Margaret noticed; her smile softened.
Edward lounged back in his chair, his arm draped casually on the carved wooden rest. He looked relaxed, though the glint in his eyes when he regarded Sebastian suggested he was enjoying himself more than he cared to admit.
“You might consider,” Sebastian said lazily, nodding toward his wineglass, “restraining yourself. I recall an incident at a dinner last year involving overindulgence, a fallen chair, and a very unfortunate potted fern.”
Beatrice blinked. “A fern?”
Margaret groaned, sinking lower in her chair. “Not that story.”
“Oh, absolutely that story,” Sebastian snickered.
Edward held up a hand. “In my defense, the chair was of poor quality.”
“It was perfectly sound,” Margaret muttered, rubbing her forehead.
Beatrice leaned in, her curiosity piqued. “What happened to the fern?”
“Nothing good,” Sebastian replied.
Edward jabbed an accusatory finger at him. “Ravenscourt saw the entire thing and did nothing to help.”
“I did,” Sebastian countered. “I laughed.”
Beatrice tried to keep her composure, but the image of Edward entangled with a fallen chair and a crushed fern undid her entirely. She bit the inside of her cheek, failing to hide her smile.
When she finally glanced at Edward again, she found him watching her with an indecipherable expression. Not amusement, but something warmer. Something that pressed lightly on the air between them.
Her breath caught.
He looked away first, reaching for the decanter.
Sebastian, oblivious as ever, remarked, “Speaking of ferns, I noticed you’ve redecorated the south corridor, Beatrice. Very elegant.”
“Yes,” she said, grateful for the change of topic. “It needed lightening. The portraits were… oppressive.”
“My ancestors will be thrilled to hear it,” Edward drawled.
Beatrice smiled at her efforts. . “Your ancestors glare at anyone who breathes. I moved them for the sake of the household.”
“At least tell us that you have enjoyed our visit,” Sebastian said, stretching back in his chair.
Beatrice answered before Edward could. “Immensely. I… I didn’t realize how much I needed company.” She glanced at Margaret. “Yours, especially.”
Margaret reached over and squeezed her hand. “You’ve done beautifully here, Bea. More than you give yourself credit for.”
Beatrice swallowed, unable to speak.
Sebastian nodded toward Edward. “She means she’s proud of you too, Wrexford. Don’t look so stern.”
Edward’s expression flickered—surprise, then something softer, nearly shy. He lifted his glass in acknowledgment.
Beatrice felt the warmth of it, like a hand closing gently around her ribs.
Margaret rose when the hour grew late. “I believe I shall retire before Oliver decides to wake up at an ungodly time simply because he’s in a new house.”
Sebastian bid them goodnight, kissed Margaret’s knuckles, and followed, murmuring something that made her laugh.
Within moments, the room fell quiet. Only Edward remained, standing at the end of the table.
