Page 69 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke

Well, at least, she hoped he would.

The reason she was this tangled up with the Duke in the first place was because that little imp was never where she left him, but she was confident this time that he would be nicely tucked in bed by now.

She’d made sure to take precautions that night against his wanderings.

As Joanna drifted into exhausted slumber beside her, Emma lay awake, her body still humming with phantom pleasure even as her mind cataloged all the reasons she must guard her heart against the Duke’s dangerous allure.

For Tristan’s sake, for her self-preservation, she had to ensure their interactions remained within the bounds of proper acquaintance—regardless of how much her traitorous body yearned for his touch.

* * *

Joanna stood motionless at her drawing room window, the morning light catching the lenses of her spectacles as Mrs. Flint delivered the news that momentarily suspended all rational thought. Lady Harrington’s carriage stood on the gravel drive, its polished elegance as incongruous against the surroundings of Dennison House as its owner’s presence would be within it.

“Show her in,” Joanna instructed, smoothing her day dress with hands that betrayed a slight tremor. “And perhaps arrange for tea.”

Lady Harrington cut an imposing figure in lavender silk and Brussels lace, her usual hauteur noticeably diminished as she examined a small watercolor landscape with feigned interest. The silence between them stretched like an overwound clock spring until she turned, fidgeting uncharacteristically with her reticule.

“Miss Joanna, I believe I owe you an apology for the regrettable incident at the Marquess of Knightley’s ball last evening.”

The statement, delivered with visible difficulty, momentarily robbed Joanna of her usual composure.

“An apology,” she echoed, the words emerging more as a confirmation than a question.

“Indeed. The spillage of wine on your gown was not the accident I claimed it to be.” Lady Harrington’s lips thinned. “It was a deliberate act, prompted by petty jealousy of your evident rapport with the Marquess.”

Joanna’s eyebrows rose. “Jealousy? Of what, pray tell?”

“His attention to your conversation was… noticeable. Particularly to one such as yourself, who makes no particular effort to cultivate the social graces most gentlemen find appealing.”

The assessment, though partially wrapped in apology, contained barbs that might have wounded Joanna had she not spent a lifetime developing immunity to such judgments.

Was Lady Harrington truly here to apologize? She spoke like someone who’d never had to apologize in her life.

Her housekeeper’s arrival with tea provided a momentary reprieve from the tension.

Once cups had been poured, Lady Harrington withdrew an envelope from her reticule. “I have taken the liberty of including a sum that should cover the cost of replacing the garment.”

Joanna regarded the envelope without reaching for it. “That is most… generous. Though I confess I am curious about this unexpected change of heart.”

“Let us say that I have been reminded of certain obligations that accompany privilege,” Lady Harrington replied. “I also wished to extend an invitation to you and your niece, Lady Cuthbert, to attend my garden party next Thursday.”

Joanna’s jaw dropped. Lady Harrington’s garden parties were exclusive affairs; that she should extend such an invitation defied all established patterns of their acquaintance.

“It would please me greatly to demonstrate that any… unpleasantness between us has been resolved to mutual satisfaction.”

The careful phrasing suggested motives beyond mere contrition, yet the apology itself seemed genuine enough if reluctantly delivered.

“I shall, of course, need to consult with my niece, but speaking for myself, I would be… pleased to accept your invitation.”

Relief flickered briefly across Lady Harrington’s features, before her composed facade reasserted itself. With brisk efficiency, she concluded her visit and departed, leaving Joanna in a state of bewildered contemplation.

Emma came down the stairs shortly after, finding her aunt still at the threshold, watching Lady Harrington’s departing carriage.

“She came to my house and apologized to me.” Joanna’s voice trembled with disbelief. “I cannot fathom it. Why would she humble herself so?”

Emma followed her gaze, recognizing the crest. “Lady Harrington called on you? Whatever for?”

“To apologize for the wine incident, offer compensation, and invite us both to her garden party next Thursday.”

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