The New Duchess
By midsummer, Dasborough Park had become insufferably beautiful.
Roses climbed the old stone walls. Lavender spilled over the paths in fragrant purple drifts. The lawns rolled away in perfect green slopes toward the lake, where the afternoon sun scattered over the water as though the whole world had conspired to glitter.
Beatrice found it all deeply inconsiderate.
A house had no right to look so cheerful when one was attempting to feel nothing in particular.
“Those garlands are for the musicians’ gallery,” she told a footman, gesturing toward the great hall. “Not the supper room. And tell Mrs. Gillings to have one of the maids finish decorating these masks.”
The footman bowed and hurried away.
There.
Useful.
She could still be useful.
That, at least, had not been taken from her.
All around her, Dasborough Park prepared for celebration. Dash and Ambrosia had already done the scandalous portion—running off to Gretna Green less than six months after Lady Hannah’s passing.
But they’d been forgiven, it seemed, and were to celebrate their marriage with a respectable country ball.
The entire village had been invited. Several neighbors had accepted, and a surprising number of London acquaintances had made the journey too.
Not because Dasborough Park was convenient. It was not.
But Dash was a duke, Ambrosia was the woman who had nearly driven him mad, and curiosity, apparently, was stronger than bad roads.
Beatrice ought to have been happy.
No, she was happy.
Ambrosia was lovely—warm, clever, and so clearly besotted with Dash that Beatrice had no choice but to like her.
And Dash had returned to himself.
He smiled. He laughed. He teased. He looked less like a duke carrying the weight of the world and more like a man who had finally found his way home.
Whenever Mrs. Bloomington was near, he reached for her without thought.
His wife.
The word still caught Beatrice sometimes.
Lady Hannah had been Dash’s wife too, once. But there had been no ease in that marriage. No warmth. No reaching. Only duty, grief, and two good people trying to make peace with a life neither had chosen.
Beatrice hoped Lady Hannah had found peace now.
Beatrice paused beside a table piled with ribbons and half-finished masks.
Dash crossed the far end of the hall just then, Ambrosia at his side. He bent to murmur something near her ear, and Ambrosia’s cheeks warmed before she swatted lightly at his arm with her fan.
Disgusting.
Truly.
Beatrice was delighted for them. She was also considering whether one could expire from proximity to marital bliss.
She turned away before they caught her looking.
A silver mask lay atop the table, its blank eyes staring upward. Beside it rested a wolf’s mask, dark velvet with pointed ears.
Her fingers went cold.
Only for a moment. Only because it had been unexpected.
That was all.
A masquerade ball had been Ambrosia’s idea, and Beatrice’s first instinct had been to protest.
She had not.
Because this was not Beatrice’s wedding ball. It was Ambrosia’s. Dasborough Park was her home now. She was the duchess, and if the new Duchess of Dasborough wanted masks and music and a little summer enchantment, Beatrice would not be the one to dim her pleasure.
Over time, Beatrice knew she would come to love Ambrosia as dearly as she had loved Lady Hannah.
Differently. But dearly.
So she had agreed it sounded festive. Romantic, even. Entirely suitable for a summer celebration in the country.
And it was.
This was not Ashcombe House.
This was not London.
This was not five years ago.
Beatrice drew a breath.
Lavender. Wax. Polished wood.
Not cloves. Not orange. Not that sickly sweetness beneath.
And if she felt a little unsettled, well, she had reasons.
The event alone was enough to occupy anyone. Then there was the Vigilance Society—or what remained of it.
Officially, they had suspended meetings.
Unofficially, letters continued to arrive. Notes about a cousin in need of advice. A friend taught to break a hold. A young lady quietly warned away from a man whose attentions had turned unwelcome.
The Society had not been disbanded.
It had merely branched out.
Beatrice pressed her lips together.
Then there was Gideon Rothmore.
Who had, in fact, done exactly what she had demanded of him.
He had left her alone.
Since she’d arrived in Dasborough Park, she hadn’t received a single carefully worded apology in the form of a letter.
Nothing.
He had respected her wishes.
It was astonishing how very much she resented him for it.
And he had not told Dash. That much was clear. Dash had said nothing, asked nothing.
Not about the Vigilance Society.
Not about her… dalliance with Gideon.
Not about five years ago.
Gideon had kept her confidence. Of course he had.
She had trusted him.
She still trusted him.
That was never the problem.
Beatrice’s throat tightened.
It was absurd to resent his absence. It was worse than absurd. It was unfair.
But the fact remained that some light inside her seemed to have gone out, and she could not decide whether it had been her premature exit from London that had extinguished it—or Gideon’s absence.
A bit of both, perhaps.
And now, it seemed, she’d live her life as she’d intended. As a spinster.
A woman with purpose. Independence. Work that mattered. A woman who did not wait by windows for a man who had, quite reasonably, taken her at her word.
Across the hall, Dash kissed Ambrosia’s gloved hand.
Beatrice looked away.