She poured out a cup of coffee and drank the heady dark liquid with a sigh of happiness. It was so delicious she almost swooned.
The bread, too, was so light and perfect that she nearly groaned with joy as she ate it with the hunger of one who’d spent a great deal of energy.
Yes, she would surprise the duke with her resiliency and independence. She would do very well on her own. She would not lean on him. He already had given her far too much support as it was.
She would not be some silly fool, enamored with her husband just because they’d spent a splendid night in bed.
Even if she found herself wishing that perhaps, for once, she could indulge in just a bit of romantic silliness.
She shook her head. Permitting such thoughts would only lead to dissatisfaction.
Beatrice wiped her hands on the accompanying damask napkin, then ran for the bell pull. It was time to have a bath.
She had been quite active the night before, and she would need her ablutions before she met with the Ladies’ League of Rights outside of Parliament.
Today, she was going to look her very best.
It was her first day as the Duchess of Blackheath, and she planned to make an impression.
…
William strode out onto the wide steps of Parliament with Viscount North beside him, debating the last points of the bill on the corn laws.
It was a shambles, of course.
The price of bread was going to be astronomical this year. No doubt there would be revolts all over England. They were going to have to do their very best to ensure that people did not go hungry.
And he was concerned. The price of bread had been a leading factor in the French Revolution.
When mothers could not get bread for their children, leaders such as himself and North needed to act.
They came out to dull, overcast skies and the shouts of ladies.
As usual, there was a thick crowd on the street that lined Parliament. But today there seemed to be a particular crush and rush of movement. He let his gaze wander to the people petitioning outside the halls.
Viscount North stood beside him, cocked his head to the side, and said, “I say, is that not Lady Beatrice?” North cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon—the Duchess of Blackheath.”
He shook his head, tucking his hand behind his back. “It can’t possibly be. She’s engaged today in the organization of the house.”
But then his gaze snapped to the woman to whom North was pointing.
Dear God.
It was Beatrice.
She stood in the center of a vast crowd, handing out pamphlets. Her brown hair was curled in a most sensible fashion on top of her head with a simple straw bonnet with burgundy ribbons.
A single coil of dark hair laced with fiery red bounced over her Burgundy Spencer. And her glasses, as always, glinted in the sunlight.
She beamed at the crowd as she happily thrust flyers into hands, even at people who walked by her with no interest.
She and several of her friends shouted, “Ladies’ rights! Support ladies’ rights! Petition Parliament!”
And he stared agog.
In that moment, he realized he’d never seen her in action.
What the devil was she doing?