“Sit.”
“I do know how chairs work,” she said, though she sank into the seat all the same.
“Do you? Given the day you’ve had, I wasn’t certain.” He waited pointedly until she settled. Only then did he sit.
A footman quickly appeared with a tray, placing a bowl of broth before her. Steam curled upward, fragrant and warm. The aroma filled the space.
Edward realized abruptly that he hadn’t eaten much either, but his wife’s needs eclipsed his own.
She frowned. “I am perfectly capable of?—”
He reached for the spoon before she could finish, stirring once. “Beatrice,” he said gently. “Part of guardianship is not fainting.”
He leaned back, his arms folding loosely. His eyes never left hers.
She gaped at him, as if startled.
“You sound like a tyrant,” she whispered, a touch defensive.
“Then defy me,” he murmured, “by finishing the broth.”
The words were light, but his tone was not.
He grabbed the spoon and extended it, but when she didn’t immediately take it, he guided her hand to it. His fingers closed around hers just a fraction longer than they should.
The brief contact sparked hotter than the fire nearby.
Beatrice drew in a sharp breath, and he went still, unable to breathe.
Every instinct commanded him to retreat. He simply did not tremble in a situation like this. But he didn’t move. He just couldn’t.
Her wide eyes flicked up to his, and for a heartbeat, everything unsaid between them pressed close enough to feel.
His expression didn’t shift, except for the slightest tightening at the corners of his mouth, as if he, too, had been caught unaware by their proximity.
“I’d rather not have the servants say that my wife is wasting away under my care,” he murmured at last, his voice softened by something he couldn’t name.
He let go of her fingers slowly.
Beatrice looked down, feigning sudden fascination with the broth, and he released the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. But the moment clung to the space between them, humming.
As she took the first sip, he forced his gaze elsewhere—to the table, the fire, the damned silverware, anywhere but the sight of her lips touching the spoon he had held.
He cleared his throat, straightening his spine with the stiff dignity of a man who had just realized he had come dangerously close to… something he was not prepared to think about.
“I’ll see to arrangements,” he said, his tone brisk again. “There are several reputable wet nurses in Bath. You may interview them tomorrow and choose whoever you prefer.”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
Edward’s jaw tightened. “Don’t thank me,” he replied gruffly, his eyes fixed on the table as if it had personally offended him. “It’s simply what should be done.”
Beatrice took another slow sip, warmth returning to her cheeks. And God help him, that tiny sign of relief felt like a reward.
He folded his hands in his lap to prevent them from doing something foolish, like brushing that loose strand of hair from her face or pulling her chair closer to his.
CHAPTER 9
At last, the nursery fell quiet. The candle burned low on the table, a faint pool of gold trembling across the sleeping child’s face. Her tiny chest rose and fell beneath the pale muslin blanket, the faintest sigh escaping her lips now and then, as though she were dreaming of sunshine.
