For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The air felt frozen, as if it dared not shift between them. His eyes held hers, drawing her in with their softness. Her breath snagged in her throat at the sight of it.
Her pulse leapt, heat curling low in her stomach. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and she forgot how to breathe.
His proximity did something to her chest. Her lips parted before she realized it, anticipation flaring within her.
For the briefest moment, she wanted him to close the distance between them. She wanted to know what his mouth would feel like against hers. But the thought of what came after slammed into her just as quickly.
Beatrice stepped back, needing the space. Needing the reminder of who he was… and the circumstances that had brought about their marriage.
“Good night, Duke,” she said, her tone polite once more.
He hesitated, then inclined his head. “Good night… Duchess.”
CHAPTER 8
Edward woke up before dawn, far earlier than usual. He stared up at the ceiling, frowning as if the patterns on it had betrayed him.
He was not a man who woke up early without reason. And yet here he was, his heart annoyingly alert and his mind refusing the comfort of sleep.
He tried lying still. It lasted all of thirty seconds.
With a low curse, he swung his legs out of bed and dressed himself poorly, according to his valet’s standards. His cravat was knotted with the efficiency of a soldier, not that of a gentleman.
His hair was still damp from the cold water he had splashed on his face, and he was already seated at the small writing desk in the corner, scribbling irritated notes into a ledger illuminated by the weakest sliver of morning light.
He tackled the estate accounts first. Numbers that had waited weeks could apparently not wait ten more minutes. Anything to keep the stillness at bay.
The clock chimed softly as footsteps approached. Mr Davens entered at the exact time he always did and stopped dead.
“You’re awake, Your Grace,” he blurted out, then immediately looked horrified at his own boldness.
“So it seems,” Edward replied without looking up.
Mr Davens recovered and moved briskly toward him. “If I had known?—”
“You would have arrived sooner, and I would have had to tolerate your fussing sooner,” Edward cut in, closing the ledger. “We both lose.”
Mr Daven’s mouth twitched, the closest he ever came to smiling. “Very good, Your Grace. The proper attire, if you please.”
Edward rose, allowing his valet to take over the business of making him look like the respectable man Society assumed he was. Coat. Waistcoat. A cravat tied properly this time.
Mr Davens stepped back. “Will you be taking breakfast in the breakfast room, Your Grace?”
“Yes.” A pause. “And… has Her Grace come down yet?”
Mr Davens cleared his throat delicately. “Not that I have been informed, Your Grace.”
Edward gave a noncommittal nod, as though he hadn’t woken early with the vague awareness of someone else inhabiting his quiet routines, wondering whether she was all right.
“Fine,” he said, tugging down his cuffs. “Breakfast, then.”
He crossed the room with long, decisive strides, leaving Hargreaves to follow in silence. He descended the staircase, passing one of the footmen, who bowed deeply. Edward nodded once in return, his mind already on the letters awaiting him.
He entered the breakfast room expecting… well, something. A place setting lay opposite his own. The rustle of skirts. Even a polite greeting. Instead, the long mahogany table was set for one.
He stopped short.
“Is Her Grace not joining me this morning?” he asked nonchalantly, as though the answer did not matter.
