Chapter 19
Beatrice did not want to attend the poetry reading that evening at Lady Melville’s house, but Theodore said that she did not have a choice. She’d spent all day, since he’d confronted her in the garden, arguing with him.
“If we do not attend, it will give the rumors credence, look as if we are avoiding Society out of shame,” he told her grimly that afternoon, as they drank tea in the parlor, the stiffness and awkwardness between them pronounced.
“And then it will harm your chances of being courted and engaged to Lord Pembroke. We can only hope that he does not pay attention to such silly gossip, or, if he does, that he has seen such good examples of your character that he will not believe them.”
“Like you do not believe them?” Beatrice said, raising an eyebrow.
She had denied all accusations her brother made when he confronted her in the garden, but it was clear, from his skeptical snorts, that he did not believe her.
“Well, he does not know that you can be headstrong and willful as I do,” he snapped from the sofa opposite. “While I do not believe you capable of dishonoring yourself, I know you can be… wild.”
“You do not know me at all,” Beatrice rebutted angrily. “I have been gone for years, and now you pretend to know me well enough to decide for me whom I should marry? I think not, brother!”
“You would be lucky to marry Lord Pembroke now,” he had responded furiously. “But he probably will not have you, now that you have compromised yourself!”
“I did not spend time alone with the Duke of St. James on the road!” she had cried, desperate now. It didn’t matter that it was a lie. The more she thought about it, the more improbable it seemed, and it shocked her how easily her brother believed it.
It was as if he was trying to find the worst in her.
Regardless of what he felt about her, she knew he was right about their attending the poetry reading that evening. She had to hold her head high and act as if the rumors meant nothing to her.
Fortunately, they were unsubstantiated enough that Theodore thought it unlikely to ruin her. If they had been seen together, that was one thing. But a vague rumor about being together on the road? It did not even make sense.
“You were with your chaperone the whole time,” Theodore reasoned. “And she will vouch for you, once she has returned from visiting her daughter.”
The rest of the day passed without further argument, for which Beatrice was very glad, but her mind was much preoccupied as she readied herself for the poetry reading. Theodore seemed preoccupied as well, and they did not speak to each other in the carriage ride there.
Yet, despite her brother’s conviction that this could not permanently ruin her, not without proof, she felt nervous as she sat in the stiff-backed chair in Lady Melville’s parlor that evening, watching as different gentlemen in varying degrees of dandyness read their poetry aloud.
She did not hear a word they were saying.
All she could think about or notice was the way eyes were crawling all over.
Everyone in the room seemed to be staring at her, although they would look away the instant she tried to stare back at them, hiding behind fans or glasses of port.
And the whispers…
She heard them the moment she entered the room.
“Out on the road like that, without a chaperone…”
“No wonder he has shown her such preference, dancing with her like that!”
“He does seem uncommonly fond of her, but then again, he is a rake…”
“Who knows what kind of licentious behavior she learned in France!”
It was too much to bear. Beatrice forced herself to focus on the words of the poet, to try and block out the whispers she could feel warping their way around her.
And the funny thing was, once she allowed herself to listen, she actually felt herself drawn in by the words. The poet currently performing was very good, and he spoke beautiful, rhapsodic lines about forbidden love that resonated with her in a way few writings had.
Her heartbeat began to calm. The sweat on her palms dried.
And for the first time since Vivienne had burst into the breakfast room that morning, Beatrice thought about something other than the duke and the rumors.
She thought about her own writing, and she felt inspiration begin to flow through her.
So much so that when the poet bowed at the end of his set and everyone clapped, she took the opportunity to slip from her chair and from the room, heading down the hall to the library, where she might have a moment alone to compose some of her own verses.
She had just reached the door to the library when she heard someone calling her name.
Turning, she was startled to see Miss Isabella Thornton walking toward her down the corridor, a faux-sweet smile adorning her lips.
“Ahh, Miss Ashford,” Miss Thornton murmured. “I had hoped to see you here tonight!”
Beatrice stiffened. She did not know Miss Thornton well, but she did not like the way she clung to the duke’s side whenever she was with him, or how she looked at him.
