Chapter 2
Chapter Two
“Apologies for my choice of words, but have you taken leave of your senses, Your Grace?” Beatrice asked, her voice low but firm as she faced the Duke. “We are perfect strangers to one another.”
Once within the modest confines of the antechamber, Beatrice had turned to face him fully, summoning every ounce of composure she possessed.
The room, though small, was illuminated by a narrow window of stained glass that bathed the Duke in a pattern of cobalt blue light. He looked almost unreal—like a statue brought to life—but Beatrice did not care.
He studied her with a measured calm, his eyes tracing her features as if weighing them, calculating. Every sharp angle of his jaw and brow seemed sharper in the blue light, but it was his gaze that unsettled her the most—precise, unyielding, and unnervingly alive.
“Can you not?” he said, and she blinked at him. “Consider your position, Lady Beatrice. By this evening, every drawing room in London will buzz with news of your abandonment. Your reputation will bear a significant blemish.”
“And you propose to be my savior?” Beatrice countered, arching an eyebrow at the absurdity of the idea. “At the cost of binding yourself to a woman you do not know, a woman you may come to resent? I appreciate your sense of duty, Your Grace, but I cannot be part of such a cold arrangement.”
She realized the irony of her words, though she reminded herself that there was friendship between her and Philip. This man before her… she knew nothing about him.
The Duke took a step closer, and Beatrice was suddenly aware of his considerable height and the breadth of his shoulders beneath his impeccably tailored coat.
There was something in his gaze, a searching quality that made her feel as though he could see through the composure she had maintained throughout this ordeal.
“Tell me, My Lady,” he said, his voice dropping to a lower register that seemed to resonate in the small space between them, “were you deeply in love with my cousin?”
Beatrice tried her best not to bite her lip or fidget with her fingers. The Duke was certainly a man who could detect lies; she could sense that. So, she had to pick her words very carefully.
“Well, if you must know, I care about him. Very deeply,” she said slowly.
He took a step back, reinstating the small distance between them. The blue light from the window illuminated the sharp planes of his face, casting him half in shadow, half in an ethereal glow.
“I see.” He tilted his head slightly and looked to be considering the severity of her mien before he spoke again, choosing his words carefully.
“While I cannot offer you such… deep-seated affection, I offer you the next best thing: an arrangement with superior terms. The status of a duchess rather than a marchioness, and the assurance that I, unlike my cousin, understand the meaning of honor and will not leave his betrothed stranded at the altar when the time comes to make good on my promise.”
Beatrice studied him with bewilderment, searching for a hidden motive in his impassive features.
Whilst she had only just heard of the Duke of Stagmore, she had not considered the report Isabella gave of his behavior to be a favorable one. He might be admired for his wealth and influence, but he was also known as a confirmed bachelor whose pursuits lay decidedly outside the realm of matrimony.
Those qualities did not stir admiration in Beatrice, nor did she imagine the current state of his reputation could protect either of their actions from scrutiny.
“Why would you make such an offer to a woman you have never met?” she asked.
“I have my reasons,” he replied, the set of his mouth suggesting that further inquiries on this point would be unwelcome.
“Chief among them is the restoration of my family name. The question is not why I should offer, but why you would refuse. Unless, of course, there is something about your arrangement with Philip that you have not disclosed?”
The subtle implication in his tone—that she might have played a role in Philip’s disappearance—sparked a flame of indignation within her.
“I assure you, Your Grace, I am as surprised by today’s events as anyone.” She hesitated, her loyalty to her friend warring with her present circumstance. “I had no idea he planned to flee.”
“Then we understand one another,” he declared, his tone suggesting that the matter was settled. “Shall we inform your father of your decision?”
“I have made no decision,” Beatrice protested, though even as she spoke, she found herself considering the advantages of his proposal.
As the Duke said, a duchess outranked a marchioness, and he was here, standing in front of her, offering for her hand. That was more than she could say for her friend, Philip.
He stepped closer again, close enough this time that she could detect the subtle scent of sandalwood that clung to his impeccably tailored coat. “Lady Beatrice, I offer you a solution that preserves your dignity. The choice seems rather straightforward.”
