“I know,” Edward cut in quietly. “You did well.”
Her eyes rose to his, searching. Then she seemed to realize something.
“You found out about the fever.”
“Of course I did.” The words came out sharper than he meant. “Though it would have been nice to hear it from you, instead of Davens. He looked at me as though I’d frightened the child into illness myself.”
I should have been told first, he almost added, but he wasn’t sure whether it was his pride or his worry speaking.
He stepped forward. “Come downstairs. Eat something warm. The child’s asleep, and you look ready to collapse. I’ll have the kitchen send up a tray if you prefer, but youwilleat. That is not a request.”
For a moment, she hesitated, torn between stubborn pride and sheer exhaustion. He saw it in the set of her jaw. But then her stomach growled again, louder this time.
Edward smirked. “A compelling argument.”
Her shoulders sagged. “Very well.”
She gave a small, embarrassed laugh and finally stood, still holding the baby protectively.
“I’ll take her,” he offered, holding out his arms.
Her eyes widened, but she handed the child over nonetheless. He cradled her with practiced ease, rocking gently until she gave a tiny sigh and settled again.
Beatrice blinked, surprised. “You’re… quite good at that.”
Edward shrugged lightly. “I’m a man of many disappointingly practical talents.”
When she smiled, it was soft, unguarded. He looked down immediately at the sleeping child, pretending he hadn’t noticed the way his heart had just stuttered.
“Come on, Duchess,” he murmured. “Let’s feed you before your stomach starts issuing decrees.”
She laughed under her breath. “Do you rehearse these orders?”
He didn’t allow himself the satisfaction of smiling, but his chest warmed anyway. With the baby nestled securely in his arms, he nudged open the nursery door with his shoulder.
“Miss Brown,” he called softly.
The nanny appeared at once. Edward carefully transferred the baby into her arms, adjusting the blanket around her with gentle care.
“Stay until she wakes,” he instructed quietly. “If she so much as whimpers, I want you to respond to her. .”
Alice curtsied. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Behind him, Beatrice lingered by the door, as though distance from the child was a punishment. Edward didn’t give her enough time to retreat. He placed a firm hand on the small of her back and guided her down the corridor.
“You needn’t?—”
“You have already refused twice,” he replied, not missing a step. “And I see you are determined to make it a third.”
She opened her mouth to argue, and he arched an eyebrow, daring her.
“You’ve been on your feet since dawn,” he said. “I’m simply trying to prevent my wife from collapsing on the carpet. Apparently, that reflects poorly on a duke.”
“That sounds fabricated,” she muttered.
“Entirely,” he replied.
He guided her into a smaller dining room, a warmer, quieter room meant for comfort rather than show. Firelight danced across polished silver, making everything appear softer. He pulled out her chair with a quiet authority that brooked no debate.
