Chapter 16 #2
“It is when you do it,” Sebastian scoffed. “It always means you’re thinking something insufferable.”
Margaret laughed. “He says the same about you, dearest.”
“And he’s right,” Edward added.
Sebastian pointed at him. “There! Did everyone hear his tone? That’s the tone of a man who believes he is always correct.”
Edward’s eyebrows rose, perfectly aligned. “I do not believe I am always correct. Only… mostly.”
“Mostly,” Sebastian repeated, shaking his head. “You hear him, Margaret? This is why we can never dine in peace.”
Margaret squeezed his hand under the table, though her tone was decidedly unsympathetic. “You provoke him on purpose.”
“I provoke no one,” Sebastian insisted. “People simply react poorly to the truth.”
Edward turned deliberately to Beatrice, his voice low, his expression neutral. “This is the man who accuses me of being dramatic.”
A lock of hair fell forward as he shook his head, and Beatrice itched to brush it from his face, but she forced that thought away and reached for her wine instead. His gaze rested on her for the briefest moment, then darted away.
She wondered why he was playing tag with his eyes.
She bit her lip, warmth rising at his subtle invitation to share the joke. “I fear neither of you is innocent.”
“Thank you,” Margaret sighed. “Finally, someone honest.”
The servants entered in an orderly fashion, some of them cleared the dessert, while others moved quietly, refilling the wine.
Margaret leaned in. “Beatrice, tell the truth. Does he always sit that straight when he eats?”
Beatrice blinked. “Sebastian?”
“No,” Margaret said sweetly. “The other impossibly tall duke at the table.”
Beatrice tried—and failed—not to smile. “He sits straight because he spent his entire youth being lectured by tutors who measured posture as fiercely as mathematics.”
Edward arched an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon? Me?”
Sebastian grinned. “Do go on, Duchess.”
Beatrice lifted her chin in mock solemnity. “His governess used to place a book on his head and make him walk the length of the corridor.”
Margaret gasped. “Did she?”
“No,” Edward cut in dryly. “She did not.”
“She absolutely did,” Beatrice said, refusing to look at him. “I’ve seen the schoolroom records.”
Sebastian choked on his wine.
Edward gave her a look—half betrayed, half amused—that sent warmth through her chest.
Margaret dabbed her eyes. “Please tell me there’s more.”
“There was a bell,” Beatrice added. “Apparently, if the book fell, the bell rang, and the tutor would declare that ‘the Duke has disgracefully lost his head'.”
Sebastian wheezed. “Wrexford, this is tremendous. Even I didn’t know.”
Edward set down his cup with dignified resignation. “I am going to burn that schoolroom.”
“Too late,” Beatrice quipped. “I already redecorated it.”
He stared at her, caught between offense and admiration. “Why?”
“Because it was untidy, and Pip might need it later on,” she answered mildly.
Sebastian nodded at Edward. “You married a terrifying woman.”
Edward’s gaze slid to Beatrice again—slow, appreciative in a way he likely didn’t intend. But she felt it. God, did she feel it.
She lowered her gaze to the table, heat creeping up her cheeks.
Margaret noticed; her smile softened.
Edward lounged back in his chair, his arm draped casually on the carved wooden rest. He looked relaxed, though the glint in his eyes when he regarded Sebastian suggested he was enjoying himself more than he cared to admit.
“You might consider,” Sebastian said lazily, nodding toward his wineglass, “restraining yourself. I recall an incident at a dinner last year involving overindulgence, a fallen chair, and a very unfortunate potted fern.”
Beatrice blinked. “A fern?”
Margaret groaned, sinking lower in her chair. “Not that story.”
“Oh, absolutely that story,” Sebastian snickered.
Edward held up a hand. “In my defense, the chair was of poor quality.”
“It was perfectly sound,” Margaret muttered, rubbing her forehead.
Beatrice leaned in, her curiosity piqued. “What happened to the fern?”
“Nothing good,” Sebastian replied.
Edward jabbed an accusatory finger at him. “Ravenscourt saw the entire thing and did nothing to help.”
“I did,” Sebastian countered. “I laughed.”
Beatrice tried to keep her composure, but the image of Edward entangled with a fallen chair and a crushed fern undid her entirely. She bit the inside of her cheek, failing to hide her smile.
When she finally glanced at Edward again, she found him watching her with an indecipherable expression. Not amusement, but something warmer. Something that pressed lightly on the air between them.
Her breath caught.
He looked away first, reaching for the decanter.
Sebastian, oblivious as ever, remarked, “Speaking of ferns, I noticed you’ve redecorated the south corridor, Beatrice. Very elegant.”
“Yes,” she said, grateful for the change of topic. “It needed lightening. The portraits were… oppressive.”
“My ancestors will be thrilled to hear it,” Edward drawled.
Beatrice smiled at her efforts. . “Your ancestors glare at anyone who breathes. I moved them for the sake of the household.”
“At least tell us that you have enjoyed our visit,” Sebastian said, stretching back in his chair.
Beatrice answered before Edward could. “Immensely. I… I didn’t realize how much I needed company.” She glanced at Margaret. “Yours, especially.”
Margaret reached over and squeezed her hand. “You’ve done beautifully here, Bea. More than you give yourself credit for.”
Beatrice swallowed, unable to speak.
Sebastian nodded toward Edward. “She means she’s proud of you too, Wrexford. Don’t look so stern.”
Edward’s expression flickered—surprise, then something softer, nearly shy. He lifted his glass in acknowledgment.
Beatrice felt the warmth of it, like a hand closing gently around her ribs.
Margaret rose when the hour grew late. “I believe I shall retire before Oliver decides to wake up at an ungodly time simply because he’s in a new house.”
Sebastian bid them goodnight, kissed Margaret’s knuckles, and followed, murmuring something that made her laugh.
Within moments, the room fell quiet. Only Edward remained, standing at the end of the table.
Beatrice folded her napkin carefully, more to steady her hands than from necessity. When he looked at her, something softened in his expression.
“You were a gracious hostess. You made their stay pleasant,” he offered.
She let her gaze drop to the table before lifting it back. “I enjoyed it more than I expected.”
His mouth curved. “I did, too.”
Beatrice rose, smoothing her skirts. “Well, it’s late. I suppose—”
“Yes,” he interrupted, though he didn’t move. “We should both retire.”
But neither of them stepped away. The fire popped quietly in the grate.
Beatrice swallowed. “Edward—”
“Beatrice—”
She felt her lips curve despite the knot in her chest. “You go first.”
He hesitated, something unguarded flickering in his eyes before he tucked it away. “Only this—” His voice dropped. “Your presence alters this house. You’ve made Wrexford feel lived-in. I hadn’t realized it was merely… furnished before.”
“I’m not certain that’s true.”
He shook his head. “It is. Far more than you know.”
“I should go.” Heat curled low in her stomach, and her palms grew clammy.
He released a breath, nearly a sigh. “Yes, you should rest.”
She dipped her head, unable to hold his gaze any longer. “Goodnight, then.”
“Goodnight, Duchess.”
She turned, her hand brushing the wall as she moved toward the corridor. She could feel him behind her, as though the air shifted around his stillness.
Just before she rounded the corner, she glanced back.
Edward remained exactly where she had left him, standing in the warm spill of firelight, watching her go.
She didn’t trust herself to breathe until she was out of sight.