Chapter 4
Lady Moreland made a sound that sounded like a choked gasp and raised a trembling hand to her chest.
“Beatrice,” she whispered, shock and betrayal tangled in her tone. “Please tell me I misheard. Tell me you did not… write those dreadful essays.”
Beatrice forced herself not to shrink. “I did,” she replied simply. “And I stand by every word.”
Her mother looked as though she might swoon right there beside the table. “Dear heavens… what have you done?”
Beatrice lifted her chin, even as her pulse thundered wildly.
Her breath caught when her eyes landed on the Duke.
He stood in the center of the room like a barely-contained storm, tall and broad-shouldered, his coat straining against his frame as if even fabric found him difficult to restrain.
A loose lock of dark brown hair had escaped its place, falling over his brow.
His green eyes, bright and unflinching, fixed on her with a disbelief that sent heat to her cheeks.
For a moment, she understood why London called him charming, even dangerous. But there was no charm now. Only accusation, quiet and simmering, remained.
“You—” He took a step toward her, his expression hardening. “You’re joking.”
Her hands trembled despite her best effort to clasp them together. “I am not.”
“You’re Miss Verity?” His tone cracked like a whip. “The woman who wrote those scathing essays? The one who called me”—his mouth twisted—“the emblem of idle nobility, dressed in charm to disguise indifference? Or should I say, as you so generously put it, ‘a nobleman’s failure of restraint’?”
Color rose in her cheeks. “I did not name you directly.”
“You might as well have carved my initials in the paper,” he snapped.
“Half of London guessed. My valet wagered on it.” He raked a hand through his hair, sending another dark lock tumbling over his brow, the very picture of exasperated nobility.
“Good God, Lady Beatrice. And you never thought to mention it?”
“I never meant to hurt you,” she said, her heart pounding so loud it seemed to fill the silence between them. “My words were not about you alone, but about the ton’s hypocrisy. I only wanted to point out wrongs, not create enemies.”
He gave a short, bitter laugh. “Ah, the righteous Lady Beatrice Moreland, champion of justice in the safety of anonymity. Tell me, does your quill sleep soundly, knowing how easily it ruins?”
“That is unfair,” she protested, her voice trembling with barely contained fury.
“I could use a fake man’s name in this case because a woman’s opinion is too often dismissed before it’s even read.
But I did not hid the fact that I am a woman.
Besides, why hide behind a man’s name when the truth is better spoken by a woman brave enough to speak it. ”
“And yet you wrote about honor and integrity while hiding behind a mask.” He looked at her with quiet disdain. “That, Lady Beatrice, is hypocrisy in its finest form.”
Her breath caught. “You think I enjoyed hiding?” she asked, anger rising like heat beneath her skin. “Do you have the faintest idea what it costs a noblewoman to speak her mind in public? One wrong word, and she’s branded insolent—or worse.”
“Spare me the lecture on oppression,” he bit out. “You had a choice, and you chose deceit.”
“I chose survival!” she burst out, the words tearing free before she could stop them. “I chose to speak without being laughed out of a drawing room. You, with all your charm and privilege, could never understand that.”
He stilled, his jaw working. “Do not presume to know me.”
“Then do not presume to judge me.”
For a moment, the room pulsed with silence. The fire popped in the grate, and somewhere down the hall, a clock struck the quarter hour. Small, indifferent sounds that made their voices feel too large for the space.
Edward exhaled slowly, his anger ebbing to something colder, sharper. “Tell me, Lady Beatrice,” he asked softly, “did you enjoy writing those words? Watching London hang on every page while I was made a laughingstock?”
She blinked, stung by the quiet accusation. “No,” she muttered. “But perhaps you needed to hear what they laughed at.”
His eyes narrowed, incredulous. “So this was a lesson, wasn’t it?”
“Call it what you will,” she replied, lifting her chin despite the tremor in her voice. “The truth rarely flatters.”
He gave a hollow laugh, shaking his head. “You speak of truth as if it absolves cruelty.”
“And you mistake wounded pride for principle,” she shot back.
That silenced him.
For the first time, something uncertain flickered in his gaze—a flash of hurt she hadn’t meant to cause, or hadn’t expected to see.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. “You always did have a talent for cutting where it hurts most.”
Her pulse thudded in her ears. “And you,” she said tightly, “for pretending not to feel it.”
His mouth twitched. “You mistake restraint for indifference.”
