Beatrice folded her arms, more to hold herself together than to show defiance. “Then let them talk. I will not?—”
“And what of the child?” Lady Moreland cut her off.
Beatrice froze.
Her mother’s words hung in the air.
“That poor babe will grow up branded as a product of sin,” Lady Moreland continued. “You may bear the whispers, but she cannot. Think of the life that awaits her when every cruel tongue repeats that she is yours and his.”
Beatrice’s throat worked. She turned toward the baby, small and still under the embroidered blanket. Her anger ebbed, replaced by something heavier.
“It isn’t fair,” she whispered. “She didn’t ask for this.”
Lady Moreland’s voice softened. “No. And it is not her fault.”
Beatrice blinked, the words landing heavily.
The Duke shuffled his feet, his jaw tight. But for once, he didn’t argue.
No one spoke. The silence stretched uncomfortably.
Beatrice’s fingers curled into her skirts. She swallowed hard, steadying herself. Then she lifted her chin and turned back to the Duke. “Then I will do what must be done. If marriage will spare this child a life of whispers, I will marry you.”
His head snapped up. “You would?”
“Do not look so astonished,” she said, almost bitterly. “It is hardly a love match. But I will not have an innocent suffer for our scandal.”
The Duke looked away, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the floor as if wrestling with something unseen. “Marriage,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “Good God.”
He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair and let out a long, unsteady breath.
“I have spent my life avoiding entrapment, and now—” He gave a hollow laugh, then stopped when he saw her expression. “Forgive me, that was unkind.”
Beatrice said nothing. Her hands smoothed the front of her gown, a nervous gesture she tried to disguise. She looked briefly at the baby, then back at the Duke. His green eyes were shadowed.
“If marriage will end this madness,” he said quietly, “then yes. We will marry.”
“A marriage ofconvenience,” Beatrice emphasized, her voice steady even as her hands trembled. “Until the child’s parentage is confirmed.”
“Ourchild, according to the papers,” he corrected grimly.
He studied her for a moment—her pale face, the steel behind her composure—and nodded once, as though sealing a grim pact.
Then he turned to her mother, bowing his head slightly. “My lady,” he murmured.
Lady Moreland nodded once. “You know what must be done.”
The Duke hesitated long enough that Beatrice thought he might say something else, but then he muttered, “Goodnight.”
He turned without ceremony and left, the door closing softly behind him.
Beatrice stood very still. Only when the sound of his footsteps had faded did she move to the basket.
The baby’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused and serene. Beatrice reached down, tracing the tiny fist curled against the blanket. The baby’s hand curled around her finger, warm and impossibly fragile. She knelt beside the basket, her fingers trembling as she brushed the baby’s cheek.
Her throat tightened. “You poor thing,” she whispered. “You’ll never know the cost of your peace.”
The room had lapsed into a tense stillness when the door swung open.
