Chapter 4 #2
The Duke exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw as though to steady himself. “Surely there is another way. A statement. A denial. Something less… permanent.”
“There must be another way,” Beatrice insisted, her voice trembling.
“There is not,” Lady Moreland said coldly.
“If you do nothing, your names will be mud by morning. You may print a thousand denials, but it will change nothing. London has already chosen what it wishes to believe. By morning, your names will be dragged through every drawing room from here to Hyde Park.”
Beatrice folded her arms, more to hold herself together than to show defiance. “Then let them talk. I will not—”
“And what of the child?” Lady Moreland cut her off.
Beatrice froze.
Her mother’s words hung in the air.
“That poor babe will grow up branded as a product of sin,” Lady Moreland continued. “You may bear the whispers, but she cannot. Think of the life that awaits her when every cruel tongue repeats that she is yours and his.”
Beatrice’s throat worked. She turned toward the baby, small and still under the embroidered blanket. Her anger ebbed, replaced by something heavier.
“It isn’t fair,” she whispered. “She didn’t ask for this.”
Lady Moreland’s voice softened. “No. And it is not her fault.”
Beatrice blinked, the words landing heavily.
The Duke shuffled his feet, his jaw tight. But for once, he didn’t argue.
No one spoke. The silence stretched uncomfortably.
Beatrice’s fingers curled into her skirts. She swallowed hard, steadying herself. Then she lifted her chin and turned back to the Duke. “Then I will do what must be done. If marriage will spare this child a life of whispers, I will marry you.”
His head snapped up. “You would?”
“Do not look so astonished,” she said, almost bitterly. “It is hardly a love match. But I will not have an innocent suffer for our scandal.”
The Duke looked away, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the floor as if wrestling with something unseen. “Marriage,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “Good God.”
He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair and let out a long, unsteady breath.
“I have spent my life avoiding entrapment, and now—” He gave a hollow laugh, then stopped when he saw her expression. “Forgive me, that was unkind.”
Beatrice said nothing. Her hands smoothed the front of her gown, a nervous gesture she tried to disguise. She looked briefly at the baby, then back at the Duke. His green eyes were shadowed.
“If marriage will end this madness,” he said quietly, “then yes. We will marry.”
“A marriage of convenience,” Beatrice emphasized, her voice steady even as her hands trembled. “Until the child’s parentage is confirmed.”
“Our child, according to the papers,” he corrected grimly.
He studied her for a moment—her pale face, the steel behind her composure—and nodded once, as though sealing a grim pact.
Then he turned to her mother, bowing his head slightly. “My lady,” he murmured.
Lady Moreland nodded once. “You know what must be done.”
The Duke hesitated long enough that Beatrice thought he might say something else, but then he muttered, “Goodnight.”
He turned without ceremony and left, the door closing softly behind him.
Beatrice stood very still. Only when the sound of his footsteps had faded did she move to the basket.
The baby’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused and serene. Beatrice reached down, tracing the tiny fist curled against the blanket. The baby’s hand curled around her finger, warm and impossibly fragile. She knelt beside the basket, her fingers trembling as she brushed the baby’s cheek.
Her throat tightened. “You poor thing,” she whispered. “You’ll never know the cost of your peace.”
The room had lapsed into a tense stillness when the door swung open.
“Bea! You will simply not believe—” Cecily stumbled inside, bright-faced and breathless, but halted the instant she saw the look on her sister’s face.
Her bonnet slipped from her fingers, and her smile vanished.
“Is something wrong with the baby?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Beatrice shook her head as she stood up. “No, she’s well.”
Cecily’s gaze flicked from her sister’s pale face to her mother’s rigid stance, to the baby in the basket. “Then what happened?” she breathed.
Beatrice opened her mouth, but Lady Moreland answered instead, her tone clipped. “You should sit down, Cecily.” She smoothed her skirts, offered no further words, and left the two girls alone.
Cecily didn’t move. Her eyes went wide, frightened. “Please, just tell me.”
Beatrice swallowed. “It’s about the rumors.”
Realization dawned at once—and with it, dread.
“Tell me it’s just gossip. Tell me they’re not turning you into the villain.”
Beatrice’s throat tightened. “It’s worse than gossip. And they will not stop.”
Cecily shook her head sharply. “But you have done nothing wrong.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Beatrice sighed. “The truth rarely does when the ton has made up its mind. They say that His Grace and I have a child together.”
For a moment, Cecily was silent. Then the fear in her eyes darkened into fury.
“So what are you going to do now?” she demanded. “Hide? Apologize for breathing? Leave London like some disgraced—”
“I’m getting married,” Beatrice cut in, the words scraping their way out.
Cecily stared at her. “Getting married? To him?”
Beatrice nodded once.
Cecily’s breath hitched. “But you deserve love. Choice. You’ve worked so hard to be everything they expect: the perfect daughter.”
Beatrice’s voice shook despite her will. “What choice do I have? The child needs protection. And my family… You all need shielding from this.”
Cecily wiped an angry tear and stepped forward, taking Beatrice’s hands in her own. “Oh, Bea,” she murmured. “I had hoped for something very different for you.”
Her grip tightened before she reluctantly let go, searching Beatrice’s face for any sign of hesitation and finding none.
Beatrice turned away, unable to withstand the sight of her sister’s pain. She lifted the baby and held her close, the faint warmth seeping through her gown.
She swallowed hard. The man she would marry was the last one she had ever wanted, yet the first this child would call Father and she husband.