He unfolded the note in one smooth motion. His heart soared… and promptly sank.
The laundry accounts require your signature.
Edward scoffed in disbelief.
That’s it?
There was no greeting. No flourish. Not even the simple, familiarBshe used to place at the bottom of short messages. Just a cold request.
He let out a breath that trembled against his ribs.
Of course. What else had he expected? Poetry?
The butler appeared shortly after. “You seem… troubled, Your Grace. Shall I bring tea?”
“I’m fine.” Edward shook his head, turning the note over in his hands.
“Shall I ask for luncheon to be served, Your Grace?”
Edward hesitated. For the briefest moment, a dangerous thought surfaced, unbidden.
We could dine together. It would be… reasonable.
The thought was followed instantly by another, sharper one.
And she would feel obliged. Trapped by courtesy. Uncomfortable.
“No,” he replied. “I’ll take a tray in my study.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
As the butler withdrew, Edward folded the note once, twice, until it was neat and contained. He tucked it beneath his book, as though filing it away might lessen its effect.
It did not.
Edward slept poorly. When he went down to the breakfast room the following morning, the table was set for two.
He stopped short.
The maid looked up, startled. “Shall I?—?”
“No,” he said too quickly. He softened his tone. “I mean—no, thank you. One will suffice.”
She nodded, rearranging the place settings with brisk efficiency.
Edward watched her work and felt, absurdly, as though he had refused something larger than breakfast.
She prefers distance.You are respecting that.
The thought did nothing to steady him. It had always steadied him before.
In his study, he tried to focus on work, but his mind kept circling back to Beatrice’s note. The more he read it, the more his heart ached.
Suddenly, he crossed the room and rang for his valet.
By the time he returned to his seat, staring at the note until his vision swam, the valet had stepped inside and gently closed the door behind him.
“Pack my things.”
