Chapter 1

Chapter One

" R emember, Beatrice," Lady Afferton hissed, "we are here to find you a husband, not to be entertained."

"Yes, Mother," Beatrice said, giving her a dutiful nod.

Prudence Wickes, the Dowager Countess of Afferton, stood beside her daughter, her sharp eyes scanning the room for potential suitors. At fifty years old, she still had an air of cold elegance, her hair perfectly coiffed and her gown impeccable.

Her lips were pressed in a thin line, her gaze critical and unyielding. Every glance she cast at Beatrice seemed to find fault, from the way she held herself to the smallest imperfection in her attire.

"Had it not been for that wretched Catherine and her baseless accusations, your brother would still be here, not exiled in France. And we would not have had to flee to Wales. Wales, of all places!" Prudence muttered under her breath.

Beatrice clenched her jaw but said nothing. She knew better than to argue with her mother's twisted version of events.

The isolation of living with their relatives in Wales had been a stark contrast to the vibrant social life her mother had once enjoyed, a constant reminder of the damage her brother had done.

"Hold your head high, Beatrice," Prudence continued, her voice icy. "We must show them that we are unaffected by the scandal."

"Yes, Mother," Beatrice repeated, taking a deep breath and letting her mother's words fuel her resolve.

Her friend Catherine, the Duchess of Newden, had once told her that bravery was not the absence of fear but the determination to face it. Beatrice would face this night and whatever it held.

Her fingers nervously clutched the delicate lace of her gown. The dress was a soft shade of lavender, adorned with intricate embroidery with seed pearl accents that shimmered in the candlelight.

The chandelier's light glanced off her caramel blonde hair, but she felt anything but luminous. Her mother's sharp voice echoed in her mind, a constant reminder of her purpose there.

Beatrice was not at the Dowager Duchess of Newden's house party for pleasure. She was on a mission—a mission to secure a match that would save her family from further ruin.

As she scanned the room, her blue eyes caught sight of a familiar face—Lady Featherwell, whispering to a group of equally disdainful ladies.

The widow's eyes narrowed when they met Beatrice's, her lips curling into a sly smile.

"Lady Beatrice," Lady Featherwell greeted her, the words dripping with false sweetness.

"Lady Featherwell," Beatrice replied, forcing a polite smile.

Lady Featherwell was dressed in a deep burgundy gown, appropriate for a widow who had moved past the initial stages of mourning but still desired attention.

Her dark hair was coiffed in an elaborate style, adorned with glittering jewels that matched the sharp glint in her eyes.

There was coldness in her gaze, a predatory gleam that hinted at her delight in others' misfortunes.

"It's been some time since we've seen you at such an event," Lady Featherwell said with a mocking lilt to her voice. "I suppose one must keep up appearances, even after such… difficulties."

Beatrice's smile tightened. "Indeed. It is important to remain resilient."

Lady Featherwell's beauty was undeniable, but it was the beauty that hid a heart of ice. Beatrice could almost hear the venomous words spilling past her perfectly painted lips, words designed to wound and ostracize.

I will not let her see me falter.

"Well, I must say, it is admirable how you manage to hold your head high," Lady Featherwell continued, her smile never reaching her eyes. "Not everyone could be so… brave."

"Thank you, Lady Featherwell," Beatrice replied, her voice steady. "Like I said, I believe we must all strive to be brave in the face of adversity."

As Lady Featherwell moved on, Beatrice took a deep breath, determined not to show the sting of their judgment. She had faced far worse in the past year and would continue to hold her ground.

I am stronger than they think , Beatrice thought, lifting her chin.

As she walked back to her mother, she overheard a group of ladies nearby, their voices low but their words clear.

"Did you hear about her brother? Attacked the poor Duchess of Newden, he did. Such a disgrace," one lady said.

"Indeed. The family was quite prominent once, but now… well, you know how these things go," the other responded.

Beatrice's cheeks flushed, but she kept her head high, determined not to let the gossip affect her.

Beatrice understood her duty, but there was a simmering resentment that she had to bear the brunt of fixing the damage Patrick had caused. It was unfair that he could escape the consequences, leaving her to navigate the treacherous waters of Society's expectations alone. Yet, she knew she had no other choice. Her mother's survival and their family's future depended on her ability to make an advantageous match.

As she and her mother stepped further into the room, her heart raced—not from fear, but from the thrill of the unknown.

Tonight could change everything.

As they made their way through the ballroom, the strains of a lively waltz filled the air, the sound of violins and pianoforte blending harmoniously. Beatrice allowed the music to wash over her, momentarily drowning out the whispers and judgmental glances. The elegant movements of the dancers twirling gracefully across the polished floor provided a soothing distraction from the anxiety gnawing at her.

They reached a row of seats along the edge of the ballroom where Lady Bernmere was already seated.

The Dowager Marchioness of Bernmere was a kind-looking woman in her sixties, but many considered her to be slightly eccentric. Beatrice cared not a whit. The whimsical nature of Lady Bernmere was a welcome change from her mother's harsh words.

