Chapter 20
As Edward and Sebastian wove through the crowd toward the refreshments table, Beatrice let out a slow breath she hoped no one noticed.
Noise pressed in from all sides—music, laughter, the occasional shrill burst of gossip—and beneath it all, the persistent awareness of eyes following her.
“Are you managing?” Margaret asked quietly, creeping to her side.
Beatrice nodded. “Of course.”
Margaret fixed her with a knowing look. “You’re lying.”
Beatrice sighed. “Only a little.”
Margaret turned fully toward her, fan half-raised, expression unreadable to anyone else. “You’re clenching your jaw.”
“I always clench my jaw in public.”
“No, you clench your jaw when you are irritated,” Margaret corrected. “This is something else.”
Beatrice huffed. “I dislike being discussed as though I’m not present.”
“Ah,” Margaret said dryly. “Then I fear you’ll dislike most evenings for the rest of your life.”
“That is precisely the sort of encouragement I hoped for.”
Margaret smiled faintly. “You look beautiful.”
“That makes one of us.”
Margaret’s eyebrows rose. “Beatrice.”
“I know,” Beatrice said, her voice softer. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant,” Margaret interrupted gently. “You meant this room feels like a tribunal.”
Beatrice swallowed. “Yes.”
Margaret looped her arm through Beatrice’s with casual possessiveness, her fan snapping open as a convenient shield.
“I told Sebastian we should have stayed close from the start. The moment you walked in, half the room looked ready to faint from curiosity, as though they’d been waiting weeks for the moment. ”
“Yes,” Beatrice said wryly. “How very charitable of them.”
Margaret snorted. “Oh, Bea. I know it’s difficult. All the talk. The looks. But it will pass.”
“It doesn’t feel like it.”
“Everything in Society feels eternal for exactly one week,” Margaret said, “then something shinier appears.”
Beatrice let out a quiet laugh despite herself. “I suppose I should be grateful we’ve had the stage this long.”
“Think of it as an accomplishment,” Margaret quipped. “You’ve kept them entertained.”
They paused as a couple passed by, the lady’s sharp gaze lingering on Beatrice’s gown before flicking toward Edward across the room.
Beatrice stiffened.
Margaret noticed. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t catalog them,” Margaret urged softly. “They aren’t worth the effort.”
Beatrice exhaled. “I wish I believed that.”
“You will,” Margaret said. “Eventually. Or you’ll grow bored. One of the two.”
Beatrice’s mouth curved faintly. “I do hope boredom arrives first.”
Margaret hesitated, then lowered her voice. “How is she?”
The question warmed Beatrice instantly. “Pip is well. Very well. Mrs. Hart adores her.”
“She’s perfect,” Margaret murmured. “I’ve never seen a sweeter baby.”
Beatrice’s throat tightened. “I worry about her.”
“You worry about everything,” Margaret pointed out gently. “It’s what makes you such a good mother.”
Beatrice looked down at her gloves, smoothing a nonexistent crease. “Do you think people truly believe that she is… ours? That the headline about the scandal is true?”
“I think,” Margaret said firmly, “that anyone who matters sees exactly what they should see, which is clearly a child who is loved.”
Beatrice swallowed. “And those who don’t matter?”
“Will grow bored.”
“I worry that people will keep whispering as she grows older. That she will hear it.”
Margaret’s tone sharpened. “Then they will answer to me.”
Beatrice glanced at her. “You cannot duel half of London.”
Margaret smiled wickedly. “Watch me.”
Beatrice nodded, but she still felt uneasy. She glanced across the room—almost without meaning to—and found Edward immediately.
He was speaking with Sebastian, waiting for their drinks, his expression composed but sharpened by attention. Even from a distance, he seemed aware of everything around him. Of her.
The realization sent a small, unwelcome thrill through her.
Margaret followed her gaze and grinned. “You keep doing that.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Looking for him.”
“I am not.”
“You are,” Margaret said calmly. “Looking at him like he’s about to set fire to the curtains.”
“I absolutely do not.”
“You do,” Margaret insisted, chuckling. “Every thirty seconds, you check where he is.”
Beatrice flushed. “I’m alert. There are too many people here who would enjoy another scandal.”
Margaret tapped her arm with her fan. “And that requires staring at your husband’s back as if he’s about to cause one?”
“He is Edward,” Beatrice argued. “It is practically guaranteed he’ll offend someone.”
“He has not flirted with a single woman this evening.”
Beatrice’s lips pressed together.
Sebastian approached them with a glass in each hand, then handed one to each of them, earning a smile from Margaret and a thank you from Beatrice.
“Not even Miss Blackwell,” Margaret continued pointedly, “who has been orbiting around him like a moth for the better part of an hour.”
