He turned to leave, and out of habit, he paused at the threshold. The house held the faint scent of lilies. The echo of a lullaby sounded somewhere in an adjoining room.
For a second, he let himself linger in the memory of the baby in Beatrice’s arms at the font—a weight that had felt like an answer to a question he had not dared to ask.
Beatrice appeared at the top of the stairs, her hands clasped, her shoulders squared.
“You’re leaving early,” she said.
“Carriages travel better before the roads get crowded,” he replied.
Another brittle exchange to place atop all the others.
She inclined her head. “I wish you a smooth journey.”
“As do I for you here.” He paused. “If you need anything… the servants remain at your disposal.”
“Thank you.”
He waited for nothing. Expected nothing. Wantedeverything.
He bowed. She bobbed a quick curtsey.
They did not touch.
He told himself that if she loved him at all, it was love fostered through toleration, and that simply would not do. He toldhimself that he was doing the only decent thing by leaving. He told himself these things in the rational, calm voice he often used to instruct others.
The carriage was ready when he reached the street. He watched the townhouse recede through the glass, the windows like patient eyes. The city’s noise enveloped him, and, absurdly, he felt grateful for it.
He had meant to leave because he could not bear the quiet between them. He left because the quiet had already said more than he was ready to hear.
CHAPTER 28
The dining room felt too large.
It always had been, in truth. Edward insisted on proportions that made a house feel like a statement rather than a home. But tonight, the space swallowed her whole.
The candles on the long mahogany table flickered as though nervous to be left alone with her. Their light illuminated only half the table, the rest disappearing into shadow.
The butler had asked gently whether she wished to use the smaller breakfast room instead.
“No,” she had replied, unsure why she insisted. “Here is fine.”
Now, she wasn’t so certain.
She lifted her spoon, and the faint clink against the porcelain sounded impossibly loud, traveling the length of the table, bouncing back to her as if the room were answering.
Every sound she made felt amplified—the rustle of her sleeve, the controlled breath she took before swallowing.
She took a small sip, swallowed mechanically, and set the spoon down.
Edward should have been sitting across from her, slightly angled toward the fire as always. He preferred warmth. He pretended not to, but she had noticed how he shifted whenever the fire dimmed, how his shoulders relaxed when the room held heat.
The chair he favored remained empty, the family crest carved into its high back catching the candlelight. Someone—she suspected it was the butler, out of habit—had set a wineglass there. It caught the candlelight like an accusation.
She had expected the house to feel more peaceful without his presence. Instead, it felt… unmoored.
“That is enough moping,” she whispered to the empty room, though her chest ached.
She rose from the table, unable to endure the cavernous stillness any longer.
