When he looked at her again, his control had returned. It was fragile, but at least it held.
“Goodnight, Duchess,” he said quietly.
It wasn’t what he wanted to say. Not even close.
Beatrice held his gaze, steady and unreadable. “Goodnight, Your Grace.”
He lingered for half a second too long, then turned away before he could make the mistake he wanted to make.
CHAPTER 13
“Your Grace?”
Mrs. Hart appeared, composed as ever, notebook in hand. Beatrice still marveled at how the woman moved, silent as a well-organized thought.
“Yes, Mrs. Hart?”
“Your Grace, it is about the florists,” Mrs. Hart said tightly.
Beatrice sat at her writing desk, the window cracked just enough to let in a mild breeze. Sunlight was creeping slowly across the floorboards in slanted stripes, warming the rim of her teacup. She had not touched the tea—she had forgotten to drink it before it cooled.
The letter before her refused to behave, her thoughts drifting between tasks, obligations, and the little girl she had grown used to checking on before her day started.
She exhaled, rubbing the bridge of her nose. She had slept poorly. She always did when she knew the day would demand tough decisions.
“What have they done now?” she asked, bracing herself.
“The florists are inquiring whether they should remain or return later.”
Mrs. Hart paused. “There is a good number of them, Your Grace.”
Beatrice narrowed her eyes. “How many is agood number?” She twisted in her seat. “From whom?”
Mrs. Hart consulted her notes, though Beatrice suspected she already knew the answer. “Lady Strafford’s deliveries. They’ve… multiplied.”
Beatrice frowned. “How many?”
“Seven,” Mrs. Hart replied. “That we know of. The sixth footman believes more may be coming up the drive.”
Beatrice pressed her fingers to her temples. “Seven? Whatever for?”
Mrs. Hart’s mouth twitched. “She said she wished to ‘brighten your mornings,’ Your Grace.”
Beatrice glanced toward the corner of the room, where three towering vases already stood—roses, peonies, and something violently pink and spiky whose name she refused to learn. They looked as though they were plotting a floral coup.
Very fitting, considering Lady Strafford’s reputation. The woman could turn even a simple morning call into a display, and Beatrice suspected the flowers were merely her way of entering the house before she could do so in person.
Upon Beatrice’s arrival at Bath, Lady Strafford had labeled herself the friendly neighbor. She had a reputation for taking promising young wives under her wing, introducing them to the right promenades and agreeable teas.
“Brighten my mornings,” Beatrice muttered. “At this rate, I’ll be forced to sleep among them like a hedgehog.”
Mrs. Hart did not smile, but her eyes twinkled with suppressed amusement. “Shall I disperse them?”
“Yes,” Beatrice said. “Far and wide. Preferably in places where I don’t have to see them glaring at me. Send one to the kitchens and let the maids enjoy it. Give one to Cook. She’ll enjoy pretending she’s running a fashionable establishment. One in the stables, perhaps—it will be the first time Lady Strafford contributes to the feed.”
A faint smile touched Mrs. Hart’s mouth. “Very good, Your Grace.”
“And if Lady Strafford sends more?—”
