Edward blinked, surprised by her calmness. “You don’t have to?—”
“Duke,” she cut in gently, “I want to.”
She didn’t. Not entirely. But she wanted Lady Amelia to feel supported, and she wanted Pip to be celebrated. She wanted to prove to herself, to him, that she was capable of handling this with grace.
Edward exhaled, the closest he had come to relaxing all evening. “Thank you.”
Another silence ensued.
He looked as though he wanted to say more. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again. His fingers tapped once against the tablecloth.
Beatrice reached for her glass of water, the movement smooth and detached.
He tried again. “Beatrice, about the other night?—”
“There is nothing that needs discussion,” she said, not unkindly, but firmly enough that his next words died in his throat.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I disagree,” he murmured.
She shook her head. “It would be better for us both if the past days remain… in the past.”
His breath left him slowly. “Is that truly what you want?”
No!Every part of her wanted to scream no. But she kept her voice level.
“It is what makes sense, Duke.”
He studied her, his eyes searching her face for any crack in her composure. She gave him none.
Hurt flickered in his gaze, and he quickly hid it. But not before she saw it. It lodged somewhere deep inside her, but she did not reach for it. She simply held fast to the mask she had perfected over the past few weeks.
When dessert was served, she merely touched the spoon to the custard, then folded her hands neatly.
At last, Edward pushed his plate away. “If Lady Amelia is coming tomorrow, I imagine you’ll want to rest. I won’t keep you.”
There was a gentleness beneath the formality, a softness he tried and failed to hide.
Beatrice rose gracefully. “Good night, Duke.”
He stood as well. “Good night, Duchess.”
She walked out of the room with measured steps, her face the perfect image of serenity. Only once she reached the hallway did her composure fracture.
Her fingers curled into her skirts. Her breath came uneven for a moment, just long enough to admit the truth to herself. That she was holding herself together by sheer force of will. They were two people sharing a house, sharing responsibilities, sharing silence… but not each other. Not anymore.
And Beatrice had to admit that the space between them felt colder than winter.
The next day, Beatrice woke up before dawn. She had not slept well. Not because of noise, but because of a tight, restless ache in her chest.
The house was still, the air faintly cold. For a long moment, she lay staring at the pale outline of the canopy overhead.
Every time she closed her eyes, memories flooded back—Edward’s hands on her face, his breath mingling with hers, the warmth of his nearness.
It returned now, vivid as touch.
She bolted upright, as though movement alone could chase away the memory.
This would not do.
