The rhythm of the wheels evened out as London blurred into the countryside. Neither of them spoke.
Beatrice kept her gaze fixed on the passing fields. Her world had just disappeared behind her, and ahead lay nothing she understood.
The baby slept in a wicker basket beside her, one small fist curled near her cheek. Beatrice watched the slow rise and fall of the child’s chest, willing herself to focus on it—on something innocent, something simple.
She brushed a fingertip over the child’s hand, careful not to wake her. “Hush,” she murmured. “We’ve caused enough distress for one morning.”
But then Edward shifted opposite her, the leather creaking under his weight, and focus became impossible.
He looked impossibly composed for a man whose life had just been upended. His coat was neat, his hair infuriatingly in place. Only his jaw betrayed him—tense, as though he were holding the whole situation between his teeth.
She folded her gloved hands in her lap, her posture a careful study in composure. The countryside blurred past the window in soft greens and mist, the world quietly rearranging itself beyond her reach.
“You’re not going to look at me at all, are you?” Edward asked mildly.
“I thought it safer to look forward,” she replied, without turning.
He gave a soft huff of amusement. “Practical. You might survive this marriage, after all.”
“That is exactly my intention.”
Neither of them spoke for a while. The steady rhythm of the wheels filled the silence, underscored by the baby’s soft, even breaths.
“I suppose,” Beatrice said eventually, turning her gaze to him, “we should speak about what comes next. The rules.”
Edward’s expression was inscrutable save for the faintest quirk at the corner of his mouth. “You mean besides exile?”
Her eyebrow arched. “Bath is hardly exile, Your Grace. Unless you find clean air and civility to be intolerable punishments.”
“On the contrary,” he murmured, his fingers drummed against is knee. “I find them suspicious. No one is truly civil unless they’re hiding something dreadful.”
She couldn’t help it. The smallest, traitorous smile touched her lips. “And what dreadful secret shall you hide, then? Your aversion to fresh air?”
“Among other things,” he replied smoothly. “Though I daresay you’ll uncover them all before the week is out.”
Her pulse jumped, absurdly. “I’ve no such intentions. I prefer peace and quiet.”
“Peace and quiet,” he echoed, studying her as though she had said something terribly curious. “Then we are already doomed.”
The air in the carriage shifted. It was no longer cold.
Beatrice turned back toward the window, though she could still feel his gaze on her like sunlight through glass. “Then we are, it seems, equally unfortunate.”
His voice was low, almost a drawl. “Or equally deserving of it.”
She did not answer, but her reflection in the glass gave her away. Her mouth curved, just slightly, as though she had heard a jest she didn’t want to acknowledge.
Edward leaned back slightly. “Very well. You wish to discuss terms.”
“Rules,” she corrected. “If we are going to live under the same roof, there must be rules.”
“Of course,” he said easily, gesturing for her to continue. “Ladies first.”
She took a deep breath. “We’re married on paper only. I see no reason to pretend otherwise.”
He tilted his head, pretending to consider it. “On paper. Such a dreary word.”
“Necessary,” she countered. “You keep your affairs—” She caught herself. “You keep yourbusinessto yourself, and I will do the same.”
