The Duke’s Mysterious Baby (Dukes of Redemption #2)

Chapter 1

“Have you heard?” Mrs. Linton’s fan stilled mid-wave. “The Duke of Wrexford is expected to attend tonight. I can’t imagine how he dares to show his face after that article.”

The words sliced neatly through the hum of the ballroom.

Beatrice, standing a half-step behind her mother, felt the ripple more than she saw it.

“Indeed,” Lady Moreland said, her voice even. “One might imagine the Gazette never tires of finding scandal.” She folded her fan with deliberate grace. Her dark hair was swept high, her profile a familiar portrait of composure. She wore the countess’s stoicism as easily as her gloves.

Mrs. Harcourt, who never missed a scandal, leaned in. “They say that Miss Verity called him a nobleman’s failure of restraint. How perfectly wicked!”

A wave of laughter rippled through the circle.

“I rather think she was generous,” said another. “If half the stories about Wrexford are true, restraint has never been his problem.”

Beatrice watched as Cecily leaned forward on tiptoe, her fan fluttering like a restless bird. Her sister’s eyes sparkled with curiosity.

Cecily had always been the sunshine of the Moreland family, impossible to ignore even when Beatrice tried. While Beatrice measured her words, her sister let hers tumble out bright and unchecked, as if the world existed purely to be delighted by her observations.

“Do you think he’ll actually come?” Cecily whispered, barely containing herself.

Lady Moreland’s eyes cooled a fraction. “Cecily.”

“Only a question, Mama.”

“With his status?” Mrs. Linton scoffed indignantly. “A man who has been dissected in print will scarcely wish to relive the experience under eight hundred eyes.”

Lady Moreland inclined her head politely to Mrs. Linton. “Some people thrive on notoriety. The wiser sort avoid it.”

Beatrice said nothing. Her fan was motionless in her hand, her expression mild and attentive. Only her pulse betrayed her.

Every mention of that name—Miss Verity—sent a pang through her chest. She kept her expression serene, though her thoughts tripped over each other. There was something about the half-mocking, half-admiring tone in which they said it that made her uneasy.

A nobleman’s failure of restraint.

Mrs. Harcourt sighed. “Whoever she is, she has courage. Wrexford is not a man I’d choose to provoke.”

“Courage?” Lady Moreland murmured. “I call it foolishness. A lady’s reputation can be ruined in a breath. No anonymous pen can save her from that.”

Beatrice’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around her fan. “Perhaps that’s why she hides her name,” she said before she could stop herself.

The group went still for a moment, startled by the hint of opinion.

Lady Moreland turned her head slightly, the movement elegant but sharp. “My dear, ladies who have nothing to conceal do not speak in riddles.”

Beatrice bowed her head in apology. “Of course, Mama.”

The conversation shifted again, but Beatrice’s cheeks were warm. She forced her gaze toward the dance floor, feigning interest in the couples forming there.

Cecily’s fan snapped open in delight, and she whispered behind it, “A nobleman’s failure of restraint! I must remember that for later.”

Beatrice gave her a sideways glance. “You repeat everything you hear.”

“And you repeat nothing, which makes you intolerably dull,” Cecily countered cheerfully. “Don’t you think it’s marvelous that someone dares to write such things? I should like to meet this Miss Verity.”

“You would only gossip with her.”

“Of course. What else is one supposed to do with courage if not turn it into conversation?”

Beatrice bit back a smile. “Some would say to use it wisely.”

“Some would be boring.” Cecily fluttered her fan, the feathers brushing Beatrice’s wrist. “Besides, you’re smiling. You like her, whoever she is.”

“I do not.”

“You do. You’re thinking about what you’d write if you could. I see it in your eyes.”

“I only observe,” Beatrice replied, her eyes on the dance floor.

“Observe, yes, but with far too much interest.” Cecily’s fan fluttered lazily. “Don’t pretend you’re not curious. You’ve also spoken with him, haven’t you?”

Beatrice looked uncomfortable. “Hardly a conversation. I spoke to him at Sebastian and Margaret’s wedding, and again when their son was born.”

Cecily wiggled her eyebrows. “You must have formed an opinion.”

“Hardly.” Beatrice adjusted her gloves. “He was… courteous.”

Cecily gave a soft laugh. “Courteous? You make it sound dreadful.”

Before Beatrice could respond, a murmur swept through the ballroom. The orchestra did not stop, but even the violins seemed to soften as heads turned toward the entrance. Even their mother’s voice faltered.

Cecily’s fan stilled. “Oh. Well, there he is.”

Beatrice followed her gaze despite herself.

