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“A pity then that cat is not your wife.” So waspish! Beatrice made to move past him, and he reached out and took her wrist. No matter that his grasp was light and there was no rage pumping off him; she could not help but recoil.
Osborn released his hold without hesitation. “I was not in want of a wife, you or anyone else—”
“It is fortunate I shall not take that to heart,” she sniped. Sniped! “Consider me no more or less than a chamberlain—”
“—and yet you insist on acting in a wifely manner.”
“Is it the masculine term that offends you?” She resumed her walk down the corridor. “Chatelaine, then. Shall we deem that my role rather than wife?”
He followed her, relentless. “The children were asking for their aunt.”
“Have they none that I am such a novelty?”
“None that they come by through their favorite uncle.”
“Ah, you enjoy that distinction. Are you their only?” She paused at the green baize door.
“I comprehend what you have done there,” Osborn said. He reached up to run a hand over his hair, putting order on curls that routinely threatened to spring free, a habit that made her petticoats feel oppressively tight, which was an impossibility. He considered her and ran his hand over his lush hair slowly. He sniffed and shook his head, confused. “Have you taken to using a new perfume?”
“I am using the soap as supplied by your staff.”
“Our staff,” he corrected absently. He reached for her wrist again and ran his fingers over her pulse, which skipped like stones over a lake. Which he felt. Which made him squint. “No, this is not mint nor jasmine. This is rather…” He drifted off, lost for words. For once.
“I hazard it is thanks to the lack of mold and mildew,” Beatrice said, mesmerized by the fingers stroking her wrist.
“No, it is nothing to do with the house.” He stepped closer, and she did not step away.
He tilted his head and stuck out his nose.
He tilted it back again, and she struggled to hold his gaze.
The tip of his tongue appeared between his lips.
She backed up a step and swayed forward two.
He reached out and ran a finger behind her ear.
He rubbed his thumb against a forefinger and then leaned forward, nose very close to her jaw. Now that she was close to him, the scent of citrus was detectable; she recalled overhearing what Ben had said about humans and scents and top notes and wondered if this flood of orange was his or merely his pomade. “What have your relations to say about, about our—this union?” Beatrice stepped back as His Grace seemed content to muse upon her jaw forever.
“They are thrilled beyond expression,” Osborn said, readopting his customary scowl. “They anticipate the growth of our family posthaste despite my protestations otherwise.”
“We have agreed upon a white marriage.” The reminder of this covenant seemed necessary to invoke at this juncture.
“We have.” He sniffed her again. “And yet there is no reason to eschew a cordial affiliation.”
“A cordial affiliation?” Beatrice asked, incredulous. “What does that entail, I must ask?”
He opened his mouth to explain and once again seemed bereft of words. “It wants careful thought ere I speak further.”
Does it?She suspected he hadn’t a notion what he was talking about. “Then I can do nothing but await further intelligence, Your Grace.” Beatrice sank into one of her defiant curtsies and swished away.
Nine
Beatrice paused in her daily pilgrimage through Arcadia on the threshold of the larger reception room. Its placement at the top of the stairs seemed to beg for its designation as a room for receiving callers, but there was something about it she wanted to keep for their family.
For Osborn’s family.
“Mr. Todd.” She stopped the factotum on his way past her, a hammer in one hand, a broom in the other. “A word, if you please.” He laid aside the broom and crooked his neck.
