Chapter Seventeen
“You have not applied it.”
Petalia looked up from the small blue jar on the dressing table and found her husband standing in the doorway between the sitting room and her bedchamber, one hand resting against the frame as though he had caught himself before entering too far.
Her husband.
The thought still startled her in the privacy of her own mind.
They had been married for less than a day, and already the word had begun rearranging the air around ordinary things.
A room became her room because he had said no one entered without her permission.
A man in the threshold became not merely a duke, not merely an employer, not even only Edmund, but her husband, with all the safety and danger the word contained.
He had changed out of his wedding coat but remained more formally dressed than a man in his own house at such an hour needed to be.
His hair, newly cut, was still thick and unruly, but now it framed his face instead of concealing it.
The trimmed beard made the line of his jaw visible.
The scar was partly hidden by the evening shadow and partly not.
He looked less like the beast Wrenfield had feared and more like the man the beast had been guarding.
That did not make him safer.
“I was considering it,” Petalia said.
His eyes moved from the jar to her shoulder and away again with almost painful speed. “Mr Meredith said it was to be applied twice daily.”
“Mr Meredith did not account for the difficulty of reaching one’s own shoulder while preserving dignity.”
“Mrs Holroyd usually assists.”
“Yes. But she has been summoned to persuade Mary that wedding cake is not a substitute for lessons.”
The corner of Edmund’s mouth shifted. Since Morris had trimmed his beard, such small movements had become more visible. Petalia found this deeply inconvenient.
“I could send a maid,” he said.
“You could.”
His gaze returned to the jar. “Or I could assist, if you wished. If that would not be unwelcome.”
The awkwardness of it touched her more than polished gallantry would have done.
“You are offering to apply salve to your wife’s burn,” she said, because naming the thing steadied it. “That is not offensive.”
“It may be uncomfortable.”
“Perhaps.”
“For you,” he added quickly. “I meant for you.”
“I understood.”
He looked so relieved by that answer that she nearly smiled.
For a moment neither moved.
Then Petalia set the jar upon the dressing table and turned slightly away from him.
“The dressing is tied at the shoulder,” she said. “Mrs Holroyd showed me how to loosen it without disturbing the rest.”
“Very sensible of her.”
“Mrs Holroyd generally is.”
The familiar exchange eased something between them.
Edmund stepped nearer. Not close enough to crowd her. Close enough to help.
The sitting room door remained open behind them. Voices drifted faintly from somewhere farther down the corridor. The ordinary sounds of the house made the room feel safer.
Petalia untied the ribbon securing the dressing. The movement pulled at the burn, and she winced before she could hide it.
Edmund saw.
“You need not hold back with me.”
“I was not.”
“You were attempting to.”
She loosened the dressing and drew the wrapper aside enough to expose the injured skin.
He looked.
Not at her.
At the burn.
The distinction should not have mattered as much as it did.
His expression tightened. Not in disgust. Not even in alarm. In regret.
“It is healing,” she said.
“Yes.”
“You sound unconvinced.”
“I am convinced it should never have happened.”
The answer settled heavily between them.
Petalia looked away first.
He opened the jar. The salve carried a faint herbal scent, cool and clean. He took a small amount onto two fingers, then hesitated with a concentration that would have been more appropriate to surgery than ointment.
Petalia’s mouth twitched.
“Your Grace.”
“Yes?”
“It is only salve.”
“I am aware of that.”
“You look as though you are preparing to negotiate a treaty.”
“I should find a treaty less alarming.”
Despite herself, she laughed softly.
The sound seemed to steady him.
He looked from the jar to her shoulder.
“Tell me if it hurts,” he said.
“I will.”
“Do not spare me.”
“I have not made a habit of sparing you.”
“No,” he said. “You have been admirably ungenerous in that regard.”
She smiled. “Then trust my consistency.”
He touched the salve to the edge of the burn.
The first contact was cool, then warmer as his fingers moved with careful restraint. He applied the ointment as though gentleness were a task he had set himself and was determined not to fail.
“Is the pressure too much?”
“No.”
“You are certain?”
“Edmund.”
His hand stilled.
“You asked me not to spare you,” she said. “Do not then doubt me when I answer.”
He absorbed that, then inclined his head. “Very well.”
He resumed, slower now, but less uncertain.
“You are very careful,” she said.
“I should have been careful sooner.”
