Beatrice finished tying the bandage and finally looked up. "And you, Your Grace, are tracking mud onto my clean floor. The scullery is to your left. I suggest you remove your boots before you take another step."
The heavy silence that followed Beatrice's command was thick enough to be cut with a carving knife. Richard Fitzroy stood rooted to the threshold of the sitting room, water dripping from the brim of his ruined beaver hat and pooling on the pristine flagstones. The sheer audacity of her instruction warred with the bone-deep chill racking his body. Lady Clara, who had never in her nineteen years seen her formidable brother openly defied, let out a tiny, involuntary gasp, clutching her mug of broth with white-knuckled fingers.
"I am the Duke of Stanhope," Richard said, his voice dropping to a dangerously low register that usually sent politicians scattering in the halls of Westminster.
"And I am the woman who owns the floor you are currently ruining," Beatrice countered, rising gracefully to her feet. She grabbed a worn but clean towel from a stack near the hearth and tossed it directly at his chest.
The Duke, acting on sheer reflex, caught it.
"The scullery is to your left. Take off the coat, too, unless you wish to die of an ague before morning."
For a moment, he contemplated tearing the humble cottage apart out of sheer spite. But his sister's fragile, pleading look and the very real, agonizing ache of the cold seeping into his bones forced his hand. With a stiff, jerky motion that conveyed every ounce of his aristocratic fury, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the small adjoining scullery.
When he returned ten minutes later, stripped of his soaked greatcoat, his cravat undone, and walking in stockinged feet, he looked less like a deity of the realm and more like a weary, battered mortal. He carried with him a heavy leather satchel, which he clutched with a protectiveness that immediately caught Beatrice's eye.
"Sit," Beatrice instructed, gesturing to a sturdy wooden armchair positioned near the hearth.
Richard complied, though he did so with an air of immense suffering. He placed the leather satchel squarely on his lap. Beatrice watched him for a moment. The satchel was an exquisite piece of craftsmanship, stamped with a wax seal that she couldn't quite make out in the flickering firelight.
"I will require a hot meal," the Duke announced, leaning toward the fire. "And a private room for my sister. Furthermore, I must insist that you ride to the nearest village at first light to fetch a magistrate and a proper carriage. I am on urgent business for Viscount Castlereagh, and my delay cannot be tolerated."
Beatrice paused in her task of wiping down the heavy oak table. She turned to face him, the firelight catching the sharp, intelligent angles of her face.
"Your Grace," she began, her tone maddeningly patient, "this is not a posting inn. I do not have a staff. I do not have a private room for your sister, as Oak Haven possesses exactly two bedchambers, one of which currently houses your injured coachman. Lady Clara is welcome to share my bed. You, on the other hand, will make do with the rug before the hearth."
Richard's jaw tightened. "I beg your pardon?"
"Furthermore," Beatrice continued, ignoring his outrage, "the nearest village is six miles away. The bridge at Blackwood Creek will be washed out by this storm, meaning no one is leaving this property for at least two days. Viscount Castlereagh himself could be waiting for you, and it would not change the topography of Yorkshire. As for your hot meal, there is bread, sharp cheese, and the remainder of the broth. I am not your scullery maid, Duke. You may serve yourself."
Richard stared at her. His world was one of absolute compliance. If he required a carriage in London, three appeared. If he wished to dine at midnight, a feast was prepared. He was a man deeply entrenched in the political maneuvering of the Crown, secretly ferrying vital correspondence regarding the recent violent Luddite uprisings in the north—uprisings that threatened the very economic stability of England. His satchel contained names of wealthy mill owners to be protected and agitators to be hunted. He was a man holding the fate of the north in his lap, and this provincial spinster was telling him to slice his own cheese.
"You have no idea who you are dealing with, madam," Richard said softly, the threat palpable.
"I know exactly who I am dealing with," Beatrice replied coolly. "A man who believes his title shields him from the realities of the world. But here, the wind does not care that you are a duke. The floodwaters will not part for your lineage. Tonight, you are merely a man who needs a fire, and you would do well to remember who built it."
She stepped closer to offer him a wooden platter of food. As she did, the Duke reached up to take it, and his hand brushed hers.
Beatrice froze.
Her eyes dropped from his face to the heavy gold signet ring on his right hand. It was not his familial crest. It was a secondary ring worn on the index finger: a striking, intricate insignia of a roaring lion wrapped in a chain of ivy.
Beatrice's breath hitched in her throat. The roar of the wind outside seemed to suddenly vanish, replaced by the deafening rushing of blood in her ears.
She had seen that exact insignia before.