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“The one about to make her debut.” Arthur was pleased to demonstrate he remembered that.
Madam was not pleased to hear it. “The one Georgie threatened me with to secure my compliance, yes.”
“Georgie?” He laughed. “When did he give you permission to make free with his childhood name?”
“I took it myself.” Little clawed spitfire cake. “Do you know where we are going?”
“Yes.” Two could play this game. He did not elaborate. She blinked again and resumed her avid attention to the passing scenery. His bear rolled about with glee, presumably at Madam’s audacity. Whose side was he on? “Arcadia is in the Borough of Waverley,” Arthur said, his voice launching into the enclosed space like a cannonball.
“That is near to Lowell Hall.” Madam betrayed herself by tightening her hand on her tiny purse.
“Are you acquainted with the duke?” His bear sat up, suspicious.
“I am acquainted with the duchess,” she corrected. “I count her as a friend, such as one may be on the fringes of society.” She looked down at her lap. “They are a love match.”
“My younger brother married for love.”
“How unusual.” Madam’s tone betrayed an utter lack of curiosity.
“Indeed,” Arthur agreed, unwilling to surrender. “They were promised from the cradle as children often are, but it transpired they were fated mates.”
“Such as your kind are.”
“As we can be. As humans can be.” He wasn’t entirely sure about that last.
“Barring the claws and teeth.”
“I would not dispute that so readily, my lady.” Arthur sat forward with relish. “Surely you have heard theon-ditsregarding Viscount Wallace and his lady? She has taken to wearing unfashionably high-necked gowns to hide his love bites—”
“I do not care for tittle-tattle, Your Grace.” Her tone called to mind moors in the depths of December.
Arthur sat back, daunted at last. “It is fortunate then you will not meet your sister-in-law, for she sups of scandal broth the very moment it has been spooned out.” He took a page from her book and looked out the opposite window.
***
Why would they not meet?Beatrice wondered. Was he ashamed of her? He would not be the first of her husbands to feel so, despite this new specimen being as far from the previous as it was possible to be. Castleton had been wiry and graying and slightly stooped; by contrast the duke exuded rude good health. His robust form was as diffidently adorned as the night they met, and yet even the least tutored eye would discern the faultless quality of his attire. Nor could she cast aspersions on his grooming; his hair betrayed profound attention paid to it. It was thick and carefully coiffed with pomade, likely the source of the scent of bitter orange pervading the carriage. It rivaled the tresses of any debutante who had been told it was her finest feature.
She was conscious of his legs bracketing her skirts, aware that his posture made her heart flutter. She knew better than to give in to that fluttering as she knew his kind could detect it, marking her as prey. The deep breathing she undertook to slow its pace only served to draw the delicious citrus scent deeper into her lungs, causing havoc in her petticoats, which was not acceptable. Or expected. The very notion she would find this stranger pleasing in any way was surely the first step on the road to misfortune.
Beatrice turned her attention to his hands, an even graver error. Her brothers cultivated themselves as Pinks of the ton, and their hands exhibited their utter unfamiliarity with work of any kind. The same could not be said of the duke’s, although what he turned them to she could not fathom.
Would she address him as “Duke”? “His Grace”? “Osborn”? She knew one thing she could not name him. “Vera amoris,” she murmured.
“Who, now? Oh, my brother.” The duke flexed a thigh so powerfully it rustled her skirt. “You know our ways.” He flexed his other thigh; both were the approximate size of a tree in its middle years. “How was it that you came to Castleton’s attention?” he asked.
“Myself specifically or a human in general?” She played with the ring beneath her glove. “I imagine my father and he were known to one another, as men of our class can be. After Lady Phoebe…departed on her travels, my father offered me in her place.”
“Had he not thought to discover why the lady…departed on her travels?” His tone was gentle but incredulous. “Castleton was widely known to be unstable at best.”
“Indeed? Who amongst your kind would have thought to inform my father without explaining who Castleton was, in essence?” She had stopped asking herself this years ago. “It would have made no odds. The bride price was high and Castleton able to pay it.”
“And your marriage, what was its duration?” Both thighs flexed. Honestly, there was no call for it.
“Near to five years.” Given his professed love of gossip, she was shocked he did not know this.
“And you were not blessed with offspring.”
“I was not.” Her flat tone did not reflect the familiar tightening in her chest.
