The moment the infant settled against Beatrice’s shoulder, her cries ebbed, dissolving into little huffs. Edward watched the transformation as if witnessing sorcery.
Within moments, Pip’s breathing evened out, her fist relaxing against Beatrice’s robe.
“How…?” Edward gestured helplessly. “The baby was just…”
“Pip, her name is Pip.” Beatrice rocked the baby once. “Besides, babies have preferences.”
“Oh Pip. I noticed,” he said dryly.
She lowered her gaze to the baby, murmuring something soft he couldn’t hear. Then she brushed a fingertip along Pip’s cheek, and the little girl sighed—a small, contented sound that felt absurdly triumphant.
Edward stood beside them, his arms empty, his pride in tatters. He raked a hand through his hair with a quiet, irritated huff. “Brilliant, Wrexford. Truly brilliant. Outmatched by a creature the size of a teapot,” he muttered under his breath.
Beatrice’s mouth twitched. No, it did not only twitch. It softened, curling into a genuine smile he had never managed to coax from her. Not once. Not with the teasing he wielded like a shield, not with charm, not with anything.
Just like that, a warm feeling curled sharply under his ribs. His heart kicked once in his chest.
Beatrice rocked Pip once more, the movement slow and sure. The baby’s tiny hand curled against her shoulder as she drifted deeper into sleep. Beatrice exhaled, relief softening her features. Only when Pip’s breathing slowed into that soft, steady pattern did she move.
Carefully, she turned toward the cradle, and Edward held his breath without meaning to.
She lowered Pip into the cradle, smoothing the small blanket beside her without causing a single sigh. The baby didn’t stir, not even once. Her little fist opened and then relaxed against the blanket.
Edward stared longer than he should have. The lamplight caught the curve of Beatrice’s cheek, warming the loose tendrils that had escaped her braid. There was a softness in her face now, asoftness that had nothing to do with him. And yet, standing this close, he felt caught in its glow all the same.
Beatrice exhaled and brushed her fingertips across Pip’s brow, the gesture tender enough to make something in his chest coil tight. Only then did she straighten and turn back to him.
Edward took a single step toward her. Then another. It shortened the distance between them until she had to tilt her chin up to hold his gaze.
She drew in a quiet breath. Barely, but he saw it.Feltit. His eyes darkened.
“You make this very difficult,” he murmured, his voice dipping lower. “A man might think he should try harder to win over the two of you. I suppose that means I should practice my charm a little harder. On both of you.”
Her eyes narrowed, though faint color rose in her cheeks. “Is that so?”
“You tell me,” he said, his tone warm, coaxing.
She tilted her head, recovering faster than he did. “Try as much as you like, Your Grace. Some of us are immune to rehearsed performances.”
Rehearsed?
The corner of his mouth tugged upward. “Rehearsed,” he repeated softly, as if tasting the word. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”
“I don’t know what you’re doing,” she said honestly, without flinching. “But it feels practiced. You do it so well.”
Edward should have laughed. He should have stepped back. Put space where space belonged. But he did none of that. He didn’t move, and neither did she.
The room seemed to settle around them, heavy with everything they left unsaid. Pip slept on, utterly oblivious to the quiet unraveling of two adults above her.
Edward’s hand rose a fraction, as if he might reach for Beatrice—her cheek, her hair, her hand—even though he didn’t seem sure. He stopped himself at the last moment, his fingers curling into his palm.
Beatrice’s lips parted slightly, and his gaze followed the movement.
A mistake. A painful one.
Desire surged swiftly, impossible to reason with. For one suspended moment, he thought he might give in to it.
He closed his eyes briefly, as if forcing the impulse back into the place where he kept every other want he refused to name.