"Ah, Lady Afferton, Lady Beatrice," Lady Bernmere greeted them warmly. "Please, do sit down. Such a lovely evening, isn't it?"

"Indeed," Prudence replied though her tone was clipped.

Beatrice offered a polite smile as she took her seat.

"I hope my nephew will attend the party this time," Lady Bernmere said, her eyes twinkling with anticipation. "It has been far too long since he made an appearance. I fear that he has become a hermit."

The Dowager Duchess of Newden, who was sitting nearby, chuckled softly. "I would not get my hopes up. You know how he is these days—rarely leaving his estate."

Who was this hermit nephew of Lady Bernmere's?

Although Beatrice interest was piqued, and she wanted to inquire further, she stopped herself when a lady seated nearby leaned over and whispered to another.

"Such a shame about Lady Beatrice's family. The scandal must be unbearable," the lady said.

Her mother's eyes narrowed upon hearing the lady's whispering, her lips pressing into a thin line.

"Beatrice, fetch me a cup of punch," she commanded, her voice cold and firm. "Now."

"Yes, Mother," Beatrice replied, rising to her feet.

She knew her mother's command was not just about quenching her thirst but also about removing her from the potentially damaging conversation.

Beatrice wended her way through the dancers gracefully, her lavender gown swishing around her like a soft whisper.

The strains of the waltz provided a comforting backdrop as she made her way to the refreshments table.

A servant, impeccably dressed in livery, stood ready to assist.

"May I help you, My Lady?" he asked, bowing slightly.

"Yes, please. A glass of punch for my mother," Beatrice requested.

The servant turned to the ornate punch bowl, its surface shimmering under the light of the chandeliers. He ladled the punch into a delicate crystal glass intricately etched with floral patterns that glinted as they caught the light.

As Beatrice accepted the glass, feeling the cool surface against her fingers, she took a moment to compose herself.

Finally, she turned and made her way back, the punch glass steady in her hand.

Navigating through the crowd, Beatrice was almost back in her seat when her foot caught on the edge of a rug.

"Oh!" she exhaled as she stumbled.

Despite her best efforts to steady the glass, a splash of punch flew into the air.

And landed on Lady Featherwell's dress.

The dark red stain spread across the pristine fabric, an unwelcome and glaring mark.

Oh no , Beatrice thought.

Lady Featherwell gasped, her eyes widening in fury. "You clumsy girl!" she shrieked, her voice echoing through the ballroom. "How dare you!"

"I-I am so sorry, Lady Featherwell," Beatrice stuttered, her face flushing with embarrassment. "It was an accident, truly."

"A likely story," Lady Featherwell snapped, her eyes blazing. "Trying to gain the Viscount's attention, are you?"

She gestured to the handsome but weak-chinned Viscount Wellington, who stood beside her, looking down at Beatrice with a condescending smirk.

"Really, Lady Beatrice," the Viscount drawled, "one might think you did it on purpose."

Beatrice's heart pounded in her chest. "No, I assure you, it was an accident."

Lady Featherwell's lips curled into a cruel smile. "An accident? I think not. It is no surprise, considering the blood you share with that lecherous brother of yours. You must be just as conniving."

At that moment, the music stopped, and Lady Featherwell's voice echoed loudly in the sudden silence.

"I—" Beatrice began to defend herself but halted.

A sharp look from her mother, who was standing close by, froze the words on her tongue.

Beatrice stood there, humiliated, as the eyes of the entire ballroom turned towards her.

And then she fled the scene.

The whispers and judgmental glances followed her as she hurried away, the ballroom's grandeur now a cage from which she desperately needed to escape.

She felt the hot sting of humiliation burning her cheeks, but she refused to let anyone see her weakness. She had endured too much and fought too hard to let these venomous whispers break her.

Each step she took away from the ballroom was a step towards regaining her composure.

Hold your head high. You are more than their judgment, more than the mistakes of your brother. You are stronger than this.

She struggled to navigate the sprawling corridors of the Dowager Duchess' grand estate. Her heart raced, and her vision blurred with unshed tears. Each hallway seemed identical to the last, the opulent decor and many doors turning the house into a labyrinth.

Accustomed to the smaller home she had lived in over the past year, Beatrice felt utterly lost.

Desperately, she tried to recall the path to the rooms assigned to her and her mother. She turned corner after corner, her footsteps echoing in the vast, empty spaces.

Finally, she found a room that looked familiar. The door was slightly ajar.

She slipped inside and shut the door behind her, leaning against it as she tried to steady her breathing.

The room was dimly lit with a single candle on the bedside table casting long shadows on the walls.

Beatrice wiped away her tears, hoping to compose herself before facing anyone else.

Just as she felt a semblance of calm, she heard footsteps approaching.

Thinking it was a maid, she straightened up, attempting to appear calm and collected.

The footsteps grew louder, and a shadow moved across the room.

"Excuse me," she began. "I?—"

Her words caught in her throat as her eyes adjusted to the dim light.

Standing before her was a man.

A man who wore no shirt.

"What are you doing here?" he barked, his voice deep and authoritative.