The answer came at once, stripped of banter.
Petalia let it stand for one breath. Then another.
“You are being careful now.”
He looked at her in the mirror. “Is that enough?”
“For the salve? Yes.”
“Petalia.”
Her name in his voice was not smooth; it had edges. But it no longer sounded accidental.
She was quiet for a moment.
“For the marriage,” she said at last, because he deserved an honest answer, “I do not know yet. I think perhaps enough is not something one carries into a marriage whole. Perhaps it is something one makes, badly at first, then better.”
He drew the fabric back over her shoulder with a care that made her throat tighten.
“That is a generous philosophy.”
“No. A practical one. I have had to make many things from insufficient materials.”
His expression altered, and she knew he remembered it all: the single bag, the stolen money, the lost hairpin, every small evidence of a life lived narrowly.
“You should not have had to.”
“No,” she replied. “But what matters now is not what either of us lacked before. It is what we make of what remains.”
He set the jar down.
For a moment, the practical task was finished, and neither of them had the protection of it.
Petalia turned in the chair to face him.
He stood close enough that she had to tilt her head to look up.
The newly cut line of his face, the severe mouth, the scar, the dark eyes that seemed always to be fighting some battle before words arrived, all of it felt nearer now than it had in the church.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For the salve?”
“For making care feel like care, even when you are very bad at speaking it.”
He looked away.
She understood that gesture better now. Not rejection, not displeasure, but a retreat into discipline; a way of holding still when some less obedient part of him wished to move.
“Edmund,” she said.
His gaze returned at once.
“You may say the wrong thing,” she said. “I have noticed that you often do. But I would rather hear the wrong thing than be left to make guesses in its place.”
Something flickered across his face.
“That seems a dangerous preference.”
“Perhaps. But imagination is not always charitable.”
“No.”
The single word carried enough history to tell her he understood.
For a moment neither spoke.
Then he said, quietly, “I do not regret it.”
Petalia's breath caught.
“I regret the circumstances. I regret the pain. I regret that your choice was narrowed by things neither of us would have chosen.” His gaze held hers. “But I do not regret that you are my wife.”
There it was. Not love, perhaps. Not yet. But something true enough to stand on.
“I am glad,” she said softly. “Because I am trying very hard not to regret that you are my husband.”
A breath escaped him that might almost have been laughter.
“That is the most cautious reassurance ever offered to a bridegroom.”
“You married a practical woman.”
“So I did.”
Silence settled again. Not awkward; simply shared.
The lamp burnt softly beside them. Somewhere beyond the half-open door, the house continued about its business. Yet the room seemed set apart from it for a moment.
His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth. Not boldly; just long enough that she understood.
When he looked up again, he seemed almost annoyed with himself.
That steadied her more than confidence would have done.
“Edmund.”
“Yes?”
“I am glad you came.”
The admission appeared to catch him unprepared.
“So am I.”
Neither moved.
Then, very slowly, he lifted a hand.
Not to claim; merely to give her time to refuse.
She did not.
His fingers touched hers first.
The small contact seemed to cost him more courage than it should have.
Petalia felt something soften.
When he bent towards her, she met him halfway.
The kiss was brief. But it belonged to them.
Petalia had thought passion would announce itself loudly.
This did not.
It entered quietly, like trust.
When he drew back, his face was close enough that she saw the strain in him.
His gaze flickered towards her shoulder.
“Your burn.”
“You did not touch it.”
“No.”
The answer sounded almost relieved.
A smile touched her mouth.
“For a man so often accused of severity, you are remarkably cautious.”
His expression eased by the smallest degree.
Then he stepped back, because restraint was still the language he trusted best. He closed the salve jar, closed it, and placed it within her reach.
“I will leave you to rest. Mrs Holroyd will be furious if I interfere with your recovery.”
“Mrs Holroyd is often furious in advance. It saves time.”
“A useful system.”
He reached the door, then paused.
“Petalia.”
“Yes?”
“If the dressing troubles you in the night, send for me. Or Mrs Holroyd. Or both, if you require a witness to my incompetence.”
“I shall consider it carefully.”
His mouth moved. Not quite a smile.
“Good night, Petalia.”
“Good night, Edmund.”
He inclined his head and left.
For a long moment after the door had closed, Petalia sat without moving.
The burn was healing. And perhaps, she suspected, it was not the only thing that was.