Chapter 24
Dinner the next day was quiet.
It wasn’t politely quiet, or awkwardly quiet, but sharply quiet. A quiet she had helped build, brick by brick, since that moment in the corridor.
Beatrice kept her gaze fixed on her plate, lifting her fork with the measured precision of someone determined not to let her hands betray her. The roast was excellent, but she tasted nothing.
Across the table, Edward sat straighter than usual, the line of his jaw too stiff, as though one wrong word might undo something inside him. The footman poured the wine, but Edward didn’t touch his glass.
The clink of cutlery was far too loud.
“Would you like more potatoes, Your Grace?” the footman asked.
“No,” Beatrice answered softly.
Edward cleared his throat. “Beatrice, you haven’t eaten much.”
Her spine stiffened. “I’m fine.”
He hesitated, as though considering whether to press the issue, but then he let it go. The silence that ensued was cold and suffocating.
Beatrice could feel his eyes on her, but she did not look up.
After the near-kiss in the corridor, she could still feel the heat on her skin. She had vowed to keep her distance. A barricade. For her own sake. For her heart’s sake.
She was sure her husband was keeping the same defenses up, so she kept her expression serene, distant, almost indifferent.
They continued eating in silence until Edward reached for his wine. But instead of drinking it, he merely swirled the glass between his fingers.
“There is something I should tell you,” he began.
She didn’t look up. “Yes?”
“The christening.” He paused, as if searching for words that would not sound too personal, too warm, too anything. “Simon and Lady Amelia wish to name us godparents. It will take place just after their wedding. Lady Amelia asked if you might assist her with the preparations.”
Beatrice set down her fork carefully. “Of course,” she said. “Whatever she needs.”
Edward blinked, surprised by her calmness. “You don’t have to—”
“Duke,” she cut in gently, “I want to.”
She didn’t. Not entirely. But she wanted Lady Amelia to feel supported, and she wanted Pip to be celebrated. She wanted to prove to herself, to him, that she was capable of handling this with grace.
Edward exhaled, the closest he had come to relaxing all evening. “Thank you.”
Another silence ensued.
He looked as though he wanted to say more. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again. His fingers tapped once against the tablecloth.
Beatrice reached for her glass of water, the movement smooth and detached.
He tried again. “Beatrice, about the other night—”
“There is nothing that needs discussion,” she said, not unkindly, but firmly enough that his next words died in his throat.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I disagree,” he murmured.
She shook her head. “It would be better for us both if the past days remain… in the past.”
His breath left him slowly. “Is that truly what you want?”
No! Every part of her wanted to scream no. But she kept her voice level.
“It is what makes sense, Duke.”
He studied her, his eyes searching her face for any crack in her composure. She gave him none.
Hurt flickered in his gaze, and he quickly hid it. But not before she saw it. It lodged somewhere deep inside her, but she did not reach for it. She simply held fast to the mask she had perfected over the past few weeks.
When dessert was served, she merely touched the spoon to the custard, then folded her hands neatly.
At last, Edward pushed his plate away. “If Lady Amelia is coming tomorrow, I imagine you’ll want to rest. I won’t keep you.”
There was a gentleness beneath the formality, a softness he tried and failed to hide.
Beatrice rose gracefully. “Good night, Duke.”
He stood as well. “Good night, Duchess.”
She walked out of the room with measured steps, her face the perfect image of serenity. Only once she reached the hallway did her composure fracture.
Her fingers curled into her skirts. Her breath came uneven for a moment, just long enough to admit the truth to herself. That she was holding herself together by sheer force of will. They were two people sharing a house, sharing responsibilities, sharing silence… but not each other. Not anymore.
And Beatrice had to admit that the space between them felt colder than winter.
The next day, Beatrice woke up before dawn. She had not slept well. Not because of noise, but because of a tight, restless ache in her chest.
The house was still, the air faintly cold. For a long moment, she lay staring at the pale outline of the canopy overhead.
Every time she closed her eyes, memories flooded back—Edward’s hands on her face, his breath mingling with hers, the warmth of his nearness.
It returned now, vivid as touch.
She bolted upright, as though movement alone could chase away the memory.
This would not do.
