Chapter 19
The moment Edward and Beatrice stepped inside, the hum in the ballroom swept over them like a warm tide.
The great chandelier blazed overhead, scattering light across silk gowns and polished boots, and the air was thick with perfume, heat, and sweat.
Every year, Lady Winthrop’s charity ball gathered half of London under one roof. This year, however, people seemed to be attending for more than the cause.
Beatrice felt it the instant they were announced. Heads turned, and a murmur rose and rippled through the crowd, soft but unmistakable.
Edward offered his arm with a subtlety that spoke of instinct rather than calculation, and she was grateful for it.
“Do not look so stricken,” he whispered. “They feed on dread.”
“I am not stricken,” she replied, though her pulse contradicted her.
“Ah. Simply radiant with serenity, then.”
She shot him a look. “This is not the moment for your humor.”
“It is precisely the moment,” he said lightly. “Otherwise, the evening will be intolerable.”
Behind them, a young lady in pink whispered too loudly, “She’s very pretty, I suppose. Though I cannot imagine—”
Her companion swatted her arm. “Hush! They’ll hear you.”
“They cannot possibly,” the lady said. “It’s far too loud.”
Edward turned his head slightly, giving her a look so cold she nearly choked on her words.
Beatrice nearly smiled. “You should not look as though you enjoy that,” she murmured.
He dipped his head slightly.. “I never enjoy cruelty, but I do appreciate accuracy.”
“And what exactly was accurate?”
“You being very pretty,” he replied easily, as though commenting on the weather.
Her breath caught. “That is not—Edward…”
“Beatrice,” he returned in the same tone, amused.
She stared fixedly at a potted palm. “We should walk,” she urged.
“We should,” he agreed, sounding maddeningly pleasant.
They passed Lady Winthrop, who was beaming with practiced benevolence. “Your Graces!” she chirped. “I am so pleased you could attend. It means a great deal.”
“The cause is worthy,” Beatrice replied.
“And you are both looking quite… harmonious this evening,” Lady Winthrop noted, her eyes twinkling with what might have been hope or curiosity. “How very reassuring.”
Edward smiled. “I am glad to put you at ease.”
Beatrice said nothing, plastering a smile on her face.
They did a slow circuit of the room, accepting greetings from those determined to appear unbothered by gossip.
“Your Grace, you delight us with your presence at such a charitable event.”
“Duchess, I trust you are well after your… travels?”
No one mentioned the reason for those travels, but the evasions were so pointed they might as well have shouted.
Edward kept his hand on the small of her back, guiding her through the crush with practiced ease. Too practiced, she thought irritably. He looked entirely unruffled, which only irritated her further.
A pair of older gentlemen passed behind them, speaking in tones that were anything but discreet.
“I heard the child is not real at all. Some cooked-up story or such.”
“Nonsense. Lady Portwell swears she heard a baby crying in Wrexford Hall.”
Beatrice’s breath caught. Of course, Lady Portwell was here.
She saw her a moment later, clad in an extravagant gown of plum silk, surrounded by two equally talkative friends who looked ready to combust with curiosity.
Lady Portwell’s expression brightened the instant she spotted them, as though she had been waiting precisely for this moment.
“Oh, Your Graces!” she trilled, sweeping forward with a speed surprising for a woman encumbered by so many feathers. “How wonderful to see you. I simply had to say hello.”
Edward’s smile was polite but glacial. “Lady Portwell.”
Beatrice could practically hear the unspoken, Please keep walking.
But Lady Portwell never had recognized polite dismissal in all her fifty years, and she certainly wasn’t about to start tonight.
“I must say,” she continued, fluttering her fan dramatically, “it is simply remarkable how you both left Bath without a word to anyone. Why, I told my friends here”—she gestured to the two women behind her, both leaning in eagerly—“that it all happened far too quickly. And abruptly. And mysteriously.”
Her companions nodded like eager sparrows.
Edward’s jaw tightened a fraction. “Lady Portwell,” he said with disarming courtesy, “I recall you visiting us in Bath. Unexpected.”
Her fan paused mid-flutter. “Why yes, Your Grace! Duty compelled me. One must always check on neighbors in distress.”
“Or in privacy,” Edward added smoothly.
A quick flush rose in Lady Portwell’s cheeks.
Beatrice kept her expression serene, though inside, heat climbed her throat at the memory.
Lady Portwell recovered swiftly.
“Oh, but all is well now, is it not?” she asked airily. “I assured everyone it is. Why, I even told Mrs. Alderton that the cries I heard could have been anything—a… an animal, perhaps.”
