Bea had no idea why the dowager suddenly felt compelled to rush them to the altar—less than a week before hers had been one of the many voices urging restraint and caution—but the older woman’s matter-of-fact attitude was like a balm to her heightened emotions, soothing the intensity of her feelings and allowing her to think coherently. Calmly, her gaze fixed on Kesgrave’s vibrant features, she waited as the minister opened the prayer book and began the Solemnization of Matrimony. He spoke slowly, carefully, his tone earnest and somber as he explained the ordination of marriage, and Bea, who thought his solemnity was a trifle overdone, felt her heart turn over in giddy delight when the duke rolled his eyes in impatience.
Even England’s most zealous pedant had his limits.
She smothered the giggle that rose in her throat and marveled again at the wonder of marrying a man whose thoughts aligned so perfectly with her own. Yielding partially to sentiment and partially to the strain of mischievousness she didn’t know she possessed before confronting the Duke of Kesgrave in the Skeffingtons’ darkened library, she decided to comply with his request to make a change to the ceremony. Clearly, he had not thought the matter through, for if he had paused for even a moment to consider the impact on their guests, he would never have made the suggestion.
Patiently, Bea listened to Mr. Bertram’s seemingly endless litany of vows—obey, serve, love, honor, keep, forsake—and agreed to abide by them all. Then she announced she had one minor alteration to make.
The minister looked up from his prayer book and raised a quizzical brow. “An alteration?”
Bea nodded soberly. “I would like to add a vow.”
Much taken aback by this presumption, the clergyman tilted his head to the side and sought to confirm that he had heard her correctly. “You would like to add a vow?”
“I would, yes,” she said, her tone mildly conversational as if discussing something utterly benign like the weather. “If you would be so kind, please say, ‘Wilt thou vow to cease investigating the horrible deaths that keep crossing thy path?’ Then I will answer, ‘I will.’”
The effect this entreaty had on the company was immediate—of course it was. To tinker with the Book of Common Prayer was already an intolerable impertinence but to suggest such a shocking addition was the height of impudence! The temerity of inserting the wretchedness of death into a joyful event! The audacity of undermining the sanctity of marriage with irreverent humor!
Mr. Bertram glowered fiercely at the bride before directing his passionate disapproval at the dowager for allowing such disrespect to prosper in her drawing room. Her grace opened her mouth to protest the unspoken accusation but failed to say anything coherent. Flora giggled knowingly, Lady Abercrombie clucked censoriously, and Russell called out, “I say, Bea, that’s not quite the thing.” Nuneaton murmured, “Brava,” while Uncle Horace looked around as if not entirely sure what had just happened.
But it was Aunt Vera’s response—a gasp of horror so deeply felt it seemed to rise from the tips of her toes—that caused Bea to look up at her husband and grin impishly.
Chapter Two
To say that Beatrice flinched every time someone in her new home addressed her as “your grace” would be overstating the case. When, for example, Kesgrave brushed an errant lock out of her eyes, smiled down at her—his own normally kempt appearance in equal disarray from recent activities—and asked softly, “Are you happy, your grace?” she did not recoil in the slightest. No, indeed, the very opposite, for she responded by pressing her body closer to his and demonstrating the extent of her delight.
No, the first hint of a wince happened many hours later, when the housemaid who delivered her breakfast tray greeted her with an excess of deference, dropping into a deep curtsey, avoiding eye contact and punctuating every utterance with “your grace.”
Good morning, your grace.
Your breakfast, your grace.
Plum cake, your grace.
Tea, your grace.
Your grace, your grace, your grace.
By the time the young woman had left the room, the languid peace Bea had felt upon waking in Kesgrave’s arms had been replaced by a fluttery agitation she could not quite squelch.
She made a determined effort, of course, smiling brightly when Kesgrave returned to the bedchamber dressed informally in breeches, a white muslin shirt and waistcoat. It helped, no doubt, that her pulse quickened at the site of his handsome figure and while he was in the room, she could think of nothing but how lovely he looked without his shirt….
Eventually, however, rationality returned and with it the keen understanding that the deference displayed by the maid had not been excessive. The very opposite, in fact: It had been exactly in line with her due as a duchess.
Assailed by the consequence, Bea had flinched.
An hour later, when another maid entered the extravagant dressing room employing her title with daunting repetition, Bea blanched visibly, a reaction the servant was too well trained to notice. To her surprise, the young woman held in her arms a gown from Bea’s own wardrobe in Portman Square, and although Bea was relieved to don something worn and familiar, she was just as uneasy with the effortless way the garment had appeared in her new home. She’d imagined—naively, it seemed now—paying a call on number nineteen to pack her belongings herself while Flora peppered her with questions about the wonders of Kesgrave House and Aunt Vera bemoaned the difficulties of overseeing a very large staff.
Without question Bea was grateful to be spared the obligation of performing the chore, but she could not fully embrace the convenience of having someone else perform it for her. It was, she thought, a reasonable indication of what life would be like with the duke, and while many women would eagerly welcome the prospect of a path strewn with rose petals, she couldn’t help but