Edward Pembroke, the Duke of Wrexford, stood just inside the doorway, tall among the throng, the perfect picture of nonchalance. His cravat was a little undone, his expression faintly amused, as though every whisper about him were a private joke.

“He looks unbothered,” Cecily noted, studying him. “You’d never think he’s been torn apart in print.”

Beatrice lowered her eyes to her fan, willing her pulse to steady. “Perhaps he doesn’t read the papers.”

“Or perhaps he does,” Cecily said slyly. “And enjoys the attention.”

Beatrice looked at him again, just for a heartbeat.

The shift in the air was unmistakable now. Conversations had softened, laughter dimmed, and every curious eye, it seemed, swiveled to him.

The debutantes near the punch table straightened their postures, their fans fluttering like nervous birds. Even Lady Penworth, who claimed indifference to gossip, leaned slightly forward.

Beatrice studied him, the confident tilt of his head, the careless ease of his stance. Everyone else seemed to find it irresistible. To her, it was infuriating.

Her mouth curved before she could stop it.

“Do you ever tire of being adored, Your Grace?” she muttered under her breath.

Cecily glanced at her. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Beatrice said quickly, turning her gaze away.

The orchestra struck up a waltz the moment Edward stepped into the ballroom, and he could feel the air shift. He could always tell—that faint ripple of awareness, the hum of curiosity that trailed behind his name.

Or perhaps it wasn’t his name at all. Perhaps it was simply because he was late. He usually was.

He paused to hand off his coat, scanning the glittering chaos before him. The chandeliers threw light across the sea of jewels and powdered faces. Violins sang, while someone’s laugh cut too loud and then faded into the music.

He offered a few nods, a practiced smile here and there. Polite. Effortless. He had perfected the expression long ago, the one that said, Yes, I’m the man you’ve read about, and no, you may not ask for details.

Spotting a passing matron blatantly nudging her daughter forward, Edward couldn’t resist.

“No need to push her, my lady,” he murmured, smiling as he passed. “I promise I don’t bite… unless invited.”

The poor girl turned crimson. The matron’s fan snapped open in outrage. Somewhere behind him, a gentleman coughed into his hand to hide a laugh.

And with that, the evening felt properly underway.

Truth be told, he hadn’t wanted to come tonight. But his friend Sebastian, the Duke of Ravenscourt, had written that maddening note—“You owe us your attendance. Margaret insists.” And no one refused Margaret when she insisted.

“Speak of the devil,” Sebastian drawled, grinning as Edward approached them. “I thought perhaps the scandal sheets had swallowed you whole.”

“Not yet,” Edward said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Though I did see a headline declaring I’d run away with a soprano. If only I remember it.”

Margaret, elegant even when laughing, shook her head. “You could try living a dull life, you know. It might confuse them.”

“I did once,” he quipped. “I was twelve. Hated every minute of it.”

Sebastian chuckled. “God help us.”

“Well, look at yourself,” Edward said with a gleam in his eyes. “ I leave you alone for one season, and you’ve become respectable.”

Sebastian let out a groan. “I was respectable long before you arrived, Wrexford.”

“True,” Edward said, reaching for the champagne on the refreshment table next to them and pouring himself a glass.. “And look where that got you—marriage, a cat, and an alarming fondness for nursery schedules.”

Margaret laughed softly. “You see, Edward, not everyone measures success by the quality of their hangovers.”

“Ah, but they do measure stories by them,” he said easily. “And I daresay mine are better told.”

Margaret arched an eyebrow. “You mean written, surely. I heard Miss Verity had quite a time dismantling one of yours last week.”

“Did she?” He sipped, feigning innocence. “I stopped reading after the first ‘shocking lack of restraint.’ I rather liked the sound of it.”

Sebastian chuckled. “You would.”

“Of course. If one must be infamous, it’s best to be good at it.”

Edward’s grin lingered for a heartbeat. He smirked, but didn’t quite feel it. There were too many eyes tonight, too much expectation in the air, as though he might pick up a violin and turn the evening into a performance.

He toyed with the rim of his glass, letting the bubbles catch his attention, mostly to keep himself busy, when he saw her.

Beatrice Moreland.

The candlelight caught the faint gold in her hair, and though she wasn’t the most daringly dressed woman in the room, she was the one who held it still. She stood near the refreshments table, listening to idle chatter, her back straight, her expression polite and slightly distant.

And when she glanced his way, just briefly, her composure wavered. Not much, but enough for him to catch it.

Edward smiled into his glass. So she had noticed him.

“Well,” he said lightly, setting his glass aside, “it seems this evening has just gotten better.”

Sebastian followed his gaze and muttered, “Do try not to start a war, Wrexford.”