“But surely, with all this damned snow—to say nothing of your condition—we have to consider the possibility that we may need to defer the Christmas ball until next year,” James said over the folded half of his newspaper.
“Especially if the dowager won’t be here to help you plan,” Burke added.
“Ugh, if I never hear either of you say the word ‘condition’ again in my life, it will be too soon,” Rosalie replied with a huff. “I am with child. Your child, Your Grace,” she added at James. “To always speak of me as having a condition makes me fear that I suffer from fainting fits or the sugar sickness.”
Madeline was sitting next to Rosalie at the breakfast table in the morning room, which was a far more comfortable space than the ostentatious Alcott dining room. She liked taking meals in here. They dined en famille, which meant the footmen typically took their leave and everyone felt more natural and relaxed.
“So, she’s really not coming?” Madeline murmured, letting her eye fall to the letter sitting by Rosalie’s plate. “Not even to celebrate Christmas with her family?”
“No,” Rosalie replied, handing the letter across the table to James, who took it without reading it and added it to his own stack. “Apparently she’s become indispensable to Lady Beresford, the late general’s wife,” Rosalie explained. “She’s been invited to stay at their estate in Spring Hill through the end of January, and she feels she’s better needed there.”
“Well, she’s not wrong,” Burke muttered through a bite of buttered toast.
“Except that there’s a Christmas ball to plan, and Rosalie is due any day,” James replied, eyes still on his paper.
“A ball we only started hosting at her insistence,” said Rosalie. “She dares to say she will not come, but still includes in her letter three new recipes for dishes she thinks I ought to serve. It’s madness.” She clattered down her cup of tea, pushing it away.
Burke shrugged. “Well, then cancel.”
“You want me to cancel Christmas on the villagers—on the staff?! Every year, they tell me what fun they have. How they enjoy the reels and the canapés and the decorations—”
“But you’ll take too much upon yourself,” Burke warned.
“So, either appoint a new co-host, or I’m cancelling it,” added James, finally looking up over his paper.
Madeline set her own cup of tea aside. “But are you not the cohost, sir?”
He huffed a laugh, turning his paper over. “Oh, it’s my house. But I’ve been told in no uncertain terms that I am to have no opinions on decorations.”
Burke chuckled as Rosalie added, “He suggested tulips for G’s christening…in July.”
Madeline gave her a sympathetic grimace.
“Why doesn’t Madeline do it?” offered Burke. “Will you be with us until New Year’s Eve?”
“Oh yes, Madeline you must,” said Rosalie, turning in her chair to take her hand.
“I can’t,” Madeline said on a breath. “I couldn’t possibly host a ball! I’d have to…to…host!”
Her mind suddenly filled with images of every ball she’d ever attended, watching as the hostess gaily greeted all the guests, laughing and floating from room to room, opening the dancing with a waltz or a quadrille. It was Madeline’s worst nightmare come to life.
“But you wouldn’t have to do anything on the day,” Rosalie urged. “You could help me with everything behind the scenes. Much like I did for the dowager for the Michaelmas ball all those years ago—”
Before more could be said on the matter, the door to the morning room opened admitting the nursemaid. Bundled up in her arms was a wiggling baby. “Good morning, Your Graces,” she said brightly.
“Good morning, Felicity,” Rosalie replied, all her irritation utterly forgotten. She had eyes only for the babe. “And good morning to you, my little dove.”
Madeline stilled, her cup of tea halfway to her lips. Little dove. That was the nickname her father used for her. She fought down her pain and resentment. Had she ever really been loved the way Rosalie loved this little girl?
“I’ll take her,” said Burke, getting to his feet. “Her Grace is not quite finished with breakfast.” He swept around the table, greedily snatching the baby out of the nursemaid’s arms. He walked a few steps away towards the windows, murmuring softly. Little Georgina cooed, letting out a few bursts of giggles as Burke bounced and tickled her.
“You do dote on her so well, Mr. Burke,” said the nursemaid.
“Burke loves children,” James replied, now halfway through his stack of correspondence.
“Especially clever little imps with sharp teeth,” Burke teased, giving the baby his finger to chew in her gummy mouth.
“Is she still feeling pain?” Rosalie asked, her breakfast forgotten.
“She’s a bit sore, Your Grace,” the nursemaid replied. “It’s worse when she’s tired. But the new teeth are nearly through now. That’ll give her some relief.”
Rosalie nodded, rising from her chair to join Burke by the window.
Madeline watched them together. Rosalie didn’t take the baby from him, and Burke didn’t offer. She watched the way Rosalie placed a hand on his arm, her head bent to kiss the baby’s chestnut curls. A thought clicked into place inside her mind as Burke’s head bowed forward, whispering something to Rosalie that had them both laughing. The duchess glanced up at him, a loving smile in her eyes.
“Oh—” Madeline murmured, setting her cup down with a clatter.
Across the table, James was looking at her. “Thank you, Felicity,” he called. “You may go. Her Grace will call when you’re needed again.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the nursemaid replied, promptly taking her leave.
Madeline busied herself with the napkin in her lap, fighting the sudden rushing of her tumultuous thoughts.
“Madeline…” came the duke’s voice.
She shook her head, not daring to look up.
Once again, a truth stood right before her, waving like a standard on a pole. A truth she knew. A truth she’d always known. And yet, she’d somehow tricked her eyes into not seeing what her mind knew.
Burke said the words himself the other night, and she’d just dismissed them. He was married. Like Charles and Warren, it was a marriage he could never claim, but real all the same. Burke and Rosalie moved through life like a pair of starlings. Their gestures, their moods, the way they all but finished each other’s sentences. They wove together through the air like a mated pair.
Like lovers.
Like husband and wife.
In that moment, Madeline knew beyond a shadow of a doubt: Horatio Burke considered himself married to Rosalie Corbin, his best friend’s wife.
The same friend who was looking at her now.
“Madeline…” James said again.
Slowly, Madeline lifted her gaze to meet the duke’s. His green eyes were warm, even if still edged with a fierce dominance.
“You will say nothing of what you suspect to anyone,” came James’s sharp order, spoken too softly for the others to hear. “Nod that you agree.”
Before Madeline could nod, there was another sharp knock at the door.
James cursed under his breath. “Enter!”
The butler was already opening the door, pausing once inside. “Your Grace, there is a constable at the front door. He asks for an audience.”
At the window, Rosalie and Burke turned.
“A constable?” Rosalie called, eyes wide.
“What does he want, Lawson?” said James, rising to his feet.
The butler cleared his throat, his pale gaze darting from the duke to Madeline and her heart sank. “He’s here to ask about the whereabouts of Lady Madeline.”
