Chapter 18
The journey to London should have exhausted Beatrice into stillness. Instead, it left her vibrating with a nervous energy.
The townhouse felt different from Wrexford Hall. It was closer, warmer, and more alive with sound.
It all felt very unfamiliar after several weeks at Bath. Servants moving quickly up and down the stairs. The rumble of carriages outside. The faint chime of bells in the entrance hall whenever a door opened.
By late afternoon, Mrs. Greaves, the London housekeeper, appeared in the doorway along with a maid. “Your bath is ready, Your Grace.”
Beatrice nodded, relieved for the excuse to escape her own restless thoughts.
Steam had already begun to curl through the dressing room, softening the lamplight. The copper tub gleamed beneath the window, filled almost to the brim, scented faintly—delicately—with rosemary and mint.
The maids had warmed the room thoroughly, as every surface seemed to retain heat. Her new maid—new to her—stood waiting with towels at a respectful distance.
“This should be pleasant, Your Grace,” she murmured, loosening the laces at the back of her gown. “London dust is dreadful after travel.”
Beatrice gave a small laugh. “I had forgotten. One grows spoiled in the country.”
The maid—Clara, she reminded herself—smiled briefly but said nothing more. She was brisk, competent, and blessedly quiet. Beatrice liked her more by the minute.
When the water finally closed over her shoulders, heat sank into her bones like something she had been missing for days. Her muscles relaxed by degrees, each breath chasing the tension from her body.
Clara discreetly busied herself with laying out garments on the nearby chaise: a fresh chemise, silk stockings, stays already loosened for comfort, and the gown Beatrice had chosen earlier that morning—a sweeping blue-grey piece that flattered without drawing attention, its embroidery subtle in candlelight.
Beatrice sank deeper into the tub, resting her head against the rolled towel on the rim.
It is only a ball. Another evening. Another crowd. Another set of eyes.
But her hands—traitorous things—still trembled faintly beneath the water.
“You must be tired from the journey, Your Grace,” Clara remarked quietly, offering a warm washcloth.
“Perhaps,” Beatrice answered, though tired was not the right word. Restless fit better. Uncertain.
When the water cooled, Clara helped her out, wrapping her in soft linens and then guiding her to the dressing table, where a fire glowed low and steady.
Her hair, still damp, was lifted and twisted with deft, practiced fingers.
“How would you like it this evening, Your Grace?”
“Not too elaborate,” Beatrice replied. “Lady Winthrop will provide enough spectacle for the whole ton.”
Her hair was pulled into a loose, elegant chignon, with a few soft strands left hanging at her temples. Not girlish, just gentle. A touch she would never have permitted months ago.
Another maid held her petticoats. “If you please, Your Grace, turn a little.”
Finally, the stays were secured with a soft click of the metal busk, and Beatrice released a slow breath.
Clara lifted the gown, careful not to crease the embroidery, and pulled it over her shoulders.
The fabric draped with the reassuring heaviness of good silk, and Clara gave the skirts a firm shake so that they fell in clean, elegant lines.
“Hold still for a moment, Your Grace,” she murmured, easing one fold into alignment. “There.”
When the maids finished, they stepped aside. Beatrice turned to stare at her reflection in the mirror.
“Will that be all, Your Grace?” Clara asked, gathering the scattered pins into the pin cushion.
Beatrice didn’t answer at once. Her reflection looked back at her with an unsettling steel. She looked… composed, as though nothing about tonight bothered her. If only that were true.
“Yes,” she said at last, her voice quieter than she intended. “Thank you, Clara. You may all leave.”
The maids curtsied and withdrew, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
Beatrice smoothed her skirt once, then again—an unnecessary fussing she resented herself for. It was only a ball. She had attended dozens. Hundreds, perhaps. And yet—
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.
“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.”
“I am perfectly well,” she lied.
Another quick, treacherous glance. She caught it this time, because she had breathed in the wrong moment and turned her chin a fraction.
Edward looked away quickly. “Are you unwell?”
“No.” She composed herself. “I, uh, I’m only thinking of the baby.”
“Ah.” His posture relaxed. “Mrs. Hart could manage ten infants before breakfast. She travelled just to put your mind at rest with Pip.”
“That is not reassuring,” Beatrice said dryly, finally risking the smallest sideways look.
Another mistake.
Edward looked entirely too handsome. Entirely too composed. Entirely too aware of her noticing.
His mouth twitched. “You doubt her skills?”
“I don’t,” she said, staring at the window as if the fog held the answers to life’s most difficult questions. “I simply feel strange leaving Pip behind.”
“You left her for an hour yesterday,” he pointed out mildly.
“That was different.”
“How?”
“I could still hear her cry if she needed me.”
Edward’s eyes softened in the glass pane. “She will be fine, Beatrice.”
Something in his tone—gentle without presumption, reassuring without arrogance—made her swallow.
“I know,” she said quietly.
Silence settled again. Not uncomfortable, just… charged.
The carriage hit a rut, and her shoulder brushed his.
She froze. So did he.
He looked away first, which was intolerable, because it made her want to look at him, which she absolutely would not do.
“Are you certain you’re not unwell?” he asked after a moment, sounding almost amused.
“Quite certain.”
“Hm.” A thoughtful nod. “Because you keep avoiding looking at me.”
Her head snapped toward him before she could stop herself. “I am not avoiding—”
Their eyes met and held for far too long.
Beatrice inhaled sharply and faced forward so fast that her curls nearly tugged free. “You’re imagining things,” she huffed, mortified by the warmth crawling up her throat.
Beside her, Edward huffed a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
The carriage slowed, and lantern light brightened the windows as they approached Berkeley Square, where Winthrop House blazed with candlelight and elegant carriages lined the street.
Edward straightened. “We’ve arrived.”
“Good,” Beatrice muttered.
The carriage rolled to a halt, and a footman moved to open the door.
Edward stepped out as though nothing had happened.