Chapter 25
For days, the house felt strangely quiet. Not silent, as there were still footsteps, soft voices, a maid humming somewhere upstairs. But it was quiet in a way that lived under the skin. A quiet that had nothing to do with sound and everything to do with the distance between him and Beatrice.
Edward felt it like a bruise every time he saw her. Or didn’t see her. Especially when he didn’t see her.
He didn’t see her again until that afternoon, during the meeting with the vicar. When he stepped into the library, she and the vicar were already seated at the far end of the table, papers spread neatly between them. The afternoon light fell over her shoulder, catching in a few loose strands.
Beatrice was speaking in a calm, even voice. Precise, organized, entirely self-possessed.
“… and if we keep the blessing brief,” she was saying, “it will allow a seamless transition into the wedding procession, then the christening can follow smoothly after. Lady Amelia prefers simplicity.”
The vicar nodded approvingly. “Indeed, Your Grace. Your suggestions are both tasteful and practical.”
Edward paused just inside the doorway.
Beatrice hadn’t noticed him yet.
There was something oddly painful in watching her work—competent, serene, nothing in her posture revealing how she felt. Nothing showing that she felt the same ache he felt beneath his ribs.
The vicar glanced up then. “Your Grace.”
Beatrice’s hand stilled on the page. She did not turn, not immediately. She only gathered herself with the smallest breath before facing him.
“Duke,” she greeted politely.
Edward wanted to cross the room and tilt her chin up. Instead, he bowed his head in greeting and took a seat at the opposite end of the table.
The vicar beamed. “We were just discussing the order of the service. Her Grace has quite masterfully arranged it. Very little left to amend.”
Beatrice’s expression didn’t change. She lowered her gaze to the papers. “I thought clarity would help Lady Amelia feel at ease.”
Edward swallowed, his voice rougher than he intended. “She excels at these things.”
Her eyes flickered toward him—just a moment, tentative, searching—but he didn’t let himself meet them. He looked at the vicar instead.
Cowardly, perhaps, but safer.
“I’ll handle the guardianship documents,” he said. “The child will remain under our protection until after the wedding.”
“Excellent,” the vicar said with relief. “That resolves the only outstanding concern.”
Beatrice began gathering her notes. Her movements were tidy, efficient, yet careful, as though even her fingertips must not betray a tremor. When Edward reached for the last document at the same moment she did, she withdrew far too quickly.
Once, she would have rolled her eyes, teased him about being impatient, plucked the paper from his hand just to annoy him. Now, she simply stepped back.
“Thank you,” she said, addressing the vicar instead of him. “I’ll send a finalized copy tomorrow.”
The vicar rose from his seat, seeming pleased. “A pleasure as always, Your Graces.”
He left the room, closing the door gently behind him.
And suddenly the quiet rang between them.
Beatrice kept adjusting the stack of papers and it looked to him as though the alignment mattered. Edward watched her hands—graceful, steady, composed—and felt something twist painfully in his chest.
“You handled the meeting well,” he remarked.
His voice came out rougher than he had intended. He schooled his features into something neutral, as if that could pull his voice back into line.
Beatrice didn’t look up from the stack of papers. “It was only planning,” she said.
He nearly snorted. He almost said, You know it wasn’t, but he bit it back. What good would it do?
So, he nodded once. “Very well.”
For a heartbeat, he considered walking away. That would’ve been safer. Cleaner. But she was still there, and he still wanted—
No. Distance.
He heard himself say, “You’ve always been good at more than planning.”
A mistake. He realized it the moment the words left his mouth.
Silence tightened, small and fragile.
When Beatrice finally spoke, her tone was smooth as glass. “We have to finalize the details. Together. The ceremonies are only a few days away.”
There it was—her boundary, neatly placed. He felt its edge.
He inclined his head. “Of course.”
Beatrice opened her notebook, her quill poised, her expression unreadable. “The chapel has been booked. The vicar has confirmed the hour—eleven in the morning. The wedding will be short. I thought it best not to overwork Pip.”
He swallowed. “Yes. Sensible.”
She scribbled in her notebook. “The chapel will be decorated with white lilies and rosemary. Rosemary for remembrance. Do you approve?”
Lilies. Of course, Lady Amelia would want lilies.
Edward cleared his throat. “Yes, that’s fine.”
“And the hymns?” she continued, businesslike. “The vicar asked if you preferred Hail the Day or Gentle Shepherd.”
The latter. Because you love it. Because you used to hum it.
He forced calm into his voice. “Either is acceptable.”
She wrote it down without looking at him.
“As for the christening gown, I offered the family heirloom. The silk one with the Honiton lace.” A brief pause. “Amelia wondered if Pip should wear the newer one instead—the one with the ribbons.”
Edward felt something absurd flare inside him—irritation, grief, affection, all knotted into one.
Ribbons? Blue or red or white or God knows what—what did it matter? Please, let her choose anything she likes.
But he kept all of that to himself.
“It makes no difference,” he said, his voice level. “Whichever she prefers.”
Beatrice’s quill hovered mid-air. “Then we’ll use the newer gown. The lace is delicate, and Pip likes to kick.” Her mouth twitched with the ghost of a smile, but she smothered it quickly. “Practicality is best.”
He wanted to laugh, or shout, or thump his forehead against the wall. Instead, he sighed. “Indeed.”
She continued, efficient and careful, as though discussing the inventory of a storeroom. “Amelia also asked about the ribbons for the gown. She wondered if blue would be suitable. In honor of Simon’s mother.”
Edward felt his lungs deflate. Blue ribbons. Why did that undo him?
His jaw tightened. “If Amelia wishes it, choose blue.”
What do my preferences matter? Why should I care about ribbons when I’m trying not to fall apart in front of you?
Beatrice wrote it down without comment.
“And the procession?” she asked lightly. “Amelia thought both godparents should carry Pip into the chapel.” A pause, small but sharp. “She thought it would be meaningful.”
It lodged in his ribs. The words were simple. The implication wasn’t.
He kept his arms crossed and his back rigid, banishing every trace of softness. “I have no objection,” he replied flatly.
Her quill didn’t move.
“And you?” she probed softly. “Do you find it agreeable?”
He hated how careful she was being with him.
“Yes,” he said. “It will do.”
“Right.” Her quill scratched lightly. “Then the placement during the blessing—usually, the godfather stands on the right.”
“As I’m supposed to.”
“And I’ll stand to the left.”
“As you’re supposed to.”
Their exchange felt like the echo of something they had once done with warmth. Now hollowed out, a shape without substance.
Beatrice closed her notebook gently, as though noise might break whatever composure they had left. “Everything is settled, then.”
“Good,” he said stiffly. “It seems we’ve managed it.”
Managed. As if they were strangers executing a task.
Beatrice gathered her papers, her knuckles pale. Her voice was calm. “Thank you for your time, Your Grace.”
She gathered her papers against her chest, inclined her head, and swept past him toward the door.
Edward fixed his gaze on the opposite wall, breathing slowly, as though doing otherwise might unravel him.
Beatrice paused in the doorway, as if she meant to say something else.
Then seemed to think better of it. The quiet click of the door closing behind her felt like a final punctuation mark.
He exhaled slowly, as though releasing the breath cost him something.
Ribbons. Lilies. Processions. All these little details.
But none of it mattered as much as the fact that she wouldn’t look at him anymore, and he would pretend he didn’t want to see her smile.
The drawing room felt full the moment Edward stepped inside. Not just with people—though there was enough of them—but with sound.
Laughter mingled with conversation, teacups clinked, and Cecily’s unmistakable voice carried above the rest like she had no intention of being ignored by walls or social convention.
“Well,” she was saying, “if this is what scandal looks like, I must say it has rather improved the house.”
Amelia laughed, the sound bright and unguarded. “Cecily!”
Edward closed the door behind him and leaned briefly against it, letting the scene orient itself around him.
Beatrice stood near the window, a teacup cradled in both hands, listening more than speaking. Simon sat beside Amelia, his hand resting lightly over hers—a quiet gesture Edward found himself noticing far too closely.
“If half of London insists on whispering,” Cecily continued, “you may as well give them something orderly to look at.”
Edward allowed himself a small smile.
“Beatrice has been formidable,” Simon said with genuine admiration.
Edward’s gaze flicked to his wife at once. She inclined her head, accepting the compliment without comment.
“Necessity,” she commented, “has a way of sharpening one’s focus.”
Cecily turned to her sister, her eyes narrowing. “You look tired,” she noted plainly. “Not undone, but… strung tight.”
Edward felt the word lodge somewhere uncomfortable.
“I’m quite well,” Beatrice replied politely.
Cecily hummed. “Yes, that’s what I said.”
Edward crossed the room and took a seat slightly apart from the others. He told himself it was for the sake of space. He did not trust himself to move closer.
Cecily folded her hands. “I wanted to see you all before tomorrow,” she added. “Afterward, everything will be noise and congratulations and people telling you what a beautiful day it was.”
Amelia smiled softly. “I’m already overwhelmed.”
“You should be.” Cecily smiled. “It means you care.” Her gaze deliberately slid to Edward. “And have you decided who will carry Pip into the chapel?”
“Yes,” Amelia replied. “Edward and Beatrice.”
Edward felt the words land in his chest like a lead weight.
Simon nodded. “It seemed right.”
Edward said nothing. He did not trust his voice not to waver.
Cecily’s eyes flicked between them. “Good. Children remember those things.”
Edward frowned. “Remember?”
“Oh yes,” Cecily replied with a grin. “In their bones, if nowhere else. Long before the mind learns how.”
Edward glanced toward Beatrice. She had gone very still.
“And after tomorrow?” Cecily asked lightly.
Amelia’s voice softened. “She comes home with us.”
“Yes,” Cecily said. “I know. I meant you two.”
Edward straightened instinctively. “Everything has been arranged.”
Cecily shook her head. “That word again.”
“It is a useful one.” Beatrice’s voice was calm.
“For people who are afraid of mess,” Cecily replied gently.
Edward’s jaw tightened. He resisted the urge to interject—to defend, or deny, or confess to something he had no name for.
“You have done something generous,” Cecily continued, her gaze steady on him now. “Both of you. Do not pretend it costs nothing.”
The room seemed to quiet around them.
Edward forced a measured breath. “We are not pretending.”
Cecily studied him, then nodded. “Good. Then I won’t worry.”
A footman appeared to announce dinner.
As they rose, Cecily caught Beatrice’s hand briefly. Edward noticed how she leaned into the touch before she grew aware of it.
“Tomorrow will be loud,” Cecily murmured to her. “Tonight may be complicated.”
Beatrice swallowed. “It already is.”
Edward looked away.
As they moved toward the door, he lingered a moment behind, watching them—Amelia radiant with anticipation, Simon steady at her side, Beatrice composed and distant.
Later that evening, he made his way to the study. He tapped the papers under his arm; he had promised himself he would finish work before midnight. But as he passed the nursery, a familiar hum drifted through the half-open door.
He looked inside.
The lamps were turned low, casting the room in a warm glow. Pip lay in her cradle, kicking softly, her tiny toes pushing against the embroidered hem of her blanket. And Beatrice stood above her.
Edward froze.
Beatrice didn’t see him at first—she was bent over the baby, her head bowed, strands of her hair slipping from their pins. She hummed under her breath, smoothing Pip’s hair in that absent way she often did, so tender it tore something inside him.
“Your mother will be here soon,” she whispered. “You’ll have a proper family. A beautiful one.”
Pip made a soft, questioning sound, and Beatrice leaned closer, her smile small but pained. “Yes, I know. I’ll miss you, too.”
Instinct made Edward look away, as if the tenderness of the moment was something indecent to witness. When he glanced back, she had already straightened, brushing her hands down her skirts as though smoothing away the emotion she couldn’t quite hide.
Then she turned toward the door. Toward him.
Edward darted to the side. He pressed himself against the wall outside the nursery, his heart hammering in his chest, like a boy caught spying. Her footsteps approached, the hem of her gown brushing the floorboards.
She stepped through the door, only inches from him, unaware he was there at all.
Edward let out a slow, shuddering breath once she had gone. He remained there, his throat tight.
He knew this distance was partly his doing—his restraint, his fear, that near-kiss in the corridor, and the way he had almost lost control.
He wanted her. But more terrifying than desire was the unfamiliar ache that came with it.
He didn’t want to want anyone. Wanting meant hurting. And hurting meant being vulnerable. So he stayed still. Still and distant.