Page 30 of Most Unusual Duke

“Ursella is as shy as the day is long,” Ben said, “but she is stubborn. We are hoping she may present as an Omega. What a blessing that would be for our sleuth.”

“We are not a sleuth.” Arthur suspected this would become a daily refrain.

“What would your favorite playwright have to say about protesting too much? Come, Ben, let us go see how plump our children have become, gorging on biscuits.” Charlotte poked Arthur in the belly, did the thing women did with their skirts to convey scorn, and made her way to the back of the house.

***

How unlike me, Beatrice thought,to be so openly spiteful.

Oh, she knew spite like she knew the palm of her hand, thanks to the antipathy of thebeau mondeand the dishonesty of their social interactions. When she greeted insincere behavior with her characteristic dispassion and an unflinching stare, she found their thinly veiled malice quailed in the face of her implacability; her entire reputation relied upon her ability to repel the slings and arrows of tittle-tattle and importunate suitors.

Yet there she had been, insulted before strangers, nothing new, and she had…lashed out. What an uncivilized impression to make. But it did not matter what Osborn’s family thought of her or that she might cause him to lose face before them down to an insult or two falling from his lips.

His lips. Had that happened only hours ago? Up in the attic, he’d held her close, as though she had been in need of comfort and protection. She’d found both in his embrace; his nose had fit so oddly and yet so well behind her ear, and those lips had brushed against her hair…

Let her not think of his lips.

Let her instead address what was clearly the master’s study.

Against all odds, the door that lead from the steward’s office to this larger room opened unhindered by eccentric deficiency. Like the ducal suite, this room was untouched, the stoppage of time betrayed by an abandoned tea service and the omnipresent dust. Arthur’s Alpha, presumably his father, had for the most part kept things to a standard Beatrice admired: books were shelved, drawers were shut, and the arrangement of quill, ink, and paper on the large desk was precise. However, there were signs something ill had occurred: she collected the few pieces of parchment that littered the floor, righted an overturned teacup, reset the fire irons that had fallen in…a rush to leave?

What had happened here?

Lacking anything better to hand, she took off her apron and dusted the desk and then the chair and sat. The letter she had written to Felicity was on its way thanks to the mysterious ways of Mr. Todd. (Was he an owl, to be so confident under the cover of night?) She had not found time to walk the grounds. The ducal suite had been made as accommodating as possible for the family, and their possessions had been brought in. Beatrice wondered if there was anything in the attics Charlotte would find comfortable or if toys for the children might be hidden in a nook or a cranny. She reached for a piece of paper out of habit and found it beyond her grasp. The acreage of the desk was of a sudden too great, and she rose hastily from the chair. It was not her place.

Beatrice did not feel the familiar despair of being in the wrong place. It simply was not hers. She stood to the left of the desk, and there the paper and pen were waiting for her hand. She shook her head at her foolishness and yet—

And yet. She was comfortable standing in that place. Near to what was naturally Arthur’s seat of power.

The ink had dried in the well. She went to retrieve more from the steward’s office when a knock sounded. She closed the door to the master’s study behind her; her instincts told her it was not time for the room to be open to the rest of the household.

“Yes, enter.”

Ciara popped her head in. “You’ve missed your tea, ma’am,” she scolded. “We’ve a cold collation if you’ll come along.”

She could not face the Humphriesen masse. “Thank you, Ciara. Has the family been apprised?”

“They are tired from the journey so have taken trays in their rooms.”

“Oh dear,” she said. “How thoughtless of me to leave them fending for themselves.”

“They are at home here,” Ciara said. “As is only right.”

“I shall take a tray in my room, then.” Why should she feel so solitary? It was what she wanted, after all.

“Leave it to me, ma’am.” Before Beatrice could protest otherwise, Ciara shut the door behind her.

A few brief notes and there was nothing left but to leave the safety of the office and venture forth. The zest Arthur’s family infused in the atmosphere skittered along her skin, a tangible thing, little brushes of vitality. She was so consumed by this, by the life suddenly pulsing around her, she could not be faulted for startling when something brushed against her ankles.

It was a cat. It ceased its ribboning around her feet and leapt up onto an occasional table set against the wall. They regarded one another.

“A cat may look at a duchess as well as look at a king,” Beatrice said, and it blinked. “Have you found your way down from the barn? I am not surprised to discover you making free of the main house given the faultiness of its doors.”

Beatrice turned toward the kitchen, and the cat hopped down to follow.

“I have put the refurbishment of the nursery at the top of the schedule as it is in a woeful state at best.” She looked down at the tabby and found it attending her every word. “Is your lineage as undersubscribed as that of my first husband or even my second?”

“This cat is not your husband,” rumbled That Voice. Osborn appeared from who knew where. Why he wandered the halls rather than barricade himself in a study or office like every other peer in creation she did not know. “And if she is anything like her antecedents, she is well able to litter.” He and the cat exchanged a glance, and the feline scampered off in the opposite direction.

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