Chapter 1 #2
“Me? Never.” Edward set his empty glass on the tray of a passing servant. “I merely enjoy a good debate.”
Margaret followed his gaze, then sighed. “Be kind to my cousin, Edward.”
“Always,” he said, already moving.
The crowd seemed to part for him, or perhaps he was simply practiced at ignoring obstacles.
Beatrice turned slightly when he drew near, her hand hovering over a cup of punch. He could almost hear her sigh before she spoke.
When he reached her, she looked up calmly, not the least bit pleased.
“Lady Beatrice,” he greeted, bowing slightly. “Are you avoiding me?”
“I am standing beside the lemonade table, Your Grace,” she replied evenly. “Hardly an inconspicuous hiding place.”
“True. But I couldn’t help noticing you chose the farthest corner from the door.”
She sipped her drink. “I prefer to keep away from drafts. And trouble.”
“Ah,” he drawled, “so it’s trouble I represent now.”
Her lips curved, without the faintest trace of amusement. “I only repeat what Society has already decided.”
“Cruel thing, Society,” he murmured. “It gives a man a reputation and expects him to live up to it.”
“You seem to manage very well.”
“So I’m told. Though if I believed everything written about me, I’d be far more interesting than I actually am.”
Beatrice’s eyebrow rose slightly. “The Mayfair Gazette might disagree.”
“Ah, yes,” he said with mock gravity. “My anonymous executioner. I believe ‘Miss Verity’ is what she calls herself?”
She inclined her head. “I couldn’t say. I do not make a habit of keeping company with writers.”
“A pity.” He tutted. “You sound remarkably like her, though she’s said far worse about me than you ever have.”
“If I were her,” Beatrice replied, her tone sweet like spun sugar, “I would have said worse.”
That coaxed a low laugh from him. “Heaven help me, I almost believe you.”
“Then I must be careful. You’d find a way to make that sound improper.”
“I would never malign a lady,” he said solemnly, though the look in his eyes was unmistakably teasing. “Even one determined to ruin me in print. Tell me, do you practice such precision of cruelty, or is it a natural gift?”
“I could ask the same of your arrogance,” she said, lifting her glass. “Though I suspect you were born with it.”
“Only because you were not there to temper it.”
She nearly choked on her punch. “You are insufferable.”
“And yet,” he said lightly, leaning in just enough to make her breath catch, “you never seem to leave a room soon enough to prove otherwise.”
Her gaze flickered briefly to her mother, who was watching from across the room, fan moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm. “I’m sure you’ll survive the evening without further ruin, Your Grace.”
He cocked his head. “Only because my executioner shows mercy.”
Lady Moreland’s fan snapped once, and Beatrice exhaled softly. “On that note, I believe my mother wishes to leave.”
“A tragedy.” Edward gave a rueful smile. “Just as our conversation was becoming enjoyable.”
“Good night, Your Grace.”
He bowed again, though his grin lingered as she moved toward her mother and sister. “Good night, Lady Beatrice.”
He watched her go. She was the perfect picture of composure… until her sister whispered something that made her laugh. That sound followed him long after she disappeared into the crowd.
Beatrice could still hear the echo of Edward’s laugh. It lingered like the faint scent of brandy and trouble.
She focused on smoothing her gloves, pretending her pulse hadn’t jumped, when her mother’s voice cut through the hum of the ballroom.
“We’ve been seen long enough. Cecily, dear, fetch your wrap.”
Cecily bounced over, her cheeks pink with delight. “I think the whole room saw him looking at you, Bea,” she whispered.
Beatrice smiled thinly. “Then the whole room needs better things to do.”
Their mother exhaled, subtly shaking her head. “You see why I worry.”
They started toward the doors, the swell of the orchestra rising behind them. Beatrice didn’t mean to glance back, but something—curiosity or foolishness—made her do it anyway.
Edward was standing across the ballroom, half in shadow, his expression unreadable. He inclined his head slightly, as if to acknowledge her retreat or challenge it.
Her chin lifted in return.
The carriage ride home was mercifully brief, though Cecily’s chatter filled every corner of it—a stream of delighted commentary about gowns, partners, and how some duke had glanced at her twice.
Beatrice stared out the window, feigning interest in the dark blur of passing streetlamps. Her reflection looked composed enough, though her thoughts were anything but.
“Don’t sulk, dear,” her mother said gently beside her. “You were splendid tonight. Mostly.”
Beatrice turned, her mouth curving. “Thank you, Mama.”
The carriage slowed, the lantern outside their townhouse throwing light across the embroidered hem of Lady Moreland’s gown.
As the footman opened the carriage door, cool night air rushed in. Beatrice stepped down first, grateful for the quiet. The city’s sounds were softer here—the distant rattle of wheels, the rustle of leaves in the square.
The entrance hall glowed with lamplight, the faint scent of roses drifting from the vases on the side tables. A footman hurried forward to take their cloaks.
Lady Moreland swept past them toward the stairs, her expression weary. “I am quite fatigued. Beatrice, see that the house is locked up. Cecily, do not chatter all night. It is nearly eleven.”
“Yes, Mama,” they chorused.
Lady Moreland inclined her head and disappeared up the staircase, her pearls glinting once before the shadows swallowed her.
Cecily turned toward the mirror to adjust a pin in her hair. “Do you think we will see him again soon?”
“I’d rather not,” Beatrice answered briskly and handed her gloves to a maid. It annoyed her that she knew who he was. “The night has been quite long enough.”
She had just begun to climb the stairs when the sound of rapid knocks echoed through the hall.
“At this hour?” Cecily whispered, her eyes wide.
The butler appeared, frowning as he went to the door. He exchanged a few sharp words with someone outside before beckoning Beatrice down.
“My lady, there’s a messenger. He insists it cannot wait.”
He stepped aside, and a young man entered, flushed and panting.
“Pardon, miss—my lady—”
Beatrice instinctively stepped back as he thrust something toward her. It was a small wicker basket, wrapped in a thin blanket.
And then she heard a faint but unmistakable sound.
A baby’s cry.
Wait, a baby’s cry?