She told herself this was what she wanted—to see him composed, untroubled, unaffected. Proof that the moment in the corridor had not lingered the way it had for her. Proof that she had not imagined the intensity in his voice, the way he had looked at her as though he meant to say something else entirely.
Inside the room, Edward continued, “We will proceed as planned. Send the revised terms to my solicitor. I want this wrapped up before the end of the month.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
There was a pause. Then Edward laughed softly.
The sound struck her harder than she had expected.
She stepped back, her grip tightening on the letters. She did not know what hurt more, that he sounded unchanged or that she had hoped he would not.
Of course, he is fine.Why wouldn’t he be?
The rest of the day passed in a blur of strained determination. She sent for the housekeeper to discuss several matters, including the arrangements for the wedding and the christening.
They stood by the writing desk while Beatrice reviewed sample invitations and the list of names Lady Amelia had provided.
“The chapel at St. Jude’s is available next Tuesday, Your Grace,” the housekeeper reported. “The vicar would be honored to officiate.”
“Tuesday is acceptable,” Beatrice answered, her voice calm. Only her fingers betrayed her, tapping lightly against the edge of hernotebook before she stilled them. “Please arrange for fresh lilies. Lady Amelia would prefer them. And have the silver christening bowl polished.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Thank you.”
When the housekeeper left, the room fell quiet.
Beatrice stared down at the ivory stationery she had chosen and tried to imagine Pip’s small head cradled over the baptismal font… and then smiled at the image.
In the afternoon, she spent an hour sorting through the small mountain of letters awaiting her—polite notes, invitations, pamphlets. Her quill shook only once. She steadied it quickly.
Once, she heard Edward speaking with someone downstairs. The sound pierced her concentration for an instant before she forced herself back to her task.
A soft knock sounded at the door to her sitting room.
“Your Grace,” a maid said, dipping into a curtsey, “Lady Amelia has arrived. She asked if she might go straight to the nursery.”
Beatrice nodded. “Of course. I’ll join her.”
She smoothed her skirts, took one steadying breath, and stepped out of the room. The nursery door was half-open, so she paused at the threshold.
Amelia stood beside the cradle, looking hesitant. Pip lay inside, blinking sleepily in the soft afternoon light. She made a little chirping sound, the one she always made right after waking up. It undid Beatrice every time.
Amelia started slightly when she noticed her, then offered a timid smile. “I hope I wasn’t too forward. I-I couldn’t wait.”
Beatrice stepped inside, her voice warm despite the quiet ache under it. “You aren’t forward at all. She always wakes up hungry and a little confused.”
Pip stretched, her tiny fists unfurling.
Amelia reached down, her fingers trembling as she lifted her daughter. Pip settled into her arms as though she had always belonged there—naturally, without question.
Beatrice’s heart swelled. “She recognizes you,” she remarked gently.
Amelia pressed her cheek to the baby’s head. “Do you really think so?”
“Yes.”
“Hello, darling,” Amelia whispered, brushing her fingertips over the baby’s warm cheek. “Oh, you really do know me, don’t you?”
