A reluctant huff of laughter escaped him before he could stop it. He masked it behind his teacup, but she had already caught it.
Her lips curled into a smug smile. He tried to look offended but failed.
Edward set his cup down with exaggerated dignity. “If my tailor arrives in tears, I shall hold you personally responsible.”
“Nonsense. He will probably thank me. I’m improving his reputation.”
“He already has an excellent reputation.”
“For competence, certainly,” she allowed. “But not for reining in your… impulses.”
“Impulses?” he repeated, incredulous.
“Your fondness for dramatic waistcoats, for instance.”
“They are not dramatic.”
“One of them is embroidered with gryphons.”
“They are subtle.”
“They glow in candlelight.”
Edward pointed his fork at her. “I wear what I like.”
“And I,” she countered, lifting her teacup, “intend to keep you from frightening Lady Winthrop’s guests into thinking a mythological creature wandered into the ballroom.”
The footman by the door smothered another cough.
Edward leaned back in his chair, narrowing his eyes with theatrical forbearance. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you enjoy provoking me.”
“Of course I do,” she said lightly. “It’s the only amusement I have before breakfast.”
Beatrice reached for the silver jam spoon again, entirely absorbed in her toast, and Edward—fool that he was—found himself watching the curve of her mouth.
He had the good sense to keep his gaze down, as if considering the merits of toast versus jam, but his eyes kept drifting back to her anyway.
The small movements undid him more than they should have—the way her lips pressed together in thought, the faint crease between her eyebrows when she tasted something she liked. Ordinary gestures. Harmless ones.
And yet none of it felt harmless.
Beatrice lifted her toast, the faintest smear of jam shining at the corner of her mouth. Before he could look away—before he even thought to try—her tongue slipped out, quick and pink, catching the bit of jam with unthinking grace.
Edward stilled.
She looked up and caught him staring at her. A touch of color rose to her cheeks, and she dropped her gaze to her plate as though the pattern on the china suddenly required study.
He should have looked away too, but he didn’t.
The idea of kissing her took root before he could shove it away.
What would it feel like to lean across the table and kiss her?
He wanted to feel the softness of her mouth, the sound she would make, the way she might look at him afterward.
It startled him, how sharply the want hit. How unsteady it made him.
He had always told himself he respected her. That was easy enough to admit; anyone with sense would. And yes, he admired her—the way she spoke her mind even when every rule told her not to, the way she refused to be impressed, the way she tried so hard to pretend she wasn’t tired, or lonely, or steeling herself against the world.