“I was so curious as to what it was like to be alone with a man for as long as you were with the duke!” Miss Thornton said, not even bothering to keep the sneer from her voice. “It must have been very exciting indeed!”
Beatrice did not respond. She was not going to fan the flames of this scandal, no matter how much Miss Thornton tried to goad her.
“I personally have never experienced so much excitement,” Miss Thornton tittered.
“But then again, I am just a normal young lady, whereas you… you are something special. Swanning off to France for years. Returning mysteriously. Getting into shootouts on the road with the Duke of St. James. What a life you must lead, Miss Ashford! I would be envious of it… If I did not inevitably think it would end in scandal.”
Beatrice had heard enough. She was tired of the rumors.
Of the fear of scandal hanging over her head.
Sick of the way she did not seem to fit into London from the very first moment she’d stepped foot here, even as she tried to do her duty and make herself interested in the man her brother had picked out for her.
She was tired of it all.
She needed to get away.
Without a word, she pushed past Miss Thornton and hurried down the hall.
She heard Miss Thornton call her name, a note of alarm in her voice, but she did not turn.
Instead, she made her way as decisively as possible through the house until she spied a set of French windows that she knew must lead out to some kind of terrace.
Pushing them open, she threw herself out into the night.
It was cool outside and clear. Overhead, the stars blinked and winked at her from the velvety black night.
The terrace was small and fenced in by a stone baluster, which overlooked a small garden.
Below, she could see a stone fountain burbling, water spewing from the trident of a statue of Poseidon.
Crickets chirped somewhere in the hedges below, and the distant sound of carriages passing on the street beyond the garden wall did not, for once, seem too loud, but just distant enough that the rhythm was almost soothing.
She leaned against the railing and looked out over the garden, catching her breath. Her heart rate began to slow, and soon, the cool peacefulness of the night had made some of her frustration and anxiety dissipate.
Then she heard a movement behind her.
She whirled around, and her heart leapt.
The Duke of St. James was standing in the doorway of the French windows, gazing at her with dark, yet somehow luminous, eyes.
“Oh…” she murmured, as her heart kicked into gear. “You…”
“Yes,” the duke said, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “Me.”
“Did you follow me here?” she asked, putting her hands on her hips, but it was without venom. In truth, she was happier to see him than she could express. Relief had flooded her body, as well as another feeling, like she could finally relax; like she had no more reason to be afraid.
“I was worried about you,” he said. “I heard the rumors that people are tossing around in there.” He made a disgusted sound. “These people… They really have nothing better to do with their time than gossip about other people.”
“That is all the ton ever does,” Beatrice said sadly. “It is their favorite pastime.”
He took a step nearer to her, and she thought she saw something like an ache in his eyes as he looked down at her. “How are you?” he asked. “Truly.”
“Truly?” She laughed and looked away, hugging herself as if it might make her feel better. “I am scared. I do not know what will happen to me if my reputation is ruined. It could destroy my family.”
“Perhaps it could mean freedom,” the duke suggested. “You did not want to marry the man your brother had picked out for you, did you?”
“No, but I do not want freedom at this cost. To have to run back to France, or wherever I can hide, because of a mistake I made.”
“A mistake?” The duke sounded wounded, and Beatrice looked back at him. His eyes were slightly teasing. “That hurts.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “You know what I mean.”
“I do,” he said, more soberly. “And I am very sorry if my actions have gotten you into trouble.”
“You saved me on the road,” she said sharply. “Do not apologize for that. It is not your fault that we were alone together there. You were only trying to watch out for me.”
“But yesterday… I should not have come to the conservatory.”
“And yet you are here,” she observed with a rye smile. “Also when you should not be. If someone were to see us.”
“You are right,” he said. “I should go.”
But he did not move, and neither did she.
She felt as if she could not think correctly, as if her thoughts were slow and sluggish.
Being in his presence made every nerve in her body fire, made her feel as if every inch of her were electric to the touch.
She wanted to be around this feeling as long as possible. No matter what danger it entailed…