“Goodnight, Beatrice.”
The sound of her name, quiet and unguarded, startled her more than any jest. He had never said it like that before. Without the armor of sarcasm. Without distance.
She turned quickly toward her room, before he could see the color rising in her cheeks, but his next words stopped her before she could cross the threshold.
“You did well today. With the baby.”
She paused, her hand on the door handle. The simple kindness in his voice caught her unaware.
“I only did what was needed,” she muttered after a moment.
“I know,” he murmured.
Beatrice had no answer for that. She could only incline her head and slip through her door, closing it behind her before the warmth in his eyes could undo her entirely.
The echo of his voice lingered longer than it should have. She pressed a hand to her chest, willing her heart to slow.
It was only his usual charm.
The man could probably flirt with a statue and make it blush. Yet, as she undressed and climbed into bed, the warmth of his gaze refused to leave her.
The next morning, a knock sounded at her door before she was ready to open her eyes.
“Your Grace?” Alice called softly.
Beatrice blinked against the pale light slipping past the curtains. Her head felt heavy, her body stiff from a night spent turning between sleep and dreams. She had dreamt of corridors and candlelight and a man’s low laughter that refused to leave her even now.
“You may come in,” she said, her voice still hoarse with sleep.
Alice entered with a tray. “Tea for Your Grace.”
“Thank you.” Beatrice sat up, smoothing her hair with one hand. “Has Mrs. Hart sent word from the nursery?”
“All is well. The babe fed heartily and went back to sleep.”
Relief loosened something in her chest. “Good. I’ll go see her after breakfast.”
By the time she dressed and descended the stairs, the house had come alive with quiet morning sounds, footsteps, murmured greetings, the clatter of dishes from below stairs, and a door closing somewhere. The air smelled of bread and beeswax.
As she stepped into the corridor, a footman met her with a polite bow.
“Good morning, Your Grace. His Grace took his breakfast early,” he said. “He had matters to attend to and asked that you be told he’ll be in his study if you need him.”
“Thank you,” Beatrice replied,
She continued down the stairs, the faint sounds of the waking house following her.
In the breakfast room, the table was neatly laid. She poured herself tea, spread a little jam on toast, and tried to focus on the quiet order of the morning.
After two bites, the memory of the broth Edward had made her swallow the night before came unbidden. Her lips curved despite herself. She had been ready to argue, but he hadn’t mocked her or gloated. He just made her eat.
The warmth of it, ofhim, lingered longer than it should.
“Your Grace?”
Beatrice looked up to find Mrs. Hart standing in the doorway, her expression calm as ever.
“The wet nurses have arrived. Two of them, as His Grace requested.”