She washed, dressed with careful neatness, and went downstairs for breakfast. But even in the quiet breakfast room, Pip’s absence stabbed gently at her. She did not go to the nursery—she was not foolish enough to linger in a place that only sharpened the ache.
Instead, she sat at the table with the newspaper, though she hardly read a word.
Mrs. Hart came in with tea. “Will you be visiting the nursery, Your Grace?”
Beatrice forced a smile. “No, at least not now.”
Mrs. Hart hesitated, surprised, but too polite to question her decision.
Beatrice kept her expression serene until she left.
Edward entered a moment later, nodded a stiff greeting, she responded with perfect politeness and he took his seat across from her. He unfolded his napkin with the precision of a man determined to occupy himself with anything other than the person sitting opposite him.
He didn’t glance in her direction. Not once.
Beatrice, forcing calm into her voice, asked the footman for the marmalade. Edward did not look up. He made no comment, made no small talk.
She knew that when he wanted to hide his feelings, he retreated behind charm, focus, almost exaggerated humor. And today, he was composed to the point of rigidity.
It hurt far more than if he had spoken to her.
She kept her eyes on her plate, spreading marmalade she did not intend to taste. The silence between them thickened until even the soft clink of cutlery felt intrusive.
She thought he might speak when his hand paused on his cup, his shoulders drawing up. But instead of lifting his gaze, he reached for a slice of bread.
Beatrice swallowed quietly, keeping her expression neutral. “Shall I pass the marmalade?”
“No, thank you,” he replied without lifting his head.
That was the farthest their conversation went.
When she finally rose from the table, Edward stood as he always did. It was a small, habitual gesture, but it tugged at something inside her. She did not let it show.
He kept his gaze ahead, not daring even to look at her. “Have a pleasant morning, Duchess,” he said evenly.
“You as well, Duke,” she murmured, then left.
At midday, she was crossing the lower corridor with a stack of letters pressed to her chest, her mind still on the night before, when voices drifted from the morning room. The door stood ajar, wide enough to let sound escape, but not wide enough to invite her in.
Beatrice had not intended to linger.
Edward’s voice reached her first. It was steady. Amused.
“Then we are agreed,” he said. “The shipment remains in Bristol until the contracts are signed. I will not have my name tied to haste.”
A man laughed lightly in response. Mr. Hawthorne, she realized. The agent Edward had summoned earlier that week. “You always did prefer caution, Your Grace. Most men in your position would have leapt at the opportunity.”
“And regretted it afterward,” Edward replied. There was a smile in his voice. “I have done enough regretting for a lifetime.”
Beatrice slowed her pace. She stopped just outside the door, listening. Papers shifted. Chairs scraped softly across the floor. The ordinary sounds of business, of life proceeding as it always had.
Mr. Hawthorne spoke again. “Still, it is good to see you in high spirits. Given recent events, I half expected you to cancel the deal.”
“Nonsense,” Edward said easily. “Work has a way of restoring perspective.”
Perspective.
Beatrice felt the word settle somewhere behind her ribs.
She told herself this was what she wanted—to see him composed, untroubled, unaffected.
Proof that the moment in the corridor had not lingered the way it had for her.
Proof that she had not imagined the intensity in his voice, the way he had looked at her as though he meant to say something else entirely.
Inside the room, Edward continued, “We will proceed as planned. Send the revised terms to my solicitor. I want this wrapped up before the end of the month.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
There was a pause. Then Edward laughed softly.
The sound struck her harder than she had expected.
She stepped back, her grip tightening on the letters. She did not know what hurt more, that he sounded unchanged or that she had hoped he would not.
Of course, he is fine. Why wouldn’t he be?
The rest of the day passed in a blur of strained determination. She sent for the housekeeper to discuss several matters, including the arrangements for the wedding and the christening.
They stood by the writing desk while Beatrice reviewed sample invitations and the list of names Lady Amelia had provided.
“The chapel at St. Jude’s is available next Tuesday, Your Grace,” the housekeeper reported. “The vicar would be honored to officiate.”
“Tuesday is acceptable,” Beatrice answered, her voice calm. Only her fingers betrayed her, tapping lightly against the edge of her notebook before she stilled them. “Please arrange for fresh lilies. Lady Amelia would prefer them. And have the silver christening bowl polished.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Thank you.”
When the housekeeper left, the room fell quiet.