“Then do not presume tojudgeme.”
For a moment, the room pulsed with silence. The fire popped in the grate, and somewhere down the hall, a clock struck the quarter hour. Small, indifferent sounds that made their voices feel too large for the space.
Edward exhaled slowly, his anger ebbing to something colder, sharper. “Tell me, Lady Beatrice,” he asked softly, “did you enjoy writing those words? Watching London hang on every page while I was made a laughingstock?”
She blinked, stung by the quiet accusation. “No,” she muttered. “But perhaps you needed to hear what they laughed at.”
His eyes narrowed, incredulous. “So this was a lesson, wasn’t it?”
“Call it what you will,” she replied, lifting her chin despite the tremor in her voice. “The truth rarely flatters.”
He gave a hollow laugh, shaking his head. “You speak of truth as if it absolves cruelty.”
“And you mistake wounded pride for principle,” she shot back.
That silenced him.
For the first time, something uncertain flickered in his gaze—a flash of hurt she hadn’t meant to cause, or hadn’t expected to see.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. “You always did have a talent for cutting where it hurts most.”
Her pulse thudded in her ears. “And you,” she said tightly, “for pretending not to feel it.”
His mouth twitched. “You mistake restraint for indifference.”
“Do I?” she challenged. “You stand there, so certain, so untouchable?—”
“Because someone must remain calm,” he interrupted. “You clearly cannot.”
Her temper rose, quick as a spark. “And men like you are the very reason I wrote those essays!” she hissed. “Too proud, too careless, trampling consequence beneath the weight of their titles. Tell me, Your Grace, does it ease your conscience now, leaving ababyat my doorstep?”
The words fell like a boulder.
The Duke froze.
For a moment, neither of them breathed. He looked at her after a moment, not as though she were a woman of wit and sharp tongue, but as if she had accused him of murder.
“I have no child,” he insisted. “And if this is some attempt to wound my pride, you’ve gone too far.”
Beatrice’s throat tightened. She gestured to the small basket near the settee, her voice trembling but fierce. “Then perhaps you might explainthisbetter than you did the first time I showed you.” She pointed to the edge of the blanket. “The evidence, Your Grace, is staring at you.”
He followed her gaze to the sleeping baby, to the faint gold thread glinting in the candlelight—the proud, regal lion and twin stars. His eyebrows drew together.
“Evidence?” he repeated, incredulous. “Good God, Lady Beatrice?—”
“I think,” Beatrice cut in, her voice trembling, “that the evidence speaks for itself.”
“Anyone could have sewn that crest,” he argued. “A servant, an enemy—even you, if you wanted me to be guilty.”
“Howdareyou?” she whispered, the accusation cutting deep. “You think I would go that far?”
He stepped closer, his voice almost quiet. “I think you despise me enough to believe the worst.”
Her breath came unsteady. “Despise you?” She shook her head, feeling heat rise behind her eyes. “No, Your Grace. I merely expected you to live up to your reputation—and it seems you’ve done so admirably. With your reputation, one more scandal should hardly make a difference.”
That struck hard.
His jaw clenched as he drew a sharp breath, color rising to his face. “Careful, Lady Beatrice.”
