Beatrice hesitated, then inclined her head. “He has been… fair.”
“Fair,” Cecily repeated, wrinkling her nose. “That sounds thrilling. Fair is what one says of lukewarm tea or when a suitor has nothing whatsoever to recommend him.”
Beatrice shook her head, but her smile slipped. “I didn’t marry for excitement.”
Lady Moreland raised an eyebrow. “But peace, my dear, is not something that simply arrives because one wishes it. It requires tending, especially when the world is prepared to believe you’ve only pretended to find it.”
Beatrice nodded, her expression calm, her voice even. “I understand, Mama. I’ll do my best.”
She kept her eyes on the flames, the flicker of orange and gold dancing across her hands. She had promised to do her best, and she would.
She would attend dinners and balls, smile when spoken to, and keep her husband’s name polished and unblemished. It was what was expected of a duchess, after all.
But beneath the practiced calm, a truth settled heavily in her chest: nothing felt right.
The house, the title, even the warmth of the fire—all of it seemed to belong to someone else. She could play the part, but her role itself felt hollow, a performance with no audience she wished to please.
When she finally looked up, her mother and sister were speaking softly near the door.
The baby stirred, making a small, contented sound, and Beatrice reached to soothe her with a gentle hand.
Her smile came easily; she had perfected it. But it didn’t reach her eyes.
CHAPTER 12
By the time Edward returned home, the lamps along the drive had already burned low. His shoulders ached from the long day—a meeting with his steward, a tedious half-hour with the magistrate about boundary disputes, and finally a dinner with some investors that had dragged on far longer than necessary.
His head throbbed faintly.
A footman at the door hurried forward, and Edward handed his coat to him, feeling the familiar urge to head straight for his study, pour himself a glass of brandy, and forget the world existed.
“Good evening, Your Grace.”
“Everyone abed?” he asked, rubbing his brow.
“Most of them, Your Grace. The servants retired a few hours ago.”
Edward nodded and dismissed the man. He climbed the staircase, loosening his cravat as he did, his mind conjuring an image of Beatrice that morning.
She had looked composed and alert, with those thin lines of exhaustion around her eyes. He had meant to speak with her before leaving, but duty had dragged him out the door before sunrise.
He made his way toward his chambers, passing her door out of habit, and froze.
Her door was slightly ajar, and a very faint glow spilled into the hallway.
He hesitated, then pushed the door open gently. The room was dim, the fire no more than glowing embers. Beatrice slept curled up on her side, one arm flung lightly over the blankets, her breathing soft and even. Beside her lay the baby, equally asleep, one tiny fist pressed to her mouth.
Edward let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding.
He approached quietly, lifting the little girl with practiced care. She grunted at first, wrinkling her tiny nose, but stayed asleep. Relief washed over him.
Good. Excellent. Perfect.
He turned toward the nursery, but only made it three steps inside before disaster struck. The baby’s eyes opened, round and offended, and she began wailing with all the force of a child who believed the world had just wronged her.
Edward froze.
“Oh God,” he whispered. “No. No, no—shh. Please.”
