Chapter 21 #2
Inside, cushioned amongst blue velvet, was a sapphire ring.
The jewel was bright and clear, and it winked up at her in the afternoon sunlight.
Never had she worn a ring with such a large jewel, and she felt almost dizzy as the duke plucked it from the velvet and took her left hand.
Very slowly, he slid it onto her finger, his eyes on hers.
“You deserve everything, Miss Ashford,” he murmured. “And I am sorry I cannot give it all to you. But I can give you this. And just know, that even after our engagement comes to an end, that the feelings I put into having it made were real.”
Beatrice stared down at the ring, then up at him. What did it mean? His words sounded so good, so perfect, exactly the words of someone who truly cared for her.
But it was all a lie, was it not?
If he could lie to his mother, then he could lie to her.
“Thank you,” she whispered. She had to look away, to hide the tears in her eyes, then stand quickly. “I shall treasure it until the day that I call off the engagement.”
The duke let out a sad, bitter laugh. “I hope you do not think me so ungentlemanly that I will ask for the ring back.” She looked back at him, surprised. He looked deeply unhappy as he touched her hand, covering the ring with his palm. “This is yours to keep, Beatrice. Forever.”
They gazed into one another’s eyes, and Beatrice felt her anger and fear slipping away.
“I do not want to return to France and marry a stranger,” she heard herself say.
At once, the duke’s face fell.
“I know,” he said, looking down. “But it is the only way. You must not be ruined, Beatrice. And I cannot be the one to ruin you.”
She had no response. It was an impossible situation, and all she could do was hang her head, resignation washing over her and making her numb.
For the rest of the visit, all throughout lunch, she could barely bring herself to speak, and when the duke and his mother finally left, her feelings welled up inside of her.
She wanted to get it all out. And there was only one way she knew how.
She wanted to write poetry. She had been thwarted in her attempt by Miss Thornton at the poetry reading, but now, there was nothing stopping her, and in her room, she began to write.
For the next few hours, words consumed her. Lines of poetry were coming to her as if from the ether itself, sprouting inside her brain and then onto the page like divine inspiration. She felt like a woman speaking in tongues, except instead of the word of God, it was the word of…
Of what, exactly?
Certainly not love.
And yet…
They were about the duke, and they were full of emotions that she could scarcely quantify. Maybe because she could not admit to herself what they might be, could not say them plainly, she wrote them in oblique, obfuscated lines of poetry that captured the confusing nature of them.
When she was finally done, she had written half a dozen poems. She stared at the pieces of paper scattered in front of her, awe-struck.
She had not written so much in a very long time.
Her fingers were now covered in ink and her wrist hurt from writing, but she had never felt so satisfied or so satiated, like eating a large meal but never getting too full.
Shortly after, she went to visit the Carltons. She found both Vivienne and Nathaniel at home, reading in the drawing room, when she was announced. The moment she entered, Nathaniel stood up and crossed to her, his hands outstretched.
“My dearest Beatrice!” he cried. “I cannot believe I was absent one night from an event and missed so much drama! My sister has told me everything. How are you feeling? Are you well?”
“I am well,” Beatrice assured him, although she wasn’t entirely sure herself. “Or as well as I can possibly hope.”
“You must be shaken thoroughly,” Nathaniel said, guiding her over to the sofa. “For the duke to compromise you in such a way!”
“It was not his fault,” Beatrice said, shaking her head. “It was I who was comforting him, after he told me about the troubles he is having with his title.”
Nathaniel frowned as he sat down opposite her. “Regardless… He is a man. And he should have known better than to be with you on that terrace. I almost wish that Lord Pembroke had called him out.”
“No,” Beatrice said quickly. “That is not what I want. I want…” She trailed off, unsure of what to say.
“I did warn you,” Nathaniel said, shaking his head again. “But I suppose the Duke of St. James has his methods for making young ladies forget themselves. Well, let us see if he actually goes through with this, or if he fails you at the first opportunity…”
“That is enough, brother,” Vivienne said sharply. She was watching Beatrice closely, and she must have seen how pale her friend had become. “Do not distress Beatrice any further.”
“I apologize,” Nathaniel said quickly. “I only wish I had been there to protect you. I blame myself.”
“Perhaps the two of you should come to dinner tonight,” Beatrice said, eager to change the subject. “I am sure that Theodore would be glad of the company. He is in need of cheering up. I fear that he is very upset about everything that has happened.”
“An excellent idea,” Nathaniel said eagerly, but to Beatrice’s surprise, Vivienne’s face fell.
“I am not sure I should,” she said sadly. “I fear that your brother might blame me for the engagement. It was, after all, partially my idea.”