Beatrice, her face relaxed and her eyes bright, sat in her favorite armchair, a soft smile on her lips. Derek was already there, seated in another chair by the window, his gaze distant as he stared out at the gardens. A maid approached him with a silver tea tray, but he dismissed her with a short, impatient wave of his hand and poured the tea himself, his movements stiff.
He had been replaying the scene in the garden over and over in his mind. The smile. The sound of his own name. He had come here, to the drawing room, to escape the strange, unsettling pull of it.
The door opened, and Marissa entered after changing her dress .
"My dear," Beatrice spoke, her voice full of a warmth that was entirely new.
Marissa curtsied deeply. "Grandmother."
Derek's head turned. He watched her as she moved into the room. She was back in her formal, composed mask. The serene Duchess. The open, warm woman who had smiled at him by the jasmine trellis was gone, as if she had been a dream.
