Beatrice lingered beside the cradle, unwilling to leave.
“Mrs. Hart,” she said quietly, turning to where the housekeeper stood near the hearth, folding linen with practiced care. “If she stirs or shows the slightest discomfort, send for me at once.”
Mrs. Hart smiled, patient and kind. “You do not need to worry, Your Grace. I have raised several babes in my lifetime, and I dare say I still have a way with them. Go rest, Your Grace. You will do her no good by falling over from fatigue.”
Beatrice managed a small smile. “I shall try to remember that,” she murmured.
She lingered longer than she meant to, unwilling to move, her fingers resting on the edge of the cradle as if the faintest touch could keep the world steady.
Just a moment more,she told herself, though she had already taken three.
She brushed her fingertips once more across the baby’s brow, then pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. When she finally moved, her body felt heavy with weariness, and her mind refused all peace.
The house was still, but her thoughts were not. Somewhere between the cradle and the door, she grew aware of the faint warmth in her hands, a ghost of the moment when Edward’s fingers had brushed hers as he handed her the spoon.
It had been the smallest touch, entirely ordinary, and yet it lingered with the peculiar vividness of something she ought to forget and could not. She had told herself it was only gratitude for the broth, for his insistence that she eat. But gratitude should not make one’s breath catch, nor should it leave a restless pulse beneath one’s skin hours later.
“That is nonsense,” she whispered to herself, quiet enough so as not to make a sound. “Ridiculous. Entirely ridiculous.”
She drew a slow breath, as though the air itself might cool the memory. Memory, however, did not obey.
She stepped into the corridor and gently closed the door behind her.
It was only a touch.Not a promise. Not a confession. You are overtired, that is all.
She drew her shawl closer and started toward her chambers, only to collide, quite hard, with something warm and very much alive. Or rather,someone.
Her breath escaped in a startled gasp.
Before she could stumble back, two strong hands caught her by the elbows, steadying her. “Good heavens!”
Edward stood before her. He was in his shirtsleeves, his collar open, his cravat undone and hanging loose around his neck. His dark hair was mussed, as if he had run his fingers through it more than once. The candle in his hand threw dancing light across his face.
For a moment, Beatrice forgot how to breathe.
Her husband looked too handsome with his disheveled, half-wicked, and utterly unrepentant grin. And then she realized where his gaze had fallen—her robe.
The thin silk caught the light with every small movement she made, the lace at her throat rising and falling with every breath.His eyes flickered there for a heartbeat too long before he lifted them back to hers, a faint, knowing smile curving his mouth.
Color flooded her cheeks. “You should announce yourself before appearing in corridors like some specter, Duke.”
Edward tilted his head, his smile widening. “And deprive you of the pleasure of nearly fainting into my arms? I’d be a poor husband, indeed.”
“I did not faint,” she said sharply, drawing herself up. “I merely misstepped.”
He made a sound halfway between a laugh and a hum. “Then the floor should count itself blessed.”
Beatrice’s blush deepened. “If you think flattery will excuse?—”
“Oh, I never rely on flattery,” he said easily. “Only truth. And the truth, Duchess, is that you look entirely too…”
He shifted then, the faint movement catching the light. His open collar gaped just enough to reveal the column of his throat and a sliver of muscle beneath. The fabric stretched across his shoulders as he folded his arms, and for one ridiculous, breathless moment, Beatrice forgot what she had meant to say.
“… distracted to be wandering about alone,” he finished, a touch of amusement flickering in his eyes.
Her pulse stuttered, heat rising sharply up her neck. “I was checking on the nursery,” she said, a little too quickly.
“Ah, maternal devotion at midnight. How admirable.”
