Chapter 21
The note from Lord Pembroke arrived the next morning, and Beatrice read it with detached interest.
Dear Miss Ashford,
I apologize for my behavior last night and my intimations of violence.
Upon further reflection, I have no desire to meet the duke at dawn, nor do I believe this is an insult worth risking either of our lives for.
Your affections were clearly already engaged when we met, and if I had known as such, I would not have pursued you.
Perhaps you did not feel you could share your feelings with your brother, which is why I was not informed…
but I shall not speculate further as to why I was kept in the dark.
I wish you well moving forward and hope you shall enjoy happiness with whomever you marry.
Regards,
C. Pembroke
It was a relatively kind letter, given the circumstances, and Beatrice could not help but feel a little sad that she had not given Lord Pembroke more credit.
He was not the villain she had made him out to be in her mind. Indeed, his greatest crime was that her brother had picked him out. If she had met him and chosen him herself, perhaps she might have felt differently about him.
Perhaps she might even have found him adequate.
But was that enough?
She thought again of Mrs. Hughes’ words to her before she’d left to visit her daughter: The man you marry will not only be your husband, but your friend, your companion, your protector, and your confidant.
You want him to be someone you feel yourself with.
Someone you trust. And someone you feel tenderness for.
She did not feel that way about Lord Pembroke.
But the duke?
Her heart picked up slightly, and she looked out the breakfast room window toward the garden. He was the one she wanted to share all her worries with. He was the one she now wanted to speak to about the confusing situation she found herself in. Other than Vivienne, he did feel like her best friend.
But what did it mean that they were becoming engaged only for a few weeks? She did not know if that would solve anything, and indeed, it might only make things worse.
How was she supposed to call off the engagement in a few weeks? Of all the men she had ever met, he was the only one she had ever felt such tender things for, the only one she could ever see herself…
The door to the breakfast room flew open, and Theodore strode in.
“It is in the paper, then,” he said, thrusting the morning’s paper at her. She took it unthinkingly and stared down at the item he was referring to. The words stared back at her. Although they were written in perfectly plain English, it still took her a moment to understand them.
Viscount Ashford is happy to announce the engagement of his sister, Miss Beatrice Ashford, to His Grace, the Duke of St. James.
So there it was. In print.
Beatrice looked up at her brother. His face was redder than usual, his brow furrowed, his lips turned down in what seemed to be a permanent frown.
“I know this is not what you wanted,” she murmured.
“No,” he agreed. “It is not.”
“But I am not the only one to blame.”
He stared at her. “Oh? And I assume you are going to tell me I am to blame?”
“Yes,” she said, laying the paper carefully down on the table and folding her hands.
“You are, Theodore. You have not listened to me throughout this mess. You did not ask me whom I preferred and who I wanted to marry. You made decisions for me. You treated me like a child. Instead of getting to know me, the woman I have become since living in France, and helping me to marry a man I actually wanted.”
Theodore’s mouth twisted. “Well, you are not going to marry St. James anyway. Not when he is about to lose his title. But I suppose we should make a show of it. Make it look legitimate.”
“What do you mean?”
“I plan to host a ball in the coming days,” he said, sighing and running a hand through his hair. “To celebrate the upcoming nuptials.”
“That is… generous of you.”
“Well, what is the point of this, if not to convince people the wedding is legitimate?”
And with that, he left the breakfast room. Beatrice watched him, trying and attempting to swallow her anger. She didn’t know how to make him see that he was culpable in everything that had happened as well, and she didn’t know if he ever would.
However, she didn’t have much time to dwell on it, as that afternoon, they were hosting the duke and the dowager duchess for lunch to officially and formally recognize the engagement between both families.
Beatrice had never properly spoke to the dowager before, and when she swept into the Ashford parlor that afternoon in a long, elegant gown of light gray silk with a high, ruffled collar, her silver hair stacked perfectly on her head and her dark eyes probing and curious, she could not help but feel a little bit intimidated.
However, the moment she saw her, the dowager opened her arms wide and smiled.
“My dearest Miss Ashford,” she cried, pulling Beatrice into a tight hug. “I am so glad to be properly acquainted at last, and under such happy circumstances!”
