Chapter 7 #2
“You don’t get to be vexed just because you caught me reading a novel,” Beatrice replied, her voice steadier now as logic took over. “Nor does our deal entitle you to dictate how I spend my time.”
The Duke’s mouth curved in a smile that held equal measures of amusement and predatory interest that raised the hairs on the nape of her neck. “And if I suggested a more… interactive form of diversion?”
The question hung between them, charged with implications that sent a fresh wave of heat through Beatrice’s body despite her determination to remain unmoved.
“Such diversions lie outside the boundaries we established,” she managed, though her voice betrayed a breathlessness that undermined her attempted detachment. “And consistency of purpose serves us both better than the impulse of the moment.”
The Duke’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling briefly before he loosened them. His gaze lingered on her a beat longer than necessary, the faint quirk of his eyebrow and his slow exhale betraying his irritation—and something else she couldn’t name.
Before he could respond and scatter her wits even further, Beatrice moved toward the door with as much dignity as her trembling legs could muster.
“If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace, the hour grows late. We depart for London tomorrow, and I’d prefer to be well-rested for the journey.” She paused at the threshold, not quite daring to meet his eyes again lest her resolution falter. “Goodnight.”
Without waiting for his response, she fled the library, her steps quickening as she navigated the corridors toward the sanctuary of her chambers.
When she closed the door behind her, she leaned against it, her fingers rising unconsciously to touch lips still sensitized from his kiss.
What game was he playing? And why had she responded with such eagerness?
She had to maintain stricter boundaries. He was a rake, skilled in charm and precision, and she would not become another conquest, however legal their bond.
Hopefully, tomorrow’s journey to London would provide the ton’s scrutiny as a convenient buffer, a stage for the performance they had agreed upon.
But even as she went to bed, her thoughts returned to his lips, the heat and thrill of that impossible moment.
Sleep eventually claimed her, bringing dreams she would not admit to in the cold light of morning.
The London townhouse was an imposing edifice of Portland stone situated in one of Mayfair’s most prestigious squares.
The staff of the Stagmore townhouse had received them with practiced deference, betraying no hint that the mistress of the house was as unfamiliar with its chambers and customs as any first-time visitor might be.
Beatrice smoothed the folds of her gown in front of the mirror in her chambers, her heart stubbornly betraying her uneasiness. Candlelight flickered across the room, catching the embroidery on her sleeves, and the hush of expectation between them made it feel smaller than it was.
The Duke appeared in the doorway, coat in hand, a faintly amused smile tugging at his lips.
“May I?” he asked, holding out a small velvet box.
She arched an eyebrow. “And what, may I ask, is that?”
“A token,” he said lightly, though his gaze lingered on her a second too long. “For the evening. Consider it a… demonstration of devotion, so the ton will have no doubts about our union.”
Beatrice blinked, caught between indignation and curiosity. She lifted the lid. Inside lay a sapphire pendant, set simply in gold, catching the candlelight like a captured storm.
Her lips parted.
“It suits you,” the Duke added, stepping closer, the playful gleam in his eyes belying the closeness he allowed himself. “And, in truth, one cannot have a wife who makes one appear entirely smitten without providing a trinket or two to match.”
Her fingers brushed his as he fastened the chain around her throat, and a shiver raced down her spine.
“You—” she began.
“—will wear it, and the world will see only what we wish,” he spoke over her. “And I wish to show everyone that you are mine.”
She swallowed hard, the sapphire pendant resting just above her heart, feeling at once protected, coveted, and dangerously aware of him. Every flicker of candlelight, every brush of his fingers, made her heart beat harder than she dared to admit.
Nevertheless, she knew that pretending to be a happily married couple was of the utmost priority tonight.
Yet a part of her couldn’t help but feel warm at her husband’s gesture.
Beatrice exited the carriage, standing before the grand entrance of Lady Peregrine’s London townhouse. Lady Peregrine’s annual summer ball would be her first appearance in London Society since her hasty marriage.
She had chosen a gown of midnight blue silk that accentuated the pale perfection of her complexion—she had to be perfect tonight.
The ton’s collective memory was long, its appetite for scandal insatiable.
The daughter of Ironstone, jilted at the altar only to emerge days later as a duchess, presented an irresistible subject for speculation.
The Duke awaited beside her, resplendent in evening attire that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. His gaze swept over her, lingering on the sapphire pendant, a quiet acknowledgment of their public performance.
“You will outshine every woman in attendance,” he murmured.
