Sebastian snorted. “That ends now.”
Margaret hid a smile. Beatrice didn’t. The easy affection between the men warmed the air almost as much as the fire crackling behind them.
Sebastian turned to Beatrice and sketched a perfect bow. “Duchess, you are a sight of salvation. We’ve been in your house twenty seconds, and already Margaret looks revived.”
Beatrice arched an eyebrow. “Are we to measure your wife’s comfort in seconds?”
“Only when I wish to sound impressive,” he replied.
Beatrice snorted. “And you are impossible to please. So I shall take that as the highest praise, Duke.”
Margaret elbowed him lightly. “Do stop.” She turned to Beatrice with a grin. “I doubt he means it. He’s just constitutionally incapable of sounding sincere.”
“Lies,” Sebastian said smoothly. “I sound sincere at least twice a year.”
“Usually by accident,” Margaret murmured.
Their teasing was soft, so natural that even the servants struggled to hide their smiles.
Beatrice felt herself smiling, too. She watched Sebastian brush a curl from Margaret’s temple and Margaret’s brief touch at his wrist. The way Margaret leaned into him without thinking, the way his eyes softened whenever she laughed, stirred a desire within her. But she pushed it down, widening her smile.
She turned to Margaret and gestured toward the hallway. “Your rooms are ready. “You must be chilled from the journey. And the adjoining nursery is ready for tomorrow, when Oliver arrives with his nurse.”
Margaret’s face softened. “You thought of everything.”
Edward glanced at Beatrice, almost imperceptibly, but she felt it nonetheless, heat prickling her face.
Sebastian looped his arm through his wife’s, but not before brushing a loose curl back lightly with gloved hand in a gesture so instinctive it made Beatrice’s throat thicken.
Their happiness was a comfort, but it only made her aware of the space inside herself where something softer might havelived if her own marriage had been born of affection instead of necessity.
They began walking, the heels of her slippers clicking softly on the polished floor. Edward fell a half-step behind her, as though allowing her to lead but remaining close enough to signify they were hosting together.
Sebastian looked around the hall appreciatively. “You run a fine house, Wrexford.”
“I do very little,” Edward replied. “My wife runs it. I merely inhabit it.”
Beatrice felt heat rise in her cheeks before she could stop it. “He exaggerates.”
“No,” Margaret said lightly, her eyes warm. “He doesn’t.”
They reached the entrance of the east wing, the firelight spilling golden across the floor.
Beatrice opened the door to the blue guest chamber, warmth rushing out to greet them. Margaret stepped inside first, smiling at the tidy hearth, the folded blankets, and the soft lavender flowers she preferred.
“Oh, Bea,” she breathed. “It’s perfect.”
Beatrice felt something inside her settle. “Good.”
Sebastian surveyed the room with theatrical satisfaction. “We will be horribly spoiled, wife.”
“You always are,” Margaret murmured, and he grinned.
Beatrice watched Edward watch them quietly, a faint softness threading through the sternness of his posture.
She stepped back into the corridor, offering them each a gentle nod. “Rest. We’ll see you both at luncheon.”
Margaret caught her hand one last time, squeezing with familiar affection. “And then we have a great deal to catch up on. Properly, this time.”
