He stretched an arm out instinctively, only to find empty space. The cold linen mocked him. She was gone.
Panic rose immediately, sharp and unbidden, a visceral rush that set his heart hammering in his chest. Without thinking, he leapt from the bed, snatching a robe as he bolted into the corridor. Instinct had always been honed in the Hawksford line.
Feuds, threats, danger … they were a language he understood innately. But this fear was new. Personal. Intense.
Victoria. Melody. Penwike.
He sprinted through the halls, each footfall echoing in the silent morning. The nursery, the one place he could think to look; he reached for it before he even realized.
The door swung open under his hand, and the scene within stole the sharp edge from his adrenaline, replacing it with an odd warmth, an ache he did not expect.
Victoria stood there like some ethereal creature, the sun catching her golden hair, strands tamed into a simple braid that glinted with light. The morning gown clung softly to her figure, uncorseted, fluid, and breathtaking. She held Melody, who sucked greedily at her bottle, her tiny hands resting on Victoria’s chest as if claiming her.
Mrs. Hughes moved quietly nearby, tending to the bassinet and fresh linens, her motions efficient and calm.
Richard’s mind had conjured violent possibilities in seconds. And yet here, the truth was nothing but peaceful, domestic, almost mundane. And entirely captivating.
Victoria turned to him, eyes calm but mischievous, lips curved into a soft smile that seemed to hold secret knowledge. The sight of her stole his breath, reminded him of all the feelings he had buried under duty, strategy, and restraint.
“Good morning to you,” she said, soft, even, teasing.
“I—I woke up, and you were not there,” he stammered, voice rough with lingering sleep and shock. “I thought that?—”
“You thought what?” she interrupted, tilting her head, curious, gentle. “I wanted to see Melody. She’s an early riser. Mrs. Hughes has everything in order, but a little break never hurts anyone, don’t you agree?”
“Good morning, Your Grace,” Mrs. Hughes acknowledged, smiling politely. “Breakfast is ready for Your Graces, should you wish to partake.”
“I am not yet hungry,” Richard admitted, though he knew the words were hollow. “I shall join you shortly.”
He stepped into the room, awkwardly large, feeling incongruous in the delicate pinks and yellows of the nursery, a space undeniably claimed by Melody.
The infant, finishing her bottle, met his gaze. Her eyes, wide and curious, seemed to search him, and when she smiled, toothless and gurgling, Richard felt something fracture inside him.
A chain he had wrapped around his heart, forged from caution and solitude, broke quietly, invisibly. The feeling was exquisite and terrifying all at once.
“Do you see that?” Victoria’s voice drew him back. She grinned, mirroring the baby’s delight. “She likes you now. Truly.”
Richard knelt slowly, uncertain how to bridge the space between them without seeming clumsy, and held out a finger. Melody’s tiny hand shot toward him, gripping firmly, strong despite her small size.
“I think she wants me to stay,” he murmured, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his lips, the tension in his chest softening for the first time since waking.
Victoria nodded. “I’ll rest her in her bassinet, and then we can go to breakfast. I know you have other matters to attend to after, letters and errands alike.”
He shook his head, lifting his gaze to hers. “Let them wait. I’ve spent too many mornings chained to tasks. I can spare an hour for you two, at least.”
Victoria’s smile deepened, soft, approving, intimate. She placed Melody gently in the bassinet, turning to him.
And Richard, watching them both, felt something swell inside him: a dangerous, unyielding affection, tempered by awe and a new kind of domestic contentment.
The kind he had never thought possible.
For once, he let himself linger. For once, he let the warmth of home fill the space where fear and duty usually resided.
And in that soft morning light, with Victoria at his side and Melody reaching toward him, the Duke of Hawksford finally felt something he had never allowed himself to feel.
Fully, achingly alive.
“Are you certain she’s secure, Richard?” Victoria asked, her gaze flicking nervously to the wicker basket resting carefully between them on the carriage seat. “The cobbles can be notoriously rough around Mayfair.”
