She rounded the corner near the long gallery and stopped short. Edward stood there, one shoulder leaning against the paneling, his head bowed, one hand rubbing his brow. The lamplight highlighted the tension in his jaw.
He wasn’t reading. Or writing. Or sorting anything. He looked as though he had been standing there for a very long time.
He didn’t see her.
Her breath caught—a sharp, painful thing.
Why does it hurt to see him like this? Why does he look so tired?
She took a step back before her heart could betray her any further. Then another. And another. Retreating silently, carefully, until the corner hid him again.
She did not stop until she reached her chambers. Then she closed the door softly and pressed her back against it, exhaling softly.
Just a moment ago, she had been perfectly composed. Now, her eyes burned. She sat at her vanity, her palms pressed to the cool wood.
I will not cry. I will not.
Beatrice waited until her breathing slowed, until the tightness in her chest eased enough to let her ribs move without pain.
Her reflection steadied gradually—no longer a disquieted wife, just a duchess with a slightly too-pale face and eyes that betrayed too much. She pinched her cheeks, brushed her hair until it shone, and lifted her chin.
You’re a duchess,not a foolish girl shaken by the sight of her husband leaning against a wall, lost in thoughts that he will never share.
After a moment, she folded her hands in her lap, closed her eyes, and inhaled.
CHAPTER 25
For days, the house felt strangely quiet. Not silent, as there were still footsteps, soft voices, a maid humming somewhere upstairs. But it was quiet in a way that lived under the skin. A quiet that had nothing to do with sound and everything to do with the distance between him and Beatrice.
Edward felt it like a bruise every time he saw her. Or didn’t see her.Especiallywhen he didn’t see her.
He didn’t see her again until that afternoon, during the meeting with the vicar. When he stepped into the library, she and the vicar were already seated at the far end of the table, papers spread neatly between them. The afternoon light fell over her shoulder, catching in a few loose strands.
Beatrice was speaking in a calm, even voice. Precise, organized, entirely self-possessed.
“… and if we keep the blessing brief,” she was saying, “it will allow a seamless transition into the wedding procession, then the christening can follow smoothly after. Lady Amelia prefers simplicity.”
The vicar nodded approvingly. “Indeed, Your Grace. Your suggestions are both tasteful and practical.”
Edward paused just inside the doorway.
Beatrice hadn’t noticed him yet.
There was something oddly painful in watching her work—competent, serene, nothing in her posture revealing how she felt. Nothing showing that she felt the same ache he felt beneath his ribs.
The vicar glanced up then. “Your Grace.”
Beatrice’s hand stilled on the page. She did not turn, not immediately. She only gathered herself with the smallest breath before facing him.
“Duke,” she greeted politely.
Edward wanted to cross the room and tilt her chin up. Instead, he bowed his head in greeting and took a seat at the opposite end of the table.
The vicar beamed. “We were just discussing the order of the service. Her Grace has quite masterfully arranged it. Very little left to amend.”
Beatrice’s expression didn’t change. She lowered her gaze to the papers. “I thought clarity would help Lady Amelia feel at ease.”
Edward swallowed, his voice rougher than he intended. “She excels at these things.”
