“Your Grace?” came a footman’s measured voice through the door. “His Grace awaits in the entrance hall.”
Of course, he did.
Her pulse quickened, and she cleared her throat before answering, “Tell him I’m coming.”
Footsteps retreated down the corridor, fading into the distance.
Beatrice gathered her gloves from the dressing table and slowly tugged them on, feeling the faint lace edge graze her skin. She closed the small clasp at her wrist with more effort than necessary. Then she stepped into the corridor.
The townhouse was lit beautifully tonight—warm sconces casting soft gold on the walls, each door drawn shut, everything arranged with a precision that differed from the quiet laxity of the country.
Halfway to the staircase, something in her steadied.
By the time she reached the landing, the steadiness deserted her entirely.
Edward stood at the bottom. He wasn’t doing anything extraordinary—simply speaking to the butler, giving last instructions about the evening—but the sight of him unsettled her nonetheless.
He was wearing the new coat. It fit him far too well, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders, his straight posture, and his tousled hair. There was something undeniably confident in the way he held himself tonight, something sharp and quietly striking, as though the city suited him.
Beatrice didn’t mean to stare, but she did. Her breath slipped, caught, then settled somewhere uncomfortable.
Edward turned at the sound of her step. And went still.
His gaze roamed over her once, slowly enough that she felt it burn through every layer of silk. Then he blinked, cleared his throat, and smiled with infuriating grace.
He inclined his head. “Beatrice.”
She prayed her pulse wasn’t visible through her gloves. “Edward.”
For a heartbeat—just one—his eyes softened. Something unguarded flickered there, quickly shuttered, but enough to make her breath catch.
Did I imagine it?
He moved forward and offered his arm. “If you are ready.”
She put her hand lightly on his sleeve. His arm was warm beneath the lush wool, firm in a way that made her skin tingle.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m ready.”
And then came the first glance. It was subtle. Barely there, really. Except she felt it more than saw it. Which meant she absolutely must not look back.
She kept her chin lifted with studied indifference, as though the banister were the most riveting architectural marvel in London.
Edward guided her down the stairs with quiet assurance, his posture impeccable—too impeccable for a man who usually carried himself with a touch of idle carelessness. He cast another glance at her, and again, she refused to acknowledge it with heroic dignity.
By the time they reached the foyer, the effort not to react had become practically theatrical.
A footman opened the front door, and the cool evening air rushed in. Edward offered his hand to assist her down the steps. She hesitated before taking it, knowing full well that her pulse was behaving like a trapped bird.
His fingers closed lightly around hers.
He handed her into the carriage, then followed, sitting beside her with the amount of distance propriety required. The interior smelled faintly of leather and the lavender sachet tucked somewhere beneath the seat.
Beatrice kept her gaze fixed on the window to keep from staring at him.
He was glancing at her again. She could feel it like a question. If she turned her head an inch, he would catch her looking, so she decided not to turn her head at all.
The carriage lurched forward, and Edward cleared his throat lightly. “You’re quiet.”
