have you asked him?”
“No.” Edward hesitated. “Not until I’m certain.”
“Why?”
He looked at Sebastian for a long moment. “Because accusing a cousin is dangerous. And because I’m afraid Bea—Miss Verity might write about it.”
Sebastian whistled. “You married Miss Verity. Truly, you do not fear God.”
Edward sighed. “I can’t ruin Simon without proof, and I can’t risk Beatrice getting dragged into it.”
Sebastian grinned again. “Ah, yes. Protecting her. Fascinating.”
Edward threw his towel at him.
Sebastian dodged it easily. “What? I’m merely making an observation.”
“Loudly.”
“Of course, loudly. Someone has to comment on the tragedy of Wrexford falling in love before he’s ready for it.”
Edward shot him a glare. “I am not—”
“Oh, spare me,” Sebastian scoffed, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “You want your wife. And if you’re smart, you’ll stop pretending otherwise.”
Edward said nothing. He wiped a forearm across his brow, his breathing steadier now, but his pulse still annoyingly quick.
He braced one hand on the edge of the table, lowering his head. The room smelled of leather, sweat, and chalk dust, but all he could think of was lavender soap and the faint warmth of Beatrice’s skin when she leaned down to settle the baby in her cradle.
And that moment. God help him, that moment when she had turned in the dimly lit nursery, her hair mussed from sleep, her robe falling loosely at her collarbone. She had smiled—smiled at him—because he had cursed under his breath.
When he had stepped closer, he had meant to say something light. Something harmless. Instead, he had almost—
“Edward!”
He jerked upright.
Sebastian stood a few feet away, toweling the back of his neck, his eyebrows raised. “I swear,” he drawled, “if you drift off thinking about your wife one more time, I’ll—”
“Don’t,” Edward warned, shooting him a look.
Sebastian laughed, hands lifting in quick surrender. “All right, all right. Not a word.” He slung the towel over his shoulder, his grin widening. “Come on. Let’s return to the ladies before Margaret starts imagining we’ve killed each other out of masculine stupidity.”
Edward huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “She wouldn’t be wrong.”
“True,” Sebastian said cheerfully, clapping him once on the shoulder. “But she’d prefer you alive. Beatrice, too, if we’re being honest.”
Edward didn’t respond, but the thought of seeing Beatrice again thrilled him more than he cared to admit.
Sebastian smirked and turned toward the door. “Well then, shall we?”