Beatrice folded her napkin carefully, more to steady her hands than from necessity. When he looked at her, something softened in his expression.
“You were a gracious hostess. You made their stay pleasant,” he offered.
She let her gaze drop to the table before lifting it back. “I enjoyed it more than I expected.”
His mouth curved. “I did, too.”
Beatrice rose, smoothing her skirts. “Well, it’s late. I suppose?—”
“Yes,” he interrupted, though he didn’t move. “We should both retire.”
But neither of them stepped away. The fire popped quietly in the grate.
Beatrice swallowed. “Edward?—”
“Beatrice—”
She felt her lips curve despite the knot in her chest. “You go first.”
He hesitated, something unguarded flickering in his eyes before he tucked it away. “Only this—” His voice dropped. “Your presence alters this house. You’ve made Wrexford feel lived-in. I hadn’t realized it was merely… furnished before.”
“I’m not certain that’s true.”
He shook his head. “It is. Far more than you know.”
“I should go.” Heat curled low in her stomach, and her palms grew clammy.
He released a breath, nearly a sigh. “Yes, you should rest.”
She dipped her head, unable to hold his gaze any longer. “Goodnight, then.”
“Goodnight, Duchess.”
She turned, her hand brushing the wall as she moved toward the corridor. She could feel him behind her, as though the air shifted around his stillness.
Just before she rounded the corner, she glanced back.
Edward remained exactly where she had left him, standing in the warm spill of firelight, watching her go.
She didn’t trust herself to breathe until she was out of sight.
CHAPTER 17
It had been three quiet days since the Ravenscourts’ carriage had rolled down the drive, three days without Sebastian’s relentless prodding or Margaret’s gentle observations that somehow struck closer to the truth than any man would like.
Edward was certain he didn’t miss Sebastian’s needling in the slightest. But he was sure Beatrice missed Margaret’s company, because she had taken to writing letters—several, in fact—each one sealed neatly and sent off to Ravenscourt House before noon.
The morning room was quiet, save for the soft ticking of the clock on the mantel and the clinking of china as a footman poured fresh tea.
Beatrice sat opposite Edward, a plate of toast before her, more arranged than eaten. She glanced over the household notices one last time, exhaled, and lifted her chin with quiet resolve.
She cleared her throat lightly. “We must be seen.”
Edward looked up from his newspaper. “Good morning to you, too.”
“I am very serious,” she pressed, ignoring his amusement. “We cannot remain tucked away like hermits. There is a charity ball at Lady Winthrop’s in two days.”
Edward lowered his newspaper an inch. “Mm.”
