Chapter Twenty
By the time the carriage reached Wrenfield, Petalia’s shoulder ached, her feet hurt, and the brass pin in her hair had become the one part of her attire that still felt like herself.
Pritchard opened the door before the wheels had fully settled. His face revealed nothing, but his gaze moved quickly over Petalia, then Edmund, then Lady Maria, as if measuring whether the ball had returned all of them in their original number and without visible injury.
“Your Graces,” he said. “My lady.”
“We have survived,” Lady Maria announced, accepting his hand. “The county has been instructed, insult has been corrected, and Lady Carrowmere’s punch remains as poor as memory warned me. Is there tea?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Good. Bring it to the small drawing room. And something edible. Not muffins unless His Grace has developed sentiment.”
Edmund gave her a look. “Aunt.”
“I merely respect precedent.”
Petalia stepped down from the carriage with Edmund’s assistance. His hand closed around hers, firm and warm through her glove, and for a moment after she had found her footing, he did not let go.
Only for a second. Scarcely long enough for anyone to notice. Long enough for her to feel it.
The household knew things now. Some by instruction, more by observation. They knew the duke had trimmed his beard because his bride had asked him to be visible. They knew the Duchess wore brass because the Duke had given it to her. They knew something had altered.
And though households could be as dangerous as ballrooms in their own way, this knowledge did not feel entirely like peril.
In the small drawing room, tea arrived with cold chicken, bread, jam, and a plate of seed cakes Cook had evidently provided in continuing protest against muffins. Lady Maria ate one with satisfaction and declared herself too aged for social warfare, which no one appeared inclined to believe.
She remained long enough to hear the essential account of Sir Lionel’s apology, approved Edmund’s restraint with excessive surprise, and then announced she was going to bed before either of them became interesting in a way that required supervision.
Petalia and Edmund sat across from one another by the low fire.
The room, after the ballroom, felt almost indecently quiet.
No fans. No music. No eyes measuring the distance between them.
Only the ticking clock, the soft clink of china, and the awareness that they had left the county behind and brought something else home.
“You should rest,” Edmund said.
“That is the third time you have said so since we left Exeter.”
“It remains true.”
“Truth does not become more persuasive through repetition.”
“In my experience, it sometimes does.”
“With tenants or children?”
“Horses.” The corner of his mouth moved.
“I shall remember to resist bridling, then.”
He poured tea for her, added no sugar because he had learnt she preferred it without, and passed the cup with a care that did not draw attention to itself.
That was how he loved, she was beginning to suspect, in remembering, arranging, preventing, supplying.
He might say the wrong thing and regret it immediately, but his hands learnt where comfort lived.
She took the cup. “Thank you.”
He glanced at the pin in her hair. “It held.”
“Against Lady Carrowmere, Lady Whitcombe, Lord Fanshawe, Sir Lionel, and a hurried exit. The maker deserves his fee.”
“I will tell him he has survived trial by society.”
“Do you think society noticed it?”
“Yes.”
“Because it was too plain?”
“Because you wore it as if it mattered.”
She lowered her eyes to the tea. “It does matter.”
Silence followed, but it was not empty.
Edmund sat back, one hand resting on the arm of his chair.
In the low light, the refinement of the grooming did not make him less formidable.
It made him more real. The trimmed beard revealed the tension in his jaw; the shorter hair left his face open to the fire; the scar was visible and no longer the first thing she saw.
Or perhaps she had simply learnt how much more there was to see.
“Fanshawe did not offend you?” he asked.
Petalia looked up. “I cannot say he did. He was clever. That is not the same as offensive.”
“Clever men often depend upon the distinction to avoid consequences.”
“You dislike him.”
“I mistrust men who make a talent of being liked.”
“That is broad.”
“It has proven efficient.”
She set down her cup. “You were jealous.”
His gaze sharpened.
“Do not growl. I am not accusing you of a crime.”
“I did not like seeing him dance with you.”
“I know.” Petalia leant back carefully. “I did not feel charmed away from you, if that is what troubles you.”
The room stilled.
She had not meant to say it so directly. But after the ball, after the apology, after the carriage, indirectness felt like another crowded room.
Edmund looked at her, and for a moment the beastly severity fell away, leaving surprise so unguarded that her heart turned over.
“No?” he said.
“No. I knew he was there. I knew what he meant to be. But I was more aware of you.”
His hand stilled on the arm of the chair.
“You looked as though you wished to cross the floor and remove me from the set.”
“I did.”
“But you did not.”
“No.”
“Because you knew I wished you to trust me.”
He lifted his eyes.
“Thank you,” she added.
“Do not thank me too generously. Restraint was not entirely natural.”
“That makes it more valuable, not less.”
He looked away, and for a moment the silence between them was warmer than speech.
“We left early,” Petalia said.
“Yes.”
“Will that worsen the gossip?”
“Perhaps.”
“You are meant to say no.”