Her companions lifted their hands to suppress gasps.
Edward’s hand flexed against Beatrice’s back. “Indeed.”
Lady Portwell leaned in, dropping her voice theatrically. “Although between us, some people still insist there is a child hidden somewhere. You know how people are.”
Beatrice met her eyes with chilly composure. “Yes, I am well acquainted with how people are.”
Lady Portwell blinked, surprised by the firmness in her tone.
Edward gave a dangerous smile. “Her Grace and I thank you for your concern. Should we ever need your expertise regarding animals, we will send for you.”
The insult was so gracefully wrapped that Lady Portwell did not realize she had been struck until several beats later. Her feathers quivered.
“Well… I… yes. Good evening.”
She scurried away, her companions following after her.
They had nearly completed another circuit of the ballroom when a familiar voice rose above the din. “There you are!”
Margaret appeared first, her cheeks flushed from the heat, a fan fluttering vigorously in her hand. Sebastian followed her, attempting without success to look dignified while being dragged along.
“Oh, good heavens, the crowd!” Margaret exclaimed, weaving between the dancers with the efficiency of a general storming a hill. “Do they always keep it this stifling, or is it just because half of London has turned out to inspect you both like prize cattle?”
“Margaret,” Beatrice hissed under her breath.
“Well, it’s true,” Margaret said with a shrug, then lowered her fan conspiratorially. “Cecily begged me to report on everything I saw. I think she expected madness. Or duels.”
Edward raised an eyebrow. “Neither has occurred. Yet.”
Sebastian clapped him on the shoulder. “It will be fine now. They always stare until someone more interesting arrives. I’ll do my best to be scandalous.”
“You are not scandalous,” Margaret said. “You are steady.”
“I am capable of scandal.”
She patted his cheek. “Of course you are, dear.”
Beatrice bit back a laugh. The knot in her chest loosened just a little.
Margaret took her hand. “Truly, Bea, you look lovely. And very steady. No one would ever guess the nerves.”
Beatrice blinked. “How did you—?”
“I’ve had my fair share of them. Also, you tremble exactly the way you used to when sitting for the pianoforte.” Margaret smiled. “Only I notice.”
Beside her, Edward murmured, “I notice as well.”
She stilled.
Margaret’s eyes widened with delight. “Oh? Well, that is interesting.”
“Margaret,” Sebastian warned.
She waved him off. “Yes, yes, I’m misbehaving.” She looped an arm through Beatrice’s. “Come, we’ll make a circuit of our own, and everyone can whisper about how very sociable the new Duke and Duchess are.”
Sebastian leaned toward Edward. “Brace yourself. Once she begins, there is no stopping her.”
“I gathered,” Edward drawled.
And yet Beatrice saw it—the faint softening of his expression as Margaret pulled them into the safety of a group. The relief there was subtle but unmistakable. She felt it, too.
For the first time that evening, she allowed herself to breathe.
Edward had endured nearly an hour of forced civility, smiling through barbed pleasantries and murmured insinuations. He could tolerate it. He had been raised among such people, after all.
But with Beatrice at his side, every whisper chafed more sharply than the last.
She stood composed, her posture elegant, her chin lifted with quiet dignity. It only made her more conspicuous; he could feel eyes following her everywhere.
Which was why the bold young gentleman approaching them irritated him before he even stopped.
“Your Grace,” the fellow said with a confident bow, then turned his full charm on Beatrice. “And… Your Grace. Might I have the honor of the next dance?”
Edward nearly rolled his eyes.
He did not even attempt small talk.
Although perhaps that was preferable, as it meant one less performance to endure.
Beatrice smiled politely, too politely, which made Edward scoff lightly.
“I thank you, Sir, but—”
“Please, humor me,” the man pressed, stepping closer than courtesy permitted. “It would brighten the entire room, I assure you.”
Edward felt the urge to throttle him.
The man’s gaze lingered too long on Beatrice’s face. Then lower. Immediately, heat surged through Edward’s chest.
Before he knew what he was doing, his hand had found her waist. Not gripping—he wasn’t a brute. But it just rested there as though it had always belonged.
Beatrice stiffened in surprise. So did he.
He withdrew his hand at once, his fingers curling.
Good God, what am I doing?
The young gentleman blinked at the gesture, his confidence wavering.
“I appreciate the offer,” Beatrice said gently, recovering first, “but I must decline. My husband and I were just about to grab refreshments.”
Edward nodded once, firmly endorsing her refusal.
