The butler hesitated. “Shall we send a tray upstairs instead?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Hart replied gently. “Something light. And… a calming tea.”
The footmen began clearing the plates, and Beatrice began the long climb to her room. By the time she reached the landing, her breath trembled, but her resolve had hardened.
CHAPTER 7
Edward arrived home earlier than planned, the journey’s chill still clinging to his coat.
It had been only a week since the wedding, and yet the reality of it had settled around him with surprising weight. He tugged at the fastenings of his gloves as he stepped through the open doors, anticipation of blessed solitude tightening in his chest.
Instead, the moment he crossed the threshold, he stopped.
The house… looked wrong. Not overtly, but he felt it in the warmth of the air, the faint scent of lavender and milk that did not belong in a bachelor’s residence. In the absence of that cavernous silence that used to greet him like a loyal hound.
His gaze sharpened.
Rolls of carpet had disappeared from the busiest paths. A polished side table held a small knitted blanket folded with impossible care. A vase of fresh flowers sat on the console table.
He hadn’t ordered the flowers. He couldn’t remember the last time flowers had been in the house at all.
He shrugged off his unease and handed his gloves to a waiting footman. “Where is Her Grace?” he asked.
“In the library, Your Grace,” the footman replied.
Edward nodded curtly and made his way to the library, rolling his shoulders to ease the stiffness of travel.
He stepped into the library, his hand curling into a fist at his side. Not out of anger. No, that would have been easier. What stirred instead was a knot of something very warm and very alarming that sparked beneath the ribs he had always kept well-armored.
He turned slowly, taking in more. Nearby, where his favorite books once stood in a proud line, sat feeding bottles, washed and arranged in neat formation. A schedule lay on the writing desk, bearing a hand he recognized from the wedding registry.
Feeding, naps, laundry, and wet nurse interviews.
Then he saw the empty cradle.
It was tucked into the window alcove—hiswindow alcove—where he used to toss unread newspapers and the occasional decanter he hadn’t quite managed to finish. Now the space was softened with cushions and a delicate quilt draped over the railing, tiny stitches forming clumsy daisies.
A rocking chair sat by the hearth, the cushions plumped. A small, cheerful rug lay under it, soft enough that an infant would not bruise a knee should they ever crawl. It stood out in a room otherwise defined by straight-back chairs, tall bookshelves, and the quiet order of a proper library.
In two days, his wife had done what he had never once attempted: she had made his house cozy.
He exhaled sharply through his nose.
Careful, Edward. Approval is a luxury you cannot afford.
He needed a moment. A glass of brandy.
“Davens,” he called, smoothing his gloves with unnecessary precision. “Fetch the Duchess. I would like to speak with her.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Davens turned to go, but stopped as footsteps sounded outside the library.
Beatrice walked in with a blanket nestled securely in the crook of her arm. She looked composed, entirely at ease in a placeEdward had always found sterile. Her blue gown softened the line of her shoulders, and the firelight caught gently in her hair.
She paused upon seeing Edward there.
The unexpectedly domestic sight drove a small, involuntary breath from his chest.
He cleared his throat. “You’ve made yourself… comfortable.”
