Chapter 27

Chapter Twenty-Seven

B eatrice sat in the parlor of their London townhouse, her fingers absently tracing the delicate patterns on the teacup in her hands.

The house was quiet, save for the soft ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and the distant sounds of the servants going about their daily tasks.

Kenneth had been absent for well over a week, ever since their heated argument over Lady Featherwell and his decision that they should take some time away from each other.

How did we come to this? Barely speaking, barely able to stand the sight of each other. Is this what our marriage has become?

Her heart ached. She was still furious with Kenneth for his jealousy, for his lack of trust in her. But beneath the anger, there was a deep, yawning emptiness, a void that only his presence could fill.

A sudden knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. Setting down her teacup, she rose to her feet, smoothing down the skirts of her pale blue morning gown.

Who could it be at this hour?

As she entered the foyer, she saw the butler opening the door to reveal the familiar figure of Lord Eastfold.

Beatrice's heart skipped a beat.

What is he doing here?

"Lord Eastfold," she greeted, her voice calm and polite despite her quickening pulse. "What an unexpected visit."

Eastfold stepped inside, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity that made her skin prickle.

"Your Grace," he returned, bowing slightly. "I apologize for the intrusion, but I must speak with you on a matter of utmost importance."

Beatrice's brow furrowed, confusion mingling with the growing disquiet in her chest.

"I'm afraid His Grace is not at home at the moment," she said, motioning for Mr. Jennings to take Eastfold's hat and coat. "If you'd like to leave a message, I can ensure he receives it upon his return."

Eastfold waved a dismissive hand. "No, that won't be necessary. It's not the Duke I wish to speak with, Your Grace. It's you."

Me?

A thousand possibilities flashed through her mind, each more unsettling than the last.

She forced a smile, trying to maintain her composure. "Of course, My Lord. Please, come into the parlor. Shall I ring for tea?"

"No, thank you," Eastfold replied, following her into the elegantly appointed room. "What I have to say won't take long."

Beatrice sat on the sofa, her hands clasped tightly in her lap to hide their trembling. Eastfold remained standing, his imposing figure cutting a striking silhouette against the sunlight streaming through the windows.

He cleared his throat, his gaze never leaving hers. "Your Grace, I must confess, I have made a discovery. A discovery about you and your… shall we say, extracurricular activities."

Beatrice's heart stopped, cold dread seeping into her veins.

He can't possibly know… can he?

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, My Lord," she said, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts to keep it steady.

Eastfold smiled, a slow, predatory curve of his lips. "Oh, but I think you do, Your Grace. Or should I say, Eric Westback?"

The world tilted, the room spinning around her as the blood drained from her face.

No. No, it can't be. How could he have found out?

"I… I don't… I'm not…" she stammered, her mind reeling, her carefully constructed world crumbling around her.

Eastfold held up a hand, silencing her denials. "Please, Your Grace. There's no need to pretend. I have proof." He reached into his jacket, pulling out a folded piece of paper. "A note from your dealer. Obtained through some… persuasive methods, I admit. But effective nonetheless."

Beatrice's eyes widened, fear and anger warring within her. "You blackmailed him," she accused in a low voice.

Eastfold shrugged, unrepentant. "A necessary evil, I'm afraid. But it was worth it to uncover the truth about the elusive Eric Westback."

She stood up, her hands clenched at her sides, her heart pounding in her chest. "Get out," she bit out, her voice shaking with barely suppressed fury. "Get out of my house, and never come back."

Eastfold laughed, a cold, cruel sound that sent shivers down her spine. "Oh, I don't think so, Your Grace. You see, I hold all the cards now. I know your secret, and I intend to use it."

"Use it?" she repeated, confusion and dread mingling in her gut. "What do you mean?"

He stepped closer, his breath hot against her cheek. "I mean, Your Grace, from now on, I will be your dealer. I will control the sale and distribution of your work, and you will do as I say. Otherwise, I will reveal your secret to the world, and your days as an artist will be over."

Beatrice's heart sank, despair washing over her in icy waves.

He's right. If the world finds out that Eric Westback is a woman, my credibility will be destroyed. No one will buy my paintings—no