The man bowed again, clearly disappointed but sensible enough to retreat. As he melted back into the crowd, Edward exhaled slowly, trying to steady the pulse he had no intention of acknowledging.
Sebastian, however, noticed immediately. He drew closer, his expression smug. “Interesting.”
“Don’t,” Edward warned under his breath.
“Oh, I must,” Sebastian countered, his tone gleeful. He patted Edward’s shoulder with maddening amusement. “Come, friend. Let us grab something for the ladies before you frighten another suitor into repentance.”
Edward gave him a flat look. “I did not frighten him.”
He exhaled through his nose and followed his friend toward the refreshments table. The crowd parted for them—one of the perks of their titles, he supposed—and the footmen straightened as they approached.
He selected two glasses of champagne and two lemonades, thinking automatically of Beatrice’s distaste for strong drink when she was tense. He hadn’t realized he had memorized the detail until now.
God help me. When did I begin noticing everything?
“You did frighten the poor man,” Sebastian was saying cheerfully. “It was magnificent. You nearly snapped the boy in half with a single gesture. And for a man who hasn’t looked at another woman all night—”
“I was not—”
“You seemed remarkably eager to remind him that Beatrice is married.”
Edward shot him a glare sharp enough to draw blood, but Sebastian’s grin only widened, pleased to have struck something solid.
“I haven’t looked at any other woman,” he said stiffly, “because I’ve been listening to every blasted whisper in this ballroom. And ensuring that she”—he nodded toward Beatrice, who was speaking to Margaret across the room—“is not cornered or uncomfortable.”
Sebastian’s eyebrows rose. “Is that the only reason?”
“It is,” Edward said, perhaps a bit too quickly.
Sebastian hummed, skeptical in a way that infuriated him. “Of course.”
Edward turned slightly, angling his body so Sebastian’s view of Beatrice was partially blocked. He wasn’t entirely certain why he had done it, and that also irritated him.
He looked away, his jaw tightening. “I simply want to make sure she is all right.”
That part, at least, was true.
What he did not say—what he would not allow himself to think too deeply about—was how she looked tonight. How the silk of her gown caught the light when she moved, or how her cheeks warmed when she felt his gaze, or how impossibly, maddeningly beautiful she was.
“Mm,” Sebastian murmured. “Just vigilance, then.”
Edward schooled his features into calm. “Precisely.”
“And the hand on her waist?”
“It was instinct.”
“One you have never displayed toward any woman as long as I have known you,” Sebastian said mildly. “Not even the ones you liked.”
“I did not—”
“You did,” Sebastian cut in. “Without thinking. Without hesitating. You put your hand on her waist as though it were the most natural thing in the world.”
Edward shot him a cold look. “If you have nothing productive to contribute—”
Sebastian laughed softly. “Very well, I’ll refrain from commenting on your heroic defense of your wife’s personal space.”
Edward exhaled through his nose. “Thank you.”
A beat passed.
Sebastian leaned closer. “You know,” he added, “most men stop noticing once the vows are said. You seem to have just started.”
Edward did not answer. He glanced back toward Beatrice instead.
She was smiling at something Margaret said, the tiniest curve of her lips softening all the tension he had carried since stepping into the ballroom. For a moment, he forgot the whispers. The stares. The scandal. Everything.
Sebastian observed him with a knowing smirk.
“What?” Edward hissed.
“Nothing,” Sebastian replied. Which, coming from him, meant quite a bit. “I expected you to bring the ladies champagne. Both of them.”
“Beatrice prefers lemonade this late in the evening.”
“Oh?” Sebastian drawled. “How thoughtful of you.”
Edward ignored him and handed a glass of champagne. “Take this to Margaret before she expires.”
“She’ll faint with delight that you know her best friend’s drink preferences.”
“Go,” Edward said sharply.
Sebastian laughed, before braving the crowd, leaving him to follow with the remaining glasses.
Edward appreciated the reprieve. The air near the refreshments table was cooler, less suffocating. He had acted without thought. That alone unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
Instinct, he told himself firmly. A protective instinct. Perfectly reasonable, considering the whispers, the stares, the bold man who had leaned far too close—
But the memory of her warmth beneath his hand rose unbidden. The sharp intake of her breath. The way her body had stilled, not in fear but in acute awareness.
He pushed the thought aside and crossed the room to where Beatrice was standing.. He spotted Beatrice at once.
She stood with Margaret, polite and composed, but her smile held the faint tension he had come to recognize. The one that said, I will endure this conversation with grace even if it kills me.