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“How do you do, ladies?” Drew said.
“Your Grace,” replied Mrs. Wright. “A pleasure.”
Drew’s eyes rested on Ford. “I want to talk to you, Wright. Tea can wait.”
“Happy to,” Ford replied easily. “Why don’t we go into the front room and leave the ladies to their tea?”
The shop bell rang again.
“Now who can that be?” Beatrice asked.
She recognized the female voices instantly. “Isobel, Viola,” she cried, running to greet her friends.
Ford stood awkwardly in the front room with Thorndon as Beatrice and her friends chattered their way down the hall toward the parlor.
The duke cleared his throat. “I gather from thepresence of your mother that your intentions are honorable, Wright, and I don’t have to murder you today?”
“I hope not, Your Grace. And, yes, my intentions are entirely honorable.”
“That’s a relief.”
“May I hope for your blessing, Your Grace?” He held his breath. So much hinged on the words that followed.
“Beatrice loves you, that’s plain to see, and I want her to be happy. So there’s the end of it. Is there any brandy in this house? I’ve had one devil of a night.” His eyes were red-rimmed and dazed. “I just had the most extraordinary news from my wife. I’m going to be a father, Wright.”
“Congratulations, Your Grace. I’ve got a strong Irish whisky, will that do?”
“That’ll do. Pour me a stiff glass.”
Ford’s spirits lifted as he went upstairs in search of the whisky bottle he’d packed into his trunk. The duke might not approve of the match, but he wouldn’t stand in their way. And he wouldn’t ruin Ford’s father.
Ford glanced into the reading room. The ancient manuscript still sat on the shelf, covered in cloth. He hadn’t opened the parcel, as he knew Beatrice would want to be the one to unwrap her treasure first.
Ford was hoping to have the pleasure of removing Beatrice’s clothing while she unwrapped the book. The thought sent desire coursing through his body.
He brought the parcel upstairs with him and laid it next to the bed.
“I’m going to be a father,” the duke repeatedwhen Ford returned. His eyes held a mixture of excitement and terror.
“I’ll leave you with the bottle, Your Grace,” Ford said. “You look like you could use a nice quiet drink by the fire.”
He left Thorndon in the front room with the whisky and a blazing fire in the grate, and went back to the parlor.
The room was filled with women.
Mrs. Kettle buzzed about, happy as a bee in a clover field, dispensing tea to all and sundry. Beatrice and her friends had their heads together, and were all talking at once.
His mother and aunt were talking quietly.
Nothing for it but to brave the tide of femininity.
“There’s the handsome highwayman,” said Miss Beaton. “You caused quite a stir last night.”
“Not as much as Beatrice did with her wallflower costume,” said Miss Mayberry.
“I think it was about equal. Especially when you two waltzed, and it was clear for everyone to see that you were enamored of one another.” Miss Beaton sighed and clasped her hands together. “It was so romantic.”
Speaking of romance, Ford had a question he needed to ask Beatrice, now that he was certain the duke wouldn’t stand in their way. It did make things easier, but there were still so many obstacles in their path. He wanted Beatrice to answer his question with her eyes wide open; fully aware of the extent of the risk she’d be taking.
