A footman, newly hired and visibly terrified of him, straightened. “Mrs. Hart reports that Her Grace is in the nursery, Your Grace.”
Edward blinked once. “The nursery?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Edward took his seat, several questions running through his mind.
Mr. Davens stepped in smoothly, pouring the coffee. “She has been there since dawn, Your Grace.”
Edward hadn’t even known she had woken up.
“She missed the bell?” he pressed.
“Apparently, she rang her own,” Mr. Davens replied carefully.
Edward stared at the empty chair across from him. Steam rose from his untouched cup.
“She is aware there is a breakfast table in this house?” he muttered.
The footman’s eyes bulged, unsure if he was expected to respond.
Edward waved a dismissive hand. “Never mind.” He picked up his fork, then set it back down. “She’s… with the child?”
“So I understand, Your Grace.”
He nodded, trying and failing to appear unmoved. “Well, if one must choose between an infant and me, I suppose I know who holds the more captivating conversation.”
Mr. Davens’s mouth twitched before he masked it with a cough.
Edward scowled at his eggs. “Stop that.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
He ate in silence, each bite more mechanical than the last. The chair opposite him remained empty. He told himself that he didn’t notice and that irritation alone curled in his chest when Mr. Davens did not bring a second plate.
Still, he ate, drank his coffee, and ignored the stubborn urge to glance toward the door every few seconds.
Routine would steady him. It always did.
By mid-morning, he was out on the grounds. He inspected tenant reports, rode the boundary fields, reviewed accounts with his steward, and shut down every question about the new Duchess with a mere look.
By the time he returned to the house, his boots were damp with dew and his shoulders were stiff. Once inside, he went straight to his study. The fire had been lit, and he worked, or at least stared at the papers long enough that anyone passing might assume he did.
But by the time the light outside had dimmed to dusk, he found himself staring at the shadows on the carpet instead of the documents in front of him.
Finally, he surrendered to the irritation clawing through his ribs. He rang for Mr. Davens.
The butler arrived with his usual calm efficiency. “Your Grace?”
Edward kept his gaze fixed on the ledger before him, as though the question were merely an afterthought. “Has the Duchess surfaced at all today, Davens?”
“No, Your Grace,” Mr. Davens replied. “She has been in the nursery for the better part of the day. I learned the little one had a touch of fever in the night. It was nothing serious, but the Duchess insisted on staying with her until it broke.”
Edward’s jaw worked, the only betrayal of the odd sensation that tightened his chest. “I see.”
Mr. Davens hesitated, then added, “She also declined meals, Your Grace.”
That did it.