“Do I?” she challenged. “You stand there, so certain, so untouchable—”
“Because someone must remain calm,” he interrupted. “You clearly cannot.”
Her temper rose, quick as a spark. “And men like you are the very reason I wrote those essays!” she hissed. “Too proud, too careless, trampling consequence beneath the weight of their titles. Tell me, Your Grace, does it ease your conscience now, leaving a baby at my doorstep?”
The words fell like a boulder.
The Duke froze.
For a moment, neither of them breathed. He looked at her after a moment, not as though she were a woman of wit and sharp tongue, but as if she had accused him of murder.
“I have no child,” he insisted. “And if this is some attempt to wound my pride, you’ve gone too far.”
Beatrice’s throat tightened. She gestured to the small basket near the settee, her voice trembling but fierce. “Then perhaps you might explain this better than you did the first time I showed you.” She pointed to the edge of the blanket. “The evidence, Your Grace, is staring at you.”
He followed her gaze to the sleeping baby, to the faint gold thread glinting in the candlelight—the proud, regal lion and twin stars. His eyebrows drew together.
“Evidence?” he repeated, incredulous. “Good God, Lady Beatrice—”
“I think,” Beatrice cut in, her voice trembling, “that the evidence speaks for itself.”
“Anyone could have sewn that crest,” he argued. “A servant, an enemy—even you, if you wanted me to be guilty.”
“How dare you?” she whispered, the accusation cutting deep. “You think I would go that far?”
He stepped closer, his voice almost quiet. “I think you despise me enough to believe the worst.”
Her breath came unsteady. “Despise you?” She shook her head, feeling heat rise behind her eyes. “No, Your Grace. I merely expected you to live up to your reputation—and it seems you’ve done so admirably. With your reputation, one more scandal should hardly make a difference.”
That struck hard.
His jaw clenched as he drew a sharp breath, color rising to his face. “Careful, Lady Beatrice.”
“Why? The damage is done,” she said thickly. “The papers have already made their judgment. Shall I lie to make you comfortable?”
“Lie?” His composure slipped. “You’ve made a career of it, have you not?”
That did it. She flinched as though struck.
For the first time, his expression faltered. Just slightly, as if he regretted the blow the moment it left his tongue.
Before either could speak again, Lady Moreland’s voice sliced through the air. “That is quite enough, both of you.”
Beatrice’s head snapped up. Her mother hadn’t moved an inch from her place by the hearth. She had been there all along, silent and apparently willing to let them argue themselves into disgrace.
Beatrice’s stomach twisted.
How could I have forgotten she was there?
“Mother—” she began, her voice small.
Lady Moreland didn’t look at her. “Not another word,” she hissed. “The two of you have shouted yourselves into ruin.”
The Duke drew a breath, attempting formality. “My lady, if I may—”
She turned her gaze on him, cool and immovable.
“No, Your Grace, you may not. I’ve heard enough to know that neither of you has any notion of prudence or survival.
” Her voice softened only slightly, but it carried more power than their quarrel.
“None of this matters now. The paper claims the child belongs to you both. The damage has been done.”
“My lady—” the Duke tried again.
She lifted a hand, silencing him with the kind of authority only a dowager could wield.
“You may shout about innocence until the walls echo, but gossip does not yield to truth; it feeds on it. The Mayfair Gazette has already decided the story for you. The rest of the ton will follow before luncheon. There is only one way to stop this scandal from consuming what is left of your reputation.”
Beatrice’s throat tightened. “Mother… what do you mean?”
“I mean,” Lady Moreland said, fixing them both with a look that brooked no argument, “I can only think of one solution for all this mess.”
Beatrice’s heart stuttered. “What are you saying?”
Lady Moreland’s gaze darted between them.
“I am saying that you must marry.”
The words landed like a blow.
Beatrice stared at her mother. “Marry? You cannot possibly mean—” She turned to the Duke, her voice trembling. “We cannot.”
“Absolutely not,” he snapped, stepping back as though the very idea were poisonous. “I refuse to drag a stranger into marriage by a scandal I did not create.”
Beatrice’s head whipped toward him. “Good, because I will not marry a rake.”
The Duke’s eyes narrowed. “And I will not marry a woman who insulted me in print.”
Beatrice flushed hotly. “Every word was well-earned.”
“So was my reputation for avoiding entanglements,” he shot back. “And look where that’s gotten us.”
Lady Moreland lifted an elegant hand, silencing them both. “You may trade barbs until the sun sets,” she said sharply, “but it changes nothing.”