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.
