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The thought made him want to down a whole bottle of brandy.

“May I ask what you are drinking?” he inquired.

“A maid brought me a hot toddy,” Bea said, nodding toward the tray. “With only one glass, which I am using. You may not ring for another. I don’t want anyone to know you are here.”

No one had ever looked at him with that expression. Mulish and condemning, and yet underneath he would swear that she was as dizzy with lust as he was. It was in her eyes.

“Are you smiling at me?” she asked suspiciously. “You apparently froze your expression into ducal solemnity years ago, so I’m not entirely sure.”

“I’m not that old,” Jonah protested.

“I agree that it is sad to see such rigidity at your age.”

“I choose not to share my emotions.” He reached over and picked up the jug. “You could think of it as shyness. Do you mind if I drink the rest?”

She wrinkled her nose—adorably, he noted once again. “I cannot imagine that you are shy. People want to be with you. They want to be you. Why would you be shy?”

Lennox upended the jug. Hot, spicy toddy slid down his throat, but the shock of it didn’t seem to bring sanity. “ ‘Shy’ is not the right word.”

“Churlish?” Beatrice suggested.

“A duke’s every expression sparks interest, after which people make up reasons for the emotion they glimpsed. At any rate, I am churlish only when talking to impertinent young ladies.”

Beatrice’s eyes flashed again, and even though he ought to feel sorry for irritating her, he felt perversely pleased. He didn’t want to see her cower, the way she had at supper in Almack’s.

He’d seen Regina’s petty cruelties have an outsized effect on people.

“I am not impertinent,” Beatrice said, tilting her nose into the air. “You are so used to adulation that you don’t know what normal interaction looks like.”

“Truthfully, I have had almost no contact with young ladies.” He put the jug down at the side of his chair. “After university, I went to war, and since my father died, I have been occupied with the estate. I am fairly good at talking to farmers.”

She opened her mouth and shut it.

“I’ve had little contact with Regina, too,” he clarified. “I’m seven years older than she, after all. By the time she arrived in the nursery, I had already been sent to Eton.”

“Nonsense.” She scowled at him. “Do you think I’m a dunce? Boys start at Eton at age eight or nine.”

“Not if they’re a future duke,” he said, realizing that he kept telling her things that he wouldn’t dream of saying in company. “We’re expected to excel due to the power of the title. I began at six with a crop of eight-year-olds.”

“That’s—that doesn’t sound easy,” she said, her tone softening.

He shrugged. “I wasn’t in the nursery when Regina was growing up, which was likely a good thing. I expect she would have used me as a chew toy.”

She gave a surprised laugh.

He’d do a lot for that laugh, Jonah thought ruefully.

Damn it.

“It can’t be easy being Lady Regina’s brother,” she said hesitantly. “She has very high standards.”

He sighed. “Vindictive, malicious … feral. I promise that she won’t bother you again. I apologize on behalf of my family.”

Her lovely mouth rounded into a surprised circle.

“The moment I heard your garments were wet, I recognized my sister’s propensity to throw water,” Jonah confessed.

“I threw water as well,” Beatrice said.