The air tightened around them, electric and—God help him—impossibly intimate. His hands were still on her face. Her fingers curled lightly around his wrists. Their foreheads were nearly touching.
He leaned in—barely, but enough for the space between them to collapse into a single breath.
She felt it, too. And her eyes widened.
For one suspended moment, Edward forgot everything—the house, the baby, the reason they married. There was only her pulse beneath his thumb, her trembling breath, her unbearable proximity.
Then she pulled back abruptly. He dropped his hands slowly, reluctantly. The sudden absence of her warmth left him almost off kilter.
Her breath shook as she said, “Now that the baby’s parents have been found, there is no need for us to keep up the pretense.”
Something inside him snapped, but she didn’t wait for his response.
She turned around, and a sharp pain flared behind his ribs. She walked away quickly, her head lowered as though afraid he might read her if she met his eyes.
He didn’t call after her, but her departure hurt in a way he had not anticipated. It left a hollow sensation that lingered in his chest long after the soft sound of her footsteps faded.
Edward stood alone in the corridor, his heart pounding, his jaw tight, still feeling the warmth of her tears on his fingers.
For the first time in his life, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to go after her or if he feared what would happen if he did.
CHAPTER 24
Dinner the next day was quiet.
It wasn’t politely quiet, or awkwardly quiet, butsharplyquiet. A quiet she had helped build, brick by brick, since that moment in the corridor.
Beatrice kept her gaze fixed on her plate, lifting her fork with the measured precision of someone determined not to let her hands betray her. The roast was excellent, but she tasted nothing.
Across the table, Edward sat straighter than usual, the line of his jaw too stiff, as though one wrong word might undo something inside him. The footman poured the wine, but Edward didn’t touch his glass.
The clink of cutlery was far too loud.
“Would you like more potatoes, Your Grace?” the footman asked.
“No,” Beatrice answered softly.
Edward cleared his throat. “Beatrice, you haven’t eaten much.”
Her spine stiffened. “I’m fine.”
He hesitated, as though considering whether to press the issue, but then he let it go. The silence that ensued was cold and suffocating.
Beatrice could feel his eyes on her, but she did not look up.
After the near-kiss in the corridor, she could still feel the heat on her skin. She had vowed to keep her distance. A barricade. For her own sake. For her heart’s sake.
She was sure her husband was keeping the same defenses up, so she kept her expression serene, distant, almost indifferent.
They continued eating in silence until Edward reached for his wine. But instead of drinking it, he merely swirled the glass between his fingers.
“There is something I should tell you,” he began.
She didn’t look up. “Yes?”
“The christening.” He paused, as if searching for words that would not sound too personal, too warm, too anything. “Simonand Lady Amelia wish to name us godparents. It will take place just after their wedding. Lady Amelia asked if you might assist her with the preparations.”
Beatrice set down her fork carefully. “Of course,” she said. “Whatever she needs.”
