He frowned slightly. “Beatrice?—”
“I am Miss Verity,” she said, gently but firmly. “And I’m tired of pretending otherwise.”
He studied her, his head tilted slightly, as though turning the thought over from every angle. “Explain.”
“I sent a letter today,” she revealed. “To the editor.”
“And?”
“And Miss Verity has written her last anonymous essay.” She picked at the edge of the quilt as she spoke, grounding herself. “She confessed who she truly is. Why she wrote under a false name. And she made it clear that the last piece—the one tied to the scandal—wasn’t hers.”
Edward exhaled slowly, leaning back. “So the mystery columnist retires?”
“No. There will just be no more hiding,” Beatrice replied. “No more borrowed names. From now on, I’ll write as myself.” She lifted her gaze to his. “Beatrice Pembroke.”
For a moment, Edward only looked at her. Then he stood up and crossed the room, stopping just in front of her.
“Well,” he murmured, “that’s terribly inconsiderate of you.”
She blinked. “How so?”
“I rather liked being married to a scandalous secret,” he drawled. “It gave me something to lord over people.”
She laughed. “You are incorrigible.”
His hands settled on her waist with easy familiarity, his thumbs resting where the fabric warmed beneath his touch. “I prefer you like this.”
“Like what?”
“Unhidden,” he said. “Annoyingly brilliant. Mildly terrifying. The one who doesn’t disappear when things get tough.” He reached down, brushing his thumb over her wrist. “The one who stays.”
Color crept across her cheeks. “You make it sound braver than it feels.”
“Bravery usually feels inconvenient,” he quipped. “And slightly terrifying.”
She laughed again, and he pulled her up against him. His forehead rested briefly against hers.
For a moment, she let herself stay there, gathering her courage. Because this was the part she had rehearsed. And still feared.
She lowered her head to his chest. “Edward…”
“Yes?”
“There’s something else.”
He looked down at her. “You say that as though I should sit.”
“Perhaps,” she said.
He did. Immediately.
She took his hand, her thumb brushing over his knuckles, buying herself time. His palm was warm, solid. She placed it on her stomach and held it there, as though it might slip away if she didn’t.
The silence stretched.
His breath left him in a quiet, stunned rush. “Beatrice.”
Her heart raced as she waited. For shock. For joy. For fear. For something she might have to manage.