Beatrice met his gaze, feeling a curious shiver run through her at the intensity she found there. In his eyes, she glimpsed not the practiced seduction of a rake, but something altogether more complex. A determination that hinted at motives beyond those he had articulated.
So, she asked, “And if I accept, what precisely would our arrangement entail?”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips, transforming his severe countenance momentarily. “You shall have your freedom, within reason, and the protection of my name and rank.”
His gaze held hers a moment too long, the air between them charged with an unexpected awareness that made Beatrice’s pulse quicken despite the pragmatic exchange of words.
But she could not keep her suspicions from rousing in her belly. Now, she studied him with newfound wariness.
“Most gentlemen would consider a bride who was previously abandoned ill-fated.”
A hint of amusement flickered across his features, so brief she might have imagined it. “I am not most gentlemen, My Lady.”
Beatrice nodded. “That is true,” she said. “You are not most gentlemen. You are a rake.”
This time, her words made his lips curl into a smile that made him seem even more devastatingly handsome than before.
“She has teeth, doesn’t she?” he murmured.
Beatrice’s eyes narrowed on him.
He continued before she could say anything about his snide comment.
“You would be the Duchess of Stagmore, with all the privileges and responsibilities that accompany the title. Surely some gossip would be inevitable, but do you not think our predicament and my… less-than-stellar reputation can be to your advantage?”
Beatrice arched an eyebrow again. “My advantage?”
The Duke shrugged. “Think about it. The notorious Duke of Stagmore falls in love with Lady Beatrice at first sight. He is so smitten that he marries her immediately because his cousin couldn’t go through with it.”
Her other eyebrow joined the first to rest high on her forehead. “Is that your idea of my advantage? The fact that I was jilted by Philip remains a focal point.”
The Duke tilted his head to the side. “That might be true, but ladies love nothing more than love stories and fairytales. They will quickly shift their focus, not to the fact that Philip couldn’t fulfill his promises, but to the fact that I fell in love with you at first sight, and stole you for myself. ”
Oh.
Beatrice blinked at him. There was some logic there. It was a good scaffold for her reputation, no matter how imperfect it seemed at the surface.
She turned away, her mind racing. The Duke’s proposal, while startling, offered a path forward that would preserve her reputation and protect her family from the taint of scandal.
Yet, to bind herself to this commanding stranger, whose very presence seemed to alter the atmosphere of a room… it was a daunting prospect.
“I need a moment to consider,” she said finally.
“Of course.” The Duke inclined his head slightly, the gesture both gracious and somehow unyielding. “Though I should note that the longer we remain here alone, the more your guests will speculate.”
Beatrice recognized the truth in his statement. Already, she could imagine the whispers echoing through the chapel, the curious glances that would greet their return.
The situation demanded swift resolution, one way or another.
With a deep breath, she made her decision. “Very well, Your Grace. I accept your proposal.”
If he was surprised by her acquiescence, he gave no sign of it. Instead, he offered a short, formal bow. “A sensible choice, My Lady. Shall we inform your father?”
Together they emerged from the antechamber, Beatrice acutely aware of the immediate hush that fell over the chapel as they appeared.
Her father stepped forward, his eyes still blazing with rage. “Well?” he demanded, his gaze flicking between her and the Duke.
Beatrice lifted her chin, summoning every ounce of composure she possessed. “I have accepted the Duke of Stagmore’s proposal, Father.”
A murmur rippled through the assembled guests, a wave of astonishment that seemed to gather momentum with each passing second.
Isabella moved to her side, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Beatrice, you cannot be serious,” she whispered urgently. “This is madness. You know nothing about this man.”
“I know that he has offered a solution where others have created only problems,” Beatrice replied quietly. “And I know my own mind, Isabella.”
Her stepmother approached, her elegant features composed despite the extraordinary turn of events. “My dear,” she said softly, placing a gentle hand on her arm, “there is no need for such haste. We can weather this difficulty together, as a family. This is not the only path available to you.”
Beatrice felt a surge of affection for her stepmother, whose concern was evident beneath her restrained exterior. “I appreciate your concern, Christine, but I have considered the matter carefully.”