Hargreaves blinked. “Your Grace?”
“You heard me.” Edward’s voice came out rougher than intended. “Tonight, if possible. I’ll depart for Bath at first light.”
Hargreaves bowed, then withdrew.
Edward leaned back in his chair, staring at Beatrice’s handwriting until the lines blurred. He felt the decision settle not with relief, but with a cold, final clarity.
If she wanted distance—if her heart had already withdrawn—he would give it to her.
He pressed the folded note flat against the desk, exhaling slowly. Tomorrow, he would be gone.
He found Beatrice in the morning room, flipping through the day’s correspondence with the calm focus of a woman made of glass and steel.
“Beatrice,” he said.
Her head lifted slightly. “Yes, Duke?”
“I’ll be leaving tomorrow,” he announced. “For Bath.”
A brief pause. “I see.”
He watched for any shift in her expression. None announced betrayal or triumph. Only that same quiet reserve he had learned to read as disinterest, or perhaps a wall of habit.
He told himself it must mean she felt nothing for him, nothing but that cool civil regard reserved for a man who once filled theGazette’s pages with his less-than-savory adventures.
She has every reason to remember the rake before the man.
“You may stay here. Use the townhouse as you wish.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
Her fingers stilled on a letter. “That is… generous.”
“It’s practical,” he corrected, more sharply than intended. “You seem comfortable here. There’s no point in disrupting your routine. Plus, you are closer to Amelia and Eliza—if you wish to be close to them.”
Besides, generosity implies feeling, and I can’t afford that.
He had not expected her sharp intake of breath. Her fingers tightened once around the letter.
“Very considerate,” she allowed, her tone smooth and distant, as though they were discussing the weather, not separation.
He nodded once. “I’ll send word when I arrive. And if you need anything—money or otherwise—do not hesitate to call on me.”
She inclined her head. “Safe travels, then.”
Her politeness was a blade; it cut clean.
He waited—God help him, he waited—for something in her expression to falter. For the smallest flicker of protest. For anything that said she cared. But nothing came.
And that stung. He tried to tell himself that the sting was well deserved, that it had always been simpler.
He inclined his head. “Good night, Duchess.”
She dipped into a graceful curtsey. “Good night, Duke.”
And that was that.
At dawn, he descended the stairs with Hargreaves trailing behind him, luggage in tow. The house was quiet.
