He became aware, with uncomfortable clarity, of how near she stood. Of the warmth of her body. Of the faint scent of soap and milk and something uniquely hers.
He took a step toward her, and he noticed her inhale sharply.
The sound struck him like a confession. He felt it as keenly as if she had laid her hand upon his chest.
He should have stopped then. Should have reminded himself of the year between them, of the distance he had insisted upon.
Instead, he leaned in.
“You forget,” he murmured, his voice lowered.
Her lashes fluttered. She did not move away.
“I must remind you,” he continued, his breath brushing the shell of her ear now, his restraint thinning with every syllable, “that I am your husband, after all.” He hesitated, then added, so quietly it might have been mistaken for a thought rather than a confession, “And that it is my responsibility to see you cared for.”
Not commanded. Not corrected.
Cared for.
Her color bloomed instantly. He felt the shift in her, the way her composure wavered, the way her hand lifted uncertainly, hovering between them, as if she did not quite trust herself to close the distance.
His own hand rose, stopping just short of her waist. Not touching. Never touching. But close enough that the space between them seemed to hum.
For one suspended moment, he forgot everything else.
Then—
Melody whimpered.
The sound cleaved the air like a blade.
Richard pulled back at once, as though struck. His hand fell. His jaw tightened. He turned toward the cradle, breath uneven, his restraint slamming back into place.
“Get some rest. You deserve it,” he told Victoria.
Her face softened, her eyes still sparkling in the dim candlelight.
“I … I shall,” she whispered.
“Good,” he nodded. “Good night, duchess.”
“Good night, duke.”
And with that, he left the nursery, forcing the surge of want from his blood.
Chapter Ten
“You look like you’re about to call on a tax collector, Hawksford,” Jonathan remarked dryly, eyeing Richard’s rigid posture as their carriage slowed.
Richard did not return the smirk. “If I were, at least the outcome would be predictable,” he replied. “This meeting may end everything, or unravel far more than we expect.”
A couple of days had passed since Hyde Park, since the careful charade of domestic unity had been staged beneath too many watchful eyes. Richard had spent those days pursuing threads: old ledgers, discreet inquiries, names whispered by men who owed him favors. Mrs. Tallow had not been easy to find. Midwives rarely wished to be found by dukes.
Jonathan leaned back against the seat. “You’re tense.”
“I am focused,” Richard corrected.
In truth, his emotions had been in constant flux. There were moments when his thoughts strayed to Victoria: the quiet strength with which she held Melody, the way exhaustion softened her sharpness, the dangerous intimacy that hovered between them now like a storm that refused to break.
