Chapter 17 #2
Worse, she had armed herself with the most unforgiving of weapons: calm determination.
The tailor was announced right after luncheon with an expression suggesting he intended to rebuild Edward entirely from the shoulders down, followed by the clatter of a small army of assistants carrying long rectangular boxes and rolls of fabric draped over their arms.
They marched into the drawing room like pallbearers at some elaborate ceremony. Edward watched the procession with mounting dread.
“For God’s sake,” he muttered. “I’m only attending a ball.”
Beatrice didn’t look up from the letter she was reviewing. “You are attending several balls, Your Grace. And charity dinners. And luncheons. And Lady Ashcombe’s musicale next Thursday.”
Edward’s entire soul recoiled. “I am?”
“You are,” she said gently, signing her name at the bottom of a page. “It’s what people do.”
“I’ve avoided musicales for years.”
She finally looked up at him with a serene smile that was, in his opinion, deeply dangerous. “Yes. And now you’re married.”
As though that explained everything.
The tailor, an anxious man with thinning hair and the emotional fragility of a frightened sparrow, bowed deeply. “Your Grace, a pleasure. A tremendous honor.”
Edward already felt trapped. He eyed the boxes with deep suspicion.
“I have managed perfectly well for years,” he muttered. “Years, Duchess. Without posing like a mannequin.”
Beatrice, seated near the hearth with her hands folded in elegant patience, did not even spare him a glance. “And yet,” she said lightly, “you’ll pose now.”
The tailor’s assistants fluttered around him like anxious birds, tugging at ribbons, brushing nonexistent dust.
“Shall we begin?” Beatrice asked pleasantly.
Traitor.
Edward shrugged off his coat with the resignation of a man walking to the gallows, and the tailor set to taking his measurements, muttering to himself as he noted figures on a small pad.
The first coat was a disaster. A deep navy piece with overly fashionable lapels and buttons clearly chosen to impress the Prince Regent rather than Edward himself.
When the tailor stepped back in triumph, Edward turned toward the mirror. He looked ridiculous.
“This,” he deadpanned, “is not a coat. It is an act of aggression. It hangs like I’m wearing my own draperies.”
Beatrice pressed a knuckle to her mouth, clearly fighting a smile.
“It only needs adjusting.”
“It needs incinerating.”
The tailor made a wounded noise. “A minor miscalculation, Your Grace. The shoulders may be taken in—”
“The shoulders,” Edward interrupted, “are attempting to escape.”
“Perhaps if you stood still—” Beatrice tried valiantly.
“I am standing still.”
“Stiller.”
He glared at her, before trying the second coat. This one pulled so tightly at the shoulders that he couldn’t lift his arms past a modest angle. He attempted to gesture in irritation, and the seams protested like a dying animal.
“Ah,” he said grimly. “A coat designed for a man who wishes never to reach for anything.”
Beatrice calmly sipped her tea. “You reach for many things you shouldn’t.”
“Name one.”
“Your temper. If you stopped complaining, Duke, you might find the process quicker.”
“I am providing essential feedback.”
“You are providing noise.”
He shot her a look filled with wounded dignity. She ignored it. Masterfully.
The tailor made another strangled noise—whether laughter or panic, Edward couldn’t tell.
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. She was. 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.