Coats three and four were no better. The fifth was marginally less offensive, but Edward decided on principle to hate it.
All the while, Beatrice remained an infuriating pillar of poise, her legs folded neatly before her chair, one ankle crossed behind the other. She corrected the tailor’s assistants when they went astray, gave her opinion on fabrics, occasionally lifted those clear eyes to him with a look that said,Do try to act civilized, Duke. The world is watching.
Except the world was not watching.Shewas. And that was considerably worse.
At last, the tailor cleared his throat, a bead of sweat trembling perilously on his brow. “Your Grace, if you will permit, I have another coat. I had not intended to leave it for last. It is darker, simpler. Less—” His gaze flicked to Edward’s expression. “Dramatic.”
“Bring it,” Beatrice instructed, setting down her cup.
Edward braced himself for another indignity. But when they revealed the coat—dark grey, subtly cut, elegant without broadcasting the fact—something in him went still.
It looked like something he might have chosen before marriage, before scandal, before his life acquired the shape of something he could no longer predict.
He shrugged into it with little expectation.
It fit perfectly.
The tailor inhaled sharply. The assistants murmured. Even the air seemed to settle.
Edward rolled his shoulders; there was no resistance. He moved his arms easily.
But all of that faded the moment he caught Beatrice’s reflection in the mirror. For a moment, he forgot the tailor, the assistants, the absurdity of the day. He saw only her.
Her lips parted ever so slightly, her breath catching, her eyes sweeping over him with an admiration so unguarded he felt it like a touch along his spine. It was not just polite approval or wifely obligation.
Something warm and startling stirred in his chest.
When she caught him staring, color crept up her throat, blooming beneath her skin. She looked away quickly, as though the sight of him had unsettled her.
Something wickedly pleased curled inside him.
“Well,” Edward said quietly, turning away from the mirror, “if I had known this was all a scheme to earn my wife’s good opinion, I would have worn this coat first.”
Beatrice lifted her chin in immediate defense. “You flatter yourself outrageously.”
“Do I?” His lips curled into a roguish smile. “I’m rather convinced you were admiring me. I’m merely reporting what I observed.”
She schooled her features into something composed and cool, though her cheeks betrayed her. “I was admiring the workmanship that went into the coat,” she said crisply. “Not the man wearing it. Try not to confuse the two.”
“Ah,” he murmured, stepping closer, just enough to unsettle her. “An easy mistake.”
She refused to meet his eyes, which only delighted him more.
Her eyes flashed, and she rose abruptly, smoothing her gown. “The fitting is over. That will be all.” But her voice wasn’t quite steady.
She swept toward the door. No rush, of course—she never rushed—but he felt every bit of her intent to escape.
Edward watched her go, one hand rising to the lapels of his coat.
The tailor fussed with the hem and mentioned something about shortening the sleeves, but Edward barely heard him.
Because the truth was undeniable: the coat felt more comfortable than anything he had worn in years. And it had nothing to do with the coat.
CHAPTER 18
The journey to London should have exhausted Beatrice into stillness. Instead, it left her vibrating with a nervous energy.
The townhouse felt different from Wrexford Hall. It was closer, warmer, and more alive with sound.