“Presentation is imperative,” she replied, taking his arm with practiced grace. “We must convince them that scandal has transformed into romance.”
The Peregrines’ ballroom glowed with candlelight, its gilded surfaces reflecting the assembled wealth and consequence of London’s most exclusive circles.
Beatrice felt the exact moment when their arrival registered among the guests—the subtle shift in attention, the hushed whispers behind fans, the speculative glances that assessed her with merciless precision.
“My family must be here,” she murmured. “They’ll be searching for us most determinedly.”
Her gaze fell on her father and stepmother. Isabella stood beside them, her eyes sharp and calculating as they scanned the room.
“Ah,” the Duke said, his voice pitched low for her ears only. “I’ve been anticipating further warnings regarding my conduct and character. It would be a pity to disappoint them.”
Despite her nervousness, Beatrice felt her lips curve with genuine amusement. “You might at least pretend to be intimidated by my father’s disapproval.”
“Pretense rarely convinces those determined to hold onto their suspicions,” the Duke countered, covering her hand with his own in a gesture that appeared affectionate to observers while simultaneously preventing her retreat.
“Besides, I imagine your sister will be glad to make a new, more creative threat. That should prove entertaining.”
Before Beatrice could respond, Isabella was marching toward them with purpose, her blue silk gown parting the crowd like the prow of a warship cleaving through the Mediterranean.
Their father and stepmother followed, and Beatrice noticed her father’s expression.
He looked as if he were approaching a diplomatic negotiation with hostile foreign powers rather than a social reunion with his daughter.
“Bea,” Isabella greeted. The warmth in her voice cooled significantly as her gaze shifted to the Duke. “Your Grace.”
“Lady Isabella,” the Duke acknowledged with a formal bow. “You look remarkably militant this evening. That shade of blue brings to mind naval officers preparing for battle.”
Isabella’s eyes narrowed at the provocation, though her social training prevented any outward display of the retort Beatrice knew must be forming behind her composed expression.
Christine stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on Beatrice’s arm. “My dear, you look radiant,” she said, her voice soft and soothing. She inclined slightly toward the Duke and added with polite warmth, “Your Grace, what a pleasure it is to see you this evening.”
The simple courtesy eased some of the tension, reminding Beatrice that her stepmother’s calm presence could soften even the sharpest edges of social scrutiny.
Her father stepped forward to embrace her with careful affection. “You’re well, my dear?” he inquired, his voice pitched low enough to suggest privacy despite the public setting.
“Perfectly well, Father,” Beatrice assured him, infusing her tone with conviction born of necessity rather than complete truthfulness. “Stagmore Manor is magnificent, and the servants have been most accommodating. And the same goes for the Stagmore townhouse, of course.”
“And the Duke?” her father pressed, his gaze flickering to her husband. “Has he conducted himself as he should?”
Beatrice recognized the underlying question—was she suffering under the rule of a man known more for his libertine pursuits than his domestic virtues?
“His Grace has been proper and considerate,” she replied.
That was technically true, if incomplete. Her husband had indeed respected the boundaries of their arrangement, despite that disconcerting interlude in the library. The memory of his kiss still possessed the power to unsettle her, a fact she firmly ignored as she met her father’s searching gaze.
Christine squeezed Beatrice’s arm reassuringly, her eyes warm. “I’m sure all will proceed smoothly tonight, dear,” she murmured, her gentle confidence a balm. Then, turning gracefully to the Duke, she inclined her head. “Your presence is appreciated, Your Grace. I trust the evening finds you well?”
“Quite so, Duchess,” the Duke replied, nodding politely. His gaze flicked briefly to Beatrice, acknowledging her stepmother’s courtesy.
“Isabella seems convinced you’re merely presenting a brave face,” her father persisted, his voice dropping further. “You’d tell me if things are different from what you anticipated?”
“Father,” Beatrice sighed, genuine affection softening her exasperation. “I appreciate your concern, truly. But my marriage is proceeding exactly as arranged.”
That, at least, was entirely true. A union established for mutual benefit, conducted with cordial detachment. The fact that her response to this arrangement had proven more complicated than anticipated was a matter she had no intention of disclosing.
Before her family could probe her further, they spotted more people approaching, and Beatrice decided that she would rather face them than her family at that moment.
Her husband’s hand settled on the small of her back, a possessive gesture that spoke volumes to both the onlookers and her family.
“Smile, Duchess,” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. “We are madly in love, remember?”
This was going to be a long, long night.