She finally looked up at him with a serene smile that was, in his opinion, deeply dangerous. “Yes. And now you’re married.”
As though that explained everything.
The tailor, an anxious man with thinning hair and the emotional fragility of a frightened sparrow, bowed deeply. “Your Grace, a pleasure. A tremendous honor.”
Edward already felt trapped. He eyed the boxes with deep suspicion.
“I have managed perfectly well for years,” he muttered. “Years, Duchess. Without posing like a mannequin.”
Beatrice, seated near the hearth with her hands folded in elegant patience, did not even spare him a glance. “And yet,” she said lightly, “you’ll pose now.”
The tailor’s assistants fluttered around him like anxious birds, tugging at ribbons, brushing nonexistent dust.
“Shall we begin?” Beatrice asked pleasantly.
Traitor.
Edward shrugged off his coat with the resignation of a man walking to the gallows, and the tailor set to taking his measurements, muttering to himself as he noted figures on a small pad.
The first coat was a disaster. A deep navy piece with overly fashionable lapels and buttons clearly chosen to impress the Prince Regent rather than Edward himself.
When the tailor stepped back in triumph, Edward turned toward the mirror. He lookedridiculous.
“This,” he deadpanned, “is not a coat. It is an act of aggression. It hangs like I’m wearing my own draperies.”
Beatrice pressed a knuckle to her mouth, clearly fighting a smile.
“It only needs adjusting.”
“It needs incinerating.”
The tailor made a wounded noise. “A minor miscalculation, Your Grace. The shoulders may be taken in?—”
“The shoulders,” Edward interrupted, “are attempting to escape.”
“Perhaps if you stood still—” Beatrice tried valiantly.
“I am standing still.”
“Stiller.”
He glared at her, before trying the second coat. This one pulled so tightly at the shoulders that he couldn’t lift his arms past a modest angle. He attempted to gesture in irritation, and the seams protested like a dying animal.
“Ah,” he said grimly. “A coat designed for a man who wishes never to reach for anything.”
Beatrice calmly sipped her tea. “You reach for many things you shouldn’t.”
“Name one.”
“Your temper. If you stopped complaining, Duke, you might find the process quicker.”
“I am providing essential feedback.”
“You are providing noise.”
He shot her a look filled with wounded dignity. She ignored it.Masterfully.
The tailor made another strangled noise—whether laughter or panic, Edward couldn’t tell.