“I am as well,” Beatrice said, laughing slightly at the unexpected warmth and returning the hug. “I have heard such wonderful things about you from your son.”
“You are too kind,” the dowager said, releasing her and smiling warmly, her eyes twinkling. “My son is the very best of sons. I am the one who is always singing his praises.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Beatrice saw the duke enter behind his mother, then nod stiffly at Theodore, who did not bow.
“I have been telling Rupert for some time now that he ought to marry,” she continued, taking Beatrice’s hand and leading her over to the sofa.
“And when he told me he had chosen you, well… let us just say I was very glad. Your beauty is unparalleled, my dear, and I admire greatly that you lived in France for two years. You are an adventurer, then, like my son!” She winked.
“I think the two of you will be very well suited.”
Something hard and sad lodged itself in Beatrice’s stomach. “I very much hope so, Your Grace,” she murmured, averting her gaze.
“I have something for you,” the dowager said, once they were seated on the sofa, and she motioned at the footman who had followed them in to come forward. He brought over a small jewelry box, which he handed to the dowager.
“These have belonged to every duchess in the line of St. James going back to the Conqueror,” she said, her eyes gleaming as she handed the box to Beatrice. “I hope that you shall wear them with pride when you marry my son and become the next Duchess of St. James.”
Her heart in her throat and her hands shaking slightly, Beatrice lifted the lid of the jewelry box.
Inside, sitting on a bed of red velvet, was a diamond necklace, so delicate and fine that it took all her effort not to gasp.
The diamonds were so perfectly polished and lustrous that they seemed to glint even from within the darkness of the box.
“Your Grace…” Beatrice looked up, astonished. “I cannot possibly accept this…”
“Nonsense,” the dowager said, smiling again, her whole face lit up with delight. “You are the next Duchess of St. James. They are yours to wear. I am honored to pass down such magnificent jewels to the woman my son cares for.”
Beatrice looked up at the duke. He was standing awkwardly near the mantle, watching her. The moment their eyes met, something in them flickered, and she knew he understood what she was feeling: that it was one thing to fool the ton, but it was quite another to deceive his mother.
“You honor me with this gift,” Beatrice said, tearing her eyes away from Rupert’s and smiling at the dowager. “Thank you. I shall endeavor to be worthy of such an offering.”
“I have no doubt you will be, my dear,” the dowager said. “No doubt at all.”
After that, Beatrice rang for tea, and after her brother had engaged the dowager in conversation, the duke finally approached.
“Might I have a private word out in the garden?” he asked, leaning down to speak with her where she was seated on the sofa.
Beatrice looked at her brother, who glanced at her, then nodded.
Rising, Beatrice followed the duke out of the parlor and into the hallway.
After collecting her pelisse and bonnet, the two of them made their way outside, where they strolled slowly, side-by-side, until they reached the stone bench where she and Vivienne had spoken about the rumors.
It was only the previous day, but it felt like a lifetime ago.
“I do not feel good about this,” Beatrice said, as the two of them settled on the bench. “Your mother seems so excited about the engagement. It kills me to think that we are deceiving her.”
“I know,” the duke said heavily. “It will break her heart, when the engagement comes to an end. But what else can we do? I cannot offer you a real marriage. Not while the future of my dukedom hangs in the balance?”
Beatrice looked away. It sounded reasonable, of course, when he said it, but all she could hear was an excuse.
The Duke of St. James was a known rake. He claimed he was not, but everyone else said otherwise.
And now, even when all manners of decency and propriety commanded that he marry her, he was making excuses why he could not?
She knew the real reason: he did not want to.
She was not worthy.
Swallowing, she turned back to him just as he pulled a small box from the inside pocket of his coat.
To her surprise, he handed it to her. “I had this made for you today,” he said, his voice softer and more tender than she would have expected.
“Even if this engagement is not to be real, I want it to look and feel proper. And I want… I want you to be able to enjoy as much of it as you can. I thought having a beautiful piece of jewelry on your fingers would please you.”
Heart in her throat, Beatrice snapped open the lid of the box. This time, she did not bother to hide her gasp.