Chapter 27
After the wedding and christening, the house felt larger when he stepped inside, as though someone had quietly removed its center while he was gone.
The door closed behind him with a familiar thud, but even that sound didn’t fill the rooms the way it used to.
“No need to announce me,” he told the footman quietly, handing over his gloves. “I’ll go in.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The footman hesitated, before adding, “Her Grace has been in the library most of the morning.”
Edward inclined his head in acknowledgment and dismissed the footman before anything else could be said.
There were no soft coos or cries from Pip, no quiet hums from Beatrice.
Just… stillness. He stood in the entryway a moment longer than necessary, gloves in hand, trying to place what had changed.
But it wasn’t the house. It was the absence.
The kind that didn’t shout or mourn. The kind that just waited, patient and hollow.
He told himself this was to be expected. The baby had gone home. Life had resumed its proper order.
So why did the order feel wrong?
He moved through the hall at an easy pace, taking in the unchanged furniture, the polished banister, the faint scent of beeswax and lavender. All the usual comforts. But none of them eased the tightness beneath his ribs.
When he got to the library, he paused. The quiet there had always soothed him—the soft scratch of a quill, the distant rumble of carriage wheels, the low crackle of the fire—but now he felt like the room was holding its breath.
Beatrice had once favored the plush armchair by the window. She used to sit in it, with Eliza’s blanket draped over her knees, reading or mending, the slightest crease of concentration forming between her eyebrows.
He had grown used to looking up from his correspondence and finding her there. Now, she sat at the writing desk, with nary an emotion on her face.
When he entered, she folded her journal with calm, practiced hands.
“Duchess.”
She didn’t look up immediately. But when she did, her expression was smooth, composed, impenetrable. “Duke.”
She stood up, smoothing her skirts with a gesture too controlled to be casual.
Before the christening, Beatrice used to glance up when he entered any room with a little tilt of her head, a soft hum of greeting that wasn’t quite a smile but felt like one.
Now, she kept her gaze ahead and blank, replying in a polite tone as if warmth were a luxury they could no longer afford.
“I did not mean to interrupt,” he said.
“You didn’t,” she assured, but she was already moving toward the door. “I just finished.”
She passed him on her way out with a gentle tilt of her head, nothing more.
Her perfume lingered half a second. He didn’t dare breathe it in.
Edward remained exactly where she had left him, staring at the space she had crossed, acutely aware that he had not asked her how she was, nor she him.
Several hours after, Edward was completely engrossed in reading when a footman entered quietly. “Your Grace? A note was left for you.”
Edward’s pulse quickened. The handwriting was unmistakably hers—elegant, spare, slightly slanted as though she wrote in thought more than haste.
He unfolded the note in one smooth motion. His heart soared… and promptly sank.
The laundry accounts require your signature.
Edward scoffed in disbelief.
That’s it?
There was no greeting. No flourish. Not even the simple, familiar B she used to place at the bottom of short messages. Just a cold request.
He let out a breath that trembled against his ribs.
Of course. What else had he expected? Poetry?
The butler appeared shortly after. “You seem… troubled, Your Grace. Shall I bring tea?”
“I’m fine.” Edward shook his head, turning the note over in his hands.
“Shall I ask for luncheon to be served, Your Grace?”
Edward hesitated. For the briefest moment, a dangerous thought surfaced, unbidden.
We could dine together. It would be… reasonable.
The thought was followed instantly by another, sharper one.
And she would feel obliged. Trapped by courtesy. Uncomfortable.
“No,” he replied. “I’ll take a tray in my study.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
As the butler withdrew, Edward folded the note once, twice, until it was neat and contained. He tucked it beneath his book, as though filing it away might lessen its effect.
It did not.
Edward slept poorly. When he went down to the breakfast room the following morning, the table was set for two.
He stopped short.
The maid looked up, startled. “Shall I—?”
“No,” he said too quickly. He softened his tone. “I mean—no, thank you. One will suffice.”
She nodded, rearranging the place settings with brisk efficiency.
Edward watched her work and felt, absurdly, as though he had refused something larger than breakfast.
She prefers distance. You are respecting that.
The thought did nothing to steady him. It had always steadied him before.
In his study, he tried to focus on work, but his mind kept circling back to Beatrice’s note. The more he read it, the more his heart ached.
Suddenly, he crossed the room and rang for his valet.
By the time he returned to his seat, staring at the note until his vision swam, the valet had stepped inside and gently closed the door behind him.
“Pack my things.”
Hargreaves blinked. “Your Grace?”
“You heard me.” Edward’s voice came out rougher than intended. “Tonight, if possible. I’ll depart for Bath at first light.”
Hargreaves bowed, then withdrew.
Edward leaned back in his chair, staring at Beatrice’s handwriting until the lines blurred. He felt the decision settle not with relief, but with a cold, final clarity.
If she wanted distance—if her heart had already withdrawn—he would give it to her.
He pressed the folded note flat against the desk, exhaling slowly. Tomorrow, he would be gone.
He found Beatrice in the morning room, flipping through the day’s correspondence with the calm focus of a woman made of glass and steel.
“Beatrice,” he said.
Her head lifted slightly. “Yes, Duke?”
“I’ll be leaving tomorrow,” he announced. “For Bath.”
A brief pause. “I see.”
He watched for any shift in her expression. None announced betrayal or triumph. Only that same quiet reserve he had learned to read as disinterest, or perhaps a wall of habit.
He told himself it must mean she felt nothing for him, nothing but that cool civil regard reserved for a man who once filled the Gazette’s pages with his less-than-savory adventures.
She has every reason to remember the rake before the man.
“You may stay here. Use the townhouse as you wish.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
Her fingers stilled on a letter. “That is… generous.”
“It’s practical,” he corrected, more sharply than intended. “You seem comfortable here. There’s no point in disrupting your routine. Plus, you are closer to Amelia and Eliza—if you wish to be close to them.”
Besides, generosity implies feeling, and I can’t afford that.
He had not expected her sharp intake of breath. Her fingers tightened once around the letter.
“Very considerate,” she allowed, her tone smooth and distant, as though they were discussing the weather, not separation.
He nodded once. “I’ll send word when I arrive. And if you need anything—money or otherwise—do not hesitate to call on me.”
She inclined her head. “Safe travels, then.”
Her politeness was a blade; it cut clean.
He waited—God help him, he waited—for something in her expression to falter. For the smallest flicker of protest. For anything that said she cared. But nothing came.
And that stung. He tried to tell himself that the sting was well deserved, that it had always been simpler.
He inclined his head. “Good night, Duchess.”
She dipped into a graceful curtsey. “Good night, Duke.”
And that was that.
At dawn, he descended the stairs with Hargreaves trailing behind him, luggage in tow. The house was quiet.
He turned to leave, and out of habit, he paused at the threshold. The house held the faint scent of lilies. The echo of a lullaby sounded somewhere in an adjoining room.
For a second, he let himself linger in the memory of the baby in Beatrice’s arms at the font—a weight that had felt like an answer to a question he had not dared to ask.
Beatrice appeared at the top of the stairs, her hands clasped, her shoulders squared.
“You’re leaving early,” she said.
“Carriages travel better before the roads get crowded,” he replied.
Another brittle exchange to place atop all the others.
She inclined her head. “I wish you a smooth journey.”
“As do I for you here.” He paused. “If you need anything… the servants remain at your disposal.”
“Thank you.”
He waited for nothing. Expected nothing. Wanted everything.
He bowed. She bobbed a quick curtsey.
They did not touch.
He told himself that if she loved him at all, it was love fostered through toleration, and that simply would not do. He told himself that he was doing the only decent thing by leaving. He told himself these things in the rational, calm voice he often used to instruct others.
The carriage was ready when he reached the street. He watched the townhouse recede through the glass, the windows like patient eyes. The city’s noise enveloped him, and, absurdly, he felt grateful for it.
He had meant to leave because he could not bear the quiet between them. He left because the quiet had already said more than he was ready to hear.