Page 67 of His Unwanted Duchess

Beatrice closed her eyes. She still could not think of anything to say. Something like horror was starting to trickle in at the memory of their brazen behavior. Anyone might have seen them giggling and kissing outside the carriage, drinking from an open champagne bottle, or making the carriage bounce on its axles.

How could I have been so indiscreet?

The memory of Cornelia Thompson, too, crept back into Beatrice’s head. Stephen had sworn that there was nothing between him and Miss Thompson, and she didn’t think he was lying.

And yet… and yet… Cornelia Thompsonwasbeautiful, clever, and talented, and so very fascinating.

Beatrice glanced out of the corner of her eye and caught Stephen looking her way. She had just mustered the courage to speak, to sayanything, when the carriage lurched to a halt.

As expected, Stephen scrambled to get out of the carriage, and Beatricefinallyfound her voice.

“Wait!”

He might have pretended not to hear her or simply ignored her, but he paused, one hand on the side of the carriage, and glanced back over his shoulder.

“Beatrice…” he began, sounding tired.

“We ought to talk, you and I,” she said firmly, a little surprised at the words coming out of her mouth.

“Tomorrow.”

“Tonight.”

He hesitated, then let his shoulders sag. “Oh, very well. If anyone is still up, I’ll request tea to be brought to us in…” He hesitated, just for a moment. “In the conservatory.”

She bit her lip and nodded. “In the conservatory.”

The interior of the house had been cleaned and tidied, the stains mostly gone, the broken glass and shattered crockery swept away. The defaced portrait of Stephen was gone, and Beatrice wondered privately where it had been taken.

Stephen disappeared into the depths of the house, and Beatrice half-expected to go to the conservatory and find it empty. She was mistaken. Stephen was already there, sitting on a wicker armchair with his chin in his hand, watching Mouse pour tea into a pair of cups.

“Sit, please,” Stephen said, not lifting his eyes from the cups. “Thank you, Mouse, that will do.”

The butler gave a neat bow, hesitated, and then turned to Beatrice. “The servants are ready to resume their work, Your Grace,” he said, sounding almost embarrassed.

Beatrice’s cheeks burned. “I see. Thank you, Mouse.”

He bowed again and left.

Beatrice turned to Stephen. “You told him to say that.”

“I did not,” Stephen responded crisply. “Come, sit. You wanted to talk, so talk. What is so important for you to discuss?”

She did not sit. Instead, she stared down at him, baffled.

“Are you truly going to act as if nothing happened between us?”

He sighed, rubbing the space between his eyebrows. “Do you know, my dear, that ladies and gentlemen do indeed engage in such activities without any intent to form a relationship?”

Beatrice’s cheeks burned. “Yes, yes, I know that. I’m not a fool.”

“Then what, exactly, are we discussing?”

There was a long pause while Beatrice tried to gather her thoughts.

“Why are you so hellbent on us keeping our distance from each other?” she said, at last.

A muscle ticked in Stephen’s jaw, and he glanced away. “If I were you, dear, I should not ask questions I did not wish to know the answers to.”

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