“You don’t understand,” she whispered, her voice catching.
“Then help me understand,” Edward replied, his hand rising to hover just above her cheek.
Their gazes locked, and for a moment, the room around them seemed to disappear. There was only Edward’s face, his carved jaw and tempting lips. Beatrice felt herself swaying toward him.
For a heartbeat, she allowed herself to imagine surrendering to this pull between them, letting down her guard, risking the vulnerability she had so carefully avoided.
Then, unbidden, her father’s face flashed in her memory—his charm, his promises, his inevitable betrayals. Fear surged through her like lightning, striking right at her heart. She jerked away before Edward’s fingers could make contact.
“No,” she said, the word escaping like a gasp. “I can’t—I won’t do this.”
Beatrice stumbled backward, her hip colliding with the small mahogany side table. The porcelain figurine atop it—a shepherdess her mother had given her as a wedding present—wobbled precariously before toppling over. The crash seemed deafening in the sudden silence, the delicate piece shattering on the hardwood floor, fragments scattering like the composure she was desperately trying to maintain.
“Beatrice—” Edward stepped forward, hand extended.
She recoiled from his outstretched fingers. “Don’t.”
Before he could say or do anything further, Beatrice escaped the room and shut the door firmly behind her. Edward didn’t follow, allowing her a moment to gather her breath.
She needed to escape. Needed to be anywhere other than near him. And she knew the perfect antidote to a moment with Edward.
Chapter Two
Edward entered thebreakfast room to find Beatrice’s chair empty. Again.
The third morning of absence, and already a pattern. If she intended to unnerve him, it was bloody well working. She could be throwing snippy words at him or casting snide looks his way but instead she’d chosen the best punishment possible.
Her absence.
The breakfast table, a generous oval of mahogany, was set for two. He glowered at the neatly folded napkin as if it was responsible for his wife’s disappearance.
Edward settled himself into his usual seat. He adjusted his cuffs, then his cravat, tightening it a fraction too sharply. He reached for the napkin, snapped it open with more vigor than was strictly necessary, and spread it across his lap.
The butler appeared, moving with his habitual noiselessness, but Edward sensed a tension in the man’s bearing—a reluctance to meet his eye, a careful arrangement of his hands as he poured the tea.
“Will Lady Newham be joining us this morning, sir?” The butler’s tone was neutral, but even so, Edward heard the faintest echo of pity.
“She will not,” Edward replied, as if the answer were obvious, and fixed his gaze on the window.
The butler retreated, replaced in short order by Mrs. Prewett, the housekeeper, who entered with her usual bustling purpose. She set a covered dish on the sideboard and cast a fleeting, sidelong glance at Edward.
He ignored her at first, applying himself to the matter of the toast and the particularly unappetizing eggs that awaited him. He couldn’t decide if the cook was doing a poor job or he simply had no appetite.
It was the housekeeper who broke the silence. “Terrible weather, my lord.”
“Indeed.”
“I was surprised my lady went out so early, sir. To Highgate of all places.”
He looked up. “Highgate?”
“To the cemetery, my lord. Her father is buried there, as I’m sure you know.”
He didn’t know.
“I see.” He returned his attention to the eggs, which had grown cold in the interval. He poked at them with his fork. “Thank you, Mrs. Prewett. That will be all.”
The woman bobbed a little curtsy and Edward sensed her disappointment that Edward didn’t press for more gossip about her mistress.
