But deep down—beneath the practiced reason, beneath the shield she had learned to wear—she knew it wasn’t.
She could feel him behind her. And she felt something else, too. Something she absolutely must not let herself feel. Not for him. Not for a man with his history.
If she let herself fall for him, she would get hurt in the end.
Beatrice drew one last breath, steadying herself, and stepped into the hall, determined to convince herself that the heat on her skin was nothing but the fire’s glow.
CHAPTER 22
Four days into their stay in London, the rain had only just stopped, leaving the townhouse wrapped in a soft gray stillness. It was almost dinner time when a maid appeared in the doorway, her hands folded neatly.
“Your Grace, there is a visitor for you.”
Beatrice looked up from the letters she had been sorting. “A visitor?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Lady Amelia Kensley. She… insisted she must see you.”
Beatrice’s eyebrows rose. “Lady… Amelia Kensley,” she repeated softly, more to herself than to the maid. “Did she say what the matter was?”
“No, Your Grace.” The maid inclined her head. “Merely that it was urgent.”
Beatrice’s brow furrowed with mild confusion. “Very well,” she said, smoothing her skirt as she rose. “Show her into the blue drawing room. I’ll come at once.”
The maid curtsied and withdrew.
Beatrice followed, her curiosity sharpening with each step. She pushed open the drawing room door and stopped.
Lady Amelia stood by the window, her cloak damp at the hem, her bonnet askew, her fingers clenched around the sill. She looked as though she hadn’t slept in days.
Beatrice’s first thought was that the girl might faint. Her second hit harder.
Why is she here?
Sharp fear shot through her, but she pushed it down.
“Lady Amelia,” she greeted warmly. “Please, sit. You look unwell.”
Lady Amelia turned. Her face was pale—not delicately pale, but drained, as if the color had been pulled from her very bones. She curtsied, the movement stiff.
“Your Grace. Forgive me, I did not know where else to turn.” Her voice shook.
“Then you were right to come,” Beatrice murmured, gesturing to the sofa. “Sit. Let me ring for tea.”
She crossed to the bellpull and tugged it. Moments later, another maid appeared.
“Please bring tea,” Beatrice instructed. “Something warm. And quickly.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The maid cast a concerned glance at Lady Amelia before leaving.
Beatrice gestured to the sofa, and Lady Amelia sank onto it with the tremulous grace of a woman who had been holding herself upright for too long.
When the tea tray arrived, steaming, the maid set it down on the low table. But instead of retreating immediately, she lingered, her eyes flicking between the two women, sensing something amiss.
Lady Amelia stiffened. “Your Grace, I must speak to you alone.”
Beatrice gave the smallest nod. “Thank you,” she told the maid gently. “Leave us now.”
After a quick curtsey, the maid withdrew, closing the door softly behind her.
