“Mm.” He leaned back further, the movement pulling his waistcoat open a little more, the light grazing the column of his throat. “Convenient memory you’ve got there, Duchess. Very convenient that you remember it differently.”
She exhaled, half exasperated, half amused. “And what if I did refuse?” she asked, lifting her chin. “What then? Would you have fed me broth again?”
He tilted his head, his lips curling into that lazy, knowing smile. “Broth is only one method,” he replied. “I can think of far better ways to make you obey, Duchess.”
His gaze flicked briefly to her mouth before finding her eyes again, and for one dizzying second, every thought fled her.
The words hung between them, quiet but deliberate.
Heat rushed to her cheeks before she could stop it. She opened her mouth to reply, found no proper words, then turned sharply toward the door.
Edward’s laugh followed her, low and velvety. “I’ll take that as surrender.”
“Take it as restraint,” she retorted over her shoulder, though her voice wasn’t nearly as steady as she wished.
She reached for the handle when he gave a short, amused laugh. “And yet you came looking for me before noon.”
“To tell you about the nurses,” she said, turning to face him. “Not to?—”
“To what?” he prompted, with that infuriating smile.
She shot him a look that should have frozen him where he sat. “Good day, Duke.”
“Beatrice.”
She froze.
“Try not to terrify the next two candidates,” he called, amusement lacing his voice.
“I make no promises,” Beatrice said, glancing back just long enough for him to catch the spark in her eyes.
He laughed, an unguarded sound that chased her out into the corridor and refused to leave her even after the door closed behind her.
Outside in the corridor, she exhaled, pressing a hand to her cheek. It was warm. Far too warm.
“Impossible man,” she muttered, though the corners of her mouth betrayed her.
The morning light had turned pale and fine, washing over the nursery in quiet gold.
Near the hearth, Mrs. Hart was checking the linens, her calm voice carrying softly as she directed one of the maids. Her hands kept moving even as she spoke.
Beatrice sat by the cradle, one hand resting on the little girl’s belly as she gurgled in response to a dangling ribbon.
“There,” she cooed. “You’ve had your bath, you’ve eaten. You’ve no cause to scowl at me now.”
A warm smile curved her mouth as the baby stretched her tiny fingers toward the ribbon. Beatrice’s smile grew as her fingers curled and uncurled with serious effort, a soft grunt escaping as she did so.
When the baby’s mouth stretched into a gummy grin, Beatrice gasped softly, laughter slipping out before she could stop it.
It was ridiculous that such a small creature could disarm her so completely. She caught herself and shook her head.
“She’s far too young to understand a thing,” she murmured, as if the child might be listening.
“You’d be surprised, Your Grace. Babies understand far more than they let on, especially when someone loves them,” Mrs. Hart called from across the room, a smile in her voice.
Beatrice said nothing, though her throat felt strangely tight.
She exhaled and brushed her hand lightly over the edge of the cradle. “You’ve disturbed my schedule.”