“I am trying not to begin our marriage by lying about society.”
That won the smallest smile from her.
“We stayed long enough,” he continued. “Sir Lionel apologised in public. Those who needed to see it saw it. After that, there seemed little reason to remain.”
“You make it sound almost strategic.”
“I am capable of strategy.”
“Since when?”
His expression suggested he regretted answering.
“Since being married to a woman who notices when I am not employing it.”
Petalia laughed softly.
The sound seemed to please him more than he wished to admit.
“At the ball,” he said after a moment, “when Sir Lionel spoke, I wanted to make the room regret hearing him.”
“I know.”
“That instinct is not noble.”
“No,” she agreed. “But what you did with it was.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“You have a habit of finding virtue in behaviour that falls some distance short of virtue.”
“I have a habit of distinguishing between feeling and action.”
That held him silent.
“You were angry,” she continued. “You chose not to be cruel. Those are not the same thing.”
His gaze remained on the fire.
“No,” he said at last. “They are not.”
The room grew quiet again.
Petalia realised, with a small shock, that she was happy. Not merely relieved. Not simply safe. Happy in the fragile, cautious way one might be after surviving a storm and discovering the house still standing.
Edmund rose then and crossed to the mantel.
She watched him.
He had a habit of standing when feeling became difficult. She had learnt that much.
After a moment he looked back at her.
“How is your shoulder?”
“Aches.”
His gaze lingered on her for a moment.
“You should rest.”
“I shall.”
Neither of them moved.
The fire shifted softly.
Edmund took a step towards her.
Then another.
Petalia's breath caught.
He stopped beside her chair, close enough that she could see the tension in his jaw, the faint line of the scar, the uncertainty he concealed from almost everyone.
“Petalia…”
He broke off.
For perhaps the first time since she had known him, words seemed to fail him entirely.
The sight touched her more than any speech could have done.
“Kissing,” she said quietly, “may be considered, provided the participant remembers that I am not made of porcelain.”
The surprise that crossed his face was almost enough to make her laugh.
“I remember,” he said.
His hand lifted, hesitated briefly, then settled lightly over hers.
“Good.”
She turned her hand beneath his and laced their fingers together.
That seemed answer enough.
He drew her gently to her feet, careful of her injured side. Their bodies did not touch except where their hands met. Even that felt less like contact than acknowledgement.
He was close enough now that she could see the tiny nick near his temple from the day she had cut his hair.
The sight made affection rise in her so unexpectedly that she smiled.
His gaze narrowed slightly.
“What?”
“I was thinking of your ear.”
For a moment, he looked genuinely puzzled.
“My ear.”
“The one I nearly removed.”
Understanding dawned.
“A regrettable episode.”
“You married the woman responsible.”
“A decision I continue to defend.”
The answer came so readily that it caught her off guard.
The smile faded.
“Do you?”
His expression changed at once.
“Do I what?”
“Defend it.”
The question escaped more quietly than she intended.
For a moment, he simply looked at her. Then he said, without hesitation, “Yes.”
The single word settled between them.
Petalia felt her throat tighten.
He seemed to realise that one word was not enough.
“I regret the circumstances,” he said quietly. “I regret the fear. I regret every occasion on which you have had to be brave because I was slow to understand what was before me.”
His thumb moved lightly against her hand.
“I know I have said it before,” he added, his voice lower. “But I do not regret that you are my wife.”
The honesty of it left no room for deflection.
Petalia looked at him for a long moment. Then she lifted her free hand and touched his cheek. The roughness of the newly shortened beard brushed her palm.
His eyes closed briefly. Only briefly. When he opened them again, some final reserve seemed to have left him. He bent his head.
The kiss began softly. Not tentative. Not uncertain. Simply careful.
He still treated her as though care were the first duty he owed her, and she found she loved him for it.
One hand settled lightly at her waist. The other remained clasped around hers.
When she moved a little closer, she felt the breath leave him. Not surprise; relief. As though wanting her had become less frightening now that he no longer had to hide it.
When he finally drew back, he rested his forehead lightly against hers.
“Petalia.”
Her name sounded different now.
Not a question. Not a plea. Simply something precious enough to be spoken carefully.
“Yes?”
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“I find I am—”
A knock sounded at the door.
They separated at once, though not guiltily. Pritchard’s voice came from the corridor.
“Your Graces, a note has arrived from Lady Carrowmere’s house. Her Ladyship sends compliments and hopes Her Grace is not overtaxed by the evening.”
Edmund closed his eyes. “The vultures are prompt.”
Petalia's laughter escaped before she could stop it.
She squeezed his hand once before letting go. “Then we had better answer before they decide silence is more interesting.”
Outside the door, Pritchard coughed delicately, no doubt hearing more than a butler should and less than a household would wish.
Edmund took Petalia’s hand and lifted it to his lips. Then he released her and turned towards the door.
“Come,” he said. “Let us see what Lady Carrowmere wishes to know.”