Chapter Five
Beatrice couldn’t help but be slightly dazzled by the great hall of Mulgrave Manor.
It was an old Tudor-style house, which fit the rugged Yorkshire landscape better than a Palladian mansion would have done.
It was impeccably maintained, and instead of feeling old and musty, it felt warm and inviting, with a beautifully carved wooden ceiling, a display of gleaming medieval weapons hanging on the walls, and a huge log crackling in the hearth.
Hundreds of beeswax candles rendered the space bright even in the October gloom.
It seemed that the duke had invited the local gentry rather than his well-to-do friends from London, and Beatrice recognized most of those in attendance, in spite of their costumes.
There was the vicar, Mr. Briggs, dressed as a medieval friar.
The magistrate, Mr. Spencer, had put in a little more effort, and was dressed as Don Quixonte, complete with lance.
Oh, good—Mr. Spencer’s daughter, Jane, was there, dressed as a milkmaid. Beatrice could pass the next quarter of an hour chatting with Jane before her friend was inevitably asked to dance and she was left standing in the corner.
Beatrice had taken all of two steps toward Jane when someone seized her by the elbow. She detected a faint whiff of citrus.
She whirled around and found herself staring up into… nothing.
No, not nothing. It was a familiar black cowl.
“John!” she exclaimed, a rush of excitement surging through her before she recalled that she was vexed with him.
“Are you sure it’s me? There could be any number of men here tonight dressed as the headless driver.”
She rolled her eyes. “I recognized you before I even turned around. Your cologne is quite distinctive. What is that note of citrus? Bergamot?”
“Pomelo,” he replied.
“Ah. Pomelo.” Her new favorite scent. She gestured to the dark hood that covered his head. “You didn’t put much effort into your costume.”
He laughed. “I did not, although people have been stopping me all night to tell me what a brilliant idea it was to come as the headless driver.”
The corner of Beatrice’s mouth twitched. It was difficult to stay angry with him. “If only they knew.”
He leaned in close. “It will be our little secret.”
Across the room, the sound of violins filled the air as the string quartet the duke had hired for the occasion tuned their instruments.
John held out a hand. “Shall we?”
She placed her hand in his. “Let’s.”
It seemed that an inordinate number of whispers followed them as they crossed the great hall. Beatrice imagined that it was because her neighbors had recognized her as easily as she had recognized them, and they were unaccustomed to seeing her at a ball.
The dance was a Scotch reel, bright and sparkling and lightning quick.
Beatrice had never been much of a dancer, but John didn’t seem to mind, if his laughter was any indication.
He guided her through the turns with a steadying hand, and even if Beatrice did not dance elegantly, she did so with great enjoyment.
She was breathless when the dance concluded. “Are you thirsty?” John asked, gesturing to the refreshment table.
“Yes, please,” Beatrice said, accepting his proffered arm.
It was a mainstay of gossip columns to report that the punch served at various London balls was flavorless and weak.
But the duke’s lemonade was delicious, the perfect combination of sweet and tart.
Beatrice drained her cup and then set it down, fretting over how much the sugar needed to fill so large a bowl must have cost, but John snatched up her cup and refilled it.
Once she had finished, he offered her his arm. “Come. Let’s go someplace quiet where we can talk.”
She thought he might lead her outside. It was a clear night, after all, and wasn’t that where romantic rendezvous were supposed to take place, on a balcony beneath a sky strewn with stars? But he led her up the main staircase to the second floor.
As they reached the quiet of the landing, Beatrice said, “The duke is a generous man, to allow his master of horse to attend his ball.”
“The duke is not as much of a stickler as most people seem to believe,” John observed as he led her down a red-carpeted corridor.
Silence fell. Beatrice tried again. “It was kind of you to intercede with the duke to secure me an invitation.”
His voice was rich with amusement. “Is that what I did?”
“Well, surely,” Beatrice said as he paused before a glossy oak door and pulled out a key. “After all, everyone knows that the duke’s family despises mine, and…”
The words died on her lips as the door swung open.
The room that was revealed was larger than the cottage where Beatrice was currently residing.
A hulking, canopied bed occupied one wall, adorned with gold satin hangings bearing the ducal crest. A fire roared in the oversized hearth, a log fire, not the usual sooty coal-burning stove.
The room had a raised area beneath a bay window paned with stained glass.
Beneath it stood a glossy table in dark wood with two high-backed chairs.
On the table stood a bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket, along with two delicate flutes.
John made to lead her inside, but Beatrice pulled her arm free. “John! Are you certain we have permission to go in here? Why, this looks like it could be the ducal bedchamber!”
He seized her hand and tugged her forward. “I’m completely certain. Come on. It’s fine!”
Completely unperturbed, he crossed to the table and poured them each a glass of champagne. When he handed one to her, Beatrice sipped nervously. It was delicious, and obviously very expensive. “Does the duke usually allow his master of horse to make free with his wine cellar?”
John sipped from his glass and set it down. “The duke knows that I had something special in mind tonight. A particular question that I want to ask a particular woman.”
Beatrice’s fingers shook as she set her flute on the table. Her heart was thundering like a cavalry charge. “What question would that be?”
He dropped to one knee. “Beatrice Wheatley, will you marry me?”