“That is not an answer,” she huffed.
“It was meant to be noncommittal,” he replied. “It works well during breakfast.”
Beatrice’s eyebrows rose. “Then let me be plain. Wewillattend.”
Edward folded the newspaper with deliberate care. “If attending a ball will put a stopper in theton’simagination, then yes, very well.” He paused, as though bracing himself. “I’ll send for a modiste at once.”
Beatrice blinked. “A modiste? Whatever for?”
“For a gown,” he replied, as though the matter were obvious. “If you must be paraded before theton, you ought to be properly?—”
“I own gowns, Edward,” she interrupted, lifting her teacup with enviable poise. “Several of them, in fact. Perfectly respectable ones. I do not require a new wardrobe simply to step into a ballroom.”
He studied her for a beat, then leaned back in his chair, conceding. “Very well. No modiste.”
“Good.” She set her cup down. Then, with a thoughtful tilt of her head, she added, “You, on the other hand…”
His eyebrows rose. “I beg your pardon?”
“You should call for your tailor,” she said sweetly. “Your coats are quite…” She paused delicately, searching for the charitable word. “Spirited.”
Edward stared at her. “Spirited.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Decidedly so. A duke should not look as though he is about to leap onto a horse and gallop off with an opera singer. Your clothes seem far too rakish for a duke.”
The footman at the door coughed into his glove, either mortified or entertained.
“My clothes,” Edward echoed, incredulous, “are the height of gentlemanly respectability. They are perfectly suitable.”
“For a man avoiding creditors? Perhaps.” Beatrice reached for the marmalade. “For a duke at a charity ball? Not really.”
His jaw dropped, then snapped shut again. “You are impossible.”
“And you,” she said, spreading marmalade with delicate triumph, “need a tailor.”
He let out a long-suffering sigh and reached for his cup. “Very well, I’ll send for him.”
“Excellent.” Beatrice gave a small, decisive nod. “I shall inspect everything before you wear it.”
He choked on his tea. “Inspect? Beatrice, I am not a schoolboy being turned out for a recitation.”
“You may be a duke,” she replied, buttering another piece of toast, “but that does not mean you can be trusted with lapels.”
He took a very slow sip of his tea. “Women are simply tyrants in silk,” he muttered under his breath.
The tiniest smile tugged at Beatrice’s mouth. “Did you say something, Duke?”
“Nothing at all,” he replied quickly, schooling his features with great effort.
“Mm.” Beatrice took a bite of her toast, entirely satisfied.
Edward folded his newspaper a bit too abruptly. “You know,” he said after a moment’s silence, “most wives defer to their husbands’ confidence in their own tailoring.”
“Do they?” Beatrice took another thoughtful bite of toast. “So that is the source of all the tragedy immortalized in every family portrait in England.”
Edward’s brow creased. “Tragedy?”
“Yes. Half the gentlemen look as though their coats are plotting escape.”