“That does not mean he won’t,” Beatrice muttered.
Margaret’s eyes sparkled. “You sound remarkably sure.”
Beatrice opened her mouth, then closed it again, because she had no proper response, largely because the truth was inconvenient.
Margaret smirked. “Thought so.”
The truth was, Beatrice’s eyes did seek him out. Constantly. Too constantly. She wasn’t sure when it had started. Perhaps in Bath. Perhaps in the carriage. Or perhaps the moment he had looked at her tonight and gone still.
But she wasn’t about to confess that, not even under threat of execution.
She forced her gaze away, only for it to drift back to him moments later—just in time to catch him glance toward her.
Their eyes met. The connection was brief, fleeting enough to deny if questioned, but something in his expression shifted. It was not a smile, nor quite concern, but awareness.
Heat bloomed beneath her skin.
She looked away first.
Margaret watched her with quiet satisfaction. “You know,” she said lightly, “most women would be pleased to have a husband who spends an entire evening watching the room rather than the ladies in it.”
Beatrice’s voice came out too neutral. “He is only being vigilant.”
“Mm.”
“He has a reason.”
“Does he?” Margaret asked gently.
Beatrice didn’t answer. The truth hovered too close to the surface, unwelcome and unexamined.
Edward started moving toward them. Beatrice’s pulse quickened, betraying her.
Margaret smiled to herself. “Ah, reinforcements.”
“I do not require—”
Movement at the side drew Beatrice’s attention, just as she was beginning to believe she might endure the evening without incident.
A gentleman she had not spoken to before stepped forward with a polished bow. He looked too young, well-dressed, and far too confident.
“Your Grace,” he greeted, adopting a tone meant to charm. “Might I persuade you to honor me with the next dance?”
Beatrice opened her mouth. She wasn’t even sure whether she intended to accept or decline, but before she could utter a syllable, another voice cut smoothly between them.
“No.”
Edward stood at her side, entirely calm, and offered his hand.
“Duchess,” he said, his eyes steady on her, “I believe you owe me a dance.”
Beatrice felt the world tilt.
The bold young man blinked in surprise, bowing stiffly. “Of-Of course, Your Grace.”
Edward didn’t spare him a second glance. His attention was entirely focused on her.
“Shall we?” he prompted.
“I—” She faltered, because her hand was already moving toward his, as if drawn by a magnet. “Yes,” she heard herself say.
When his fingers palmed the small of her back, the ballroom seemed to fade away, just a little.
Edward inclined his head in the barest acknowledgment and smoothly turned around, guiding her with him.
Behind them, she felt rather than heard the murmurs begin.
He led her toward the dance floor with deliberate ease. She felt the brush of his hand at her back, the faintest pressure guiding her into position as the orchestra struck the opening notes of a waltz.
A waltz. Of all things.
Her heart gave a sharp, traitorous flutter.
“Of course it is,” she murmured under her breath.
Edward heard her anyway.
“Objection?” he asked lightly.
“Only to the timing,” she replied. “And the audience.”
“Ah,” he said. “Both unavoidable.”
They faced one another. Edward put his hand on her waist. The warmth of it seeped through the silk of her gown as though the fabric were thin as air.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
No. Not remotely.
“Yes,” she answered.
He drew her into motion.
They moved smoothly—he was an excellent dancer, curse him—and the room blurred around them. For a moment, she could almost forget the tension in her shoulders.
But then his gaze settled on hers, and every one of her thoughts tangled hopelessly.
They completed the first turn, her skirts sweeping the floor in a soft arc, and then he spoke, his voice low enough so that only she could hear.
“I have been thinking,” he admitted, “about the baby.”
Her breath caught, though her steps did not falter. “What about her?”
“Someone came to mind.” His jaw tightened slightly. “My cousin, Lord Simon Pembroke.”
Beatrice knew of him, though vaguely.
“Simon,” she repeated carefully, as though tasting the name. “Why do you suspect him?”
“He has a talent for causing mischief wherever he goes,” Edward replied dryly. “And he was in the area around the time the baby was dropped at Moreland House. He… keeps company where consequences are rarely considered.”
Beatrice swallowed. “You believe he could be her father?”
“I believe,” Edward picked his words carefully, “that it is a possibility I would be remiss to ignore.”
The music swelled and carried them into another turn. Edward’s hand remained steady on her waist, while the other held hers with a warmth that made her heart stutter.
“And how does that possibility sit with you?” she asked.
His jaw tightened, only slightly. “Poorly.”
“Because of scandal?”
“No.” His answer came too quickly. “Because of her.”
That landed harder than she had expected.