“Habit,” he replied, with that half-smile. “I prefer not to leave things to chance.”
Beatrice took her time taking in her surroundings. Firelight flickered across polished marble and gilded portraits, illuminating the staircase’s graceful curve. Everything here spoke of authority and permanence.
The last of the daylight slanted through the tall, arched windows, turning the air to pale gold.
Beatrice stood in front of the mirror. Behind her, her lady’s maid, Alice, worked deftly at the clasps of her gown, a soft blue silk piece that caught the light each time she moved. Three other maids hovered behind her. The most talkative ones, Martha and Nell, stood beside her, brushing her hair and pinning it up.
“Hold, Your Grace, just a moment more,” Alice murmured, fussing with a stubborn clasp. She clicked her tongue in frustration. “Dresses today are made by people who never have to wear them.”
Beatrice’s lips twitched. “One could almost accuse them of sabotage.”
“Oh, they could do far worse,” Nell piped up, carefully arranging the fall of her skirt. “Some ladies insist on corsets so tight you could snap them in half.” She stepped back and gave an approving little nod. “But not you, Your Grace. You look—well, you look like you can breathe.”
“How reassuring,” Beatrice replied dryly.
Her gown was not meant to dazzle, but to command respect. The neckline curved modestly, the sleeves gathered just enough to flatter her figure without vanity. A string of pearls—her mother’s—rested at her throat, their sheen faint against her pale skin.
This gown, however, was new. One of several that had arrived earlier that afternoon in large, tissue-lined boxes bearing the Wrexford crest. Edward had not delivered them personally, but his signature was everywhere in the form of precise measurements, impeccable quality, and not a single odd color.
Martha had held up the gowns as though they were relics. “Commissioned, they said,” she had whispered, impressed despite herself. “His Grace sent word ahead.”
Beatrice wasn’t sure what to feel about that. She felt mostly irritated, as if they were all reminders that this marriage had been arranged with the efficiency of a business transaction.
She smoothed her palms down the silk, feeling the unfamiliar weight of it all.
Alice stepped back at last, inspecting every button and every fold with a critical eye. “There now,” she declared. “As fine a duchess as any in England.”
Beatrice met her reflection in the mirror, studying it as though she might divine something new there. The woman who gazed back at her was composed, every hair pinned in place, her expression calm.
Yet beneath the composure lay a flicker of uncertainty she could not quite smooth away. The first night of her marriage, she would dine with a man she could scarcely look at through the vows.
She drew a slow breath, smoothing her skirts. The silk whispered as she turned. “There,” she said softly, forcing a smile. “That will do.”
The maids curtsied, murmuring, “Yes, Your Grace,” before retreating quietly toward the door.
For a moment, Beatrice stood alone in the pool of late sunlight, her fingers resting lightly on the back of the chair. The quiet was thick—too thick.
A duchess’s house, a duchess’s standing, a duchess’s future… yet it all felt borrowed, as if at any moment, someone might walk in and say there had been a dreadful mistake.
She lifted her chin, catching her own gaze again in the mirror. “You’ve trained for this. Besides, you’ve endured worse,” she whispered.
Then, gathering the folds of her skirt, she turned toward the door, ready to face whatever awaited her downstairs.
Wall sconces cast golden pools of light across the hall, throwing deep shadows against dark wainscoting. Portraits of Wrexford ancestors watched from gilded frames—unbending faces, thin lips, eyes that seemed to stare and follow her every movement.
At the dining room doors, footmen stood at attention. They bowed as she entered.
The room was elegant and imposing. A long, polished table stretched nearly the length of the chamber, a glittering expanse of silver and crystal and too many empty chairs. The candles flared high, a hundred flames burning at once.
A footman hurried to pull the chair at the head of the table back for her.
“Will His Grace be joining me for dinner?” she asked, her tone light.
A footman nearby hesitated. That single beat of silence was enough to chill the air. “I-I believe not, Your Grace.”
Beatrice’s hand stilled on the arm of her chair. “No?”
The maid’s gaze dropped to the floor. “He is on his way to London and will be absent for dinner..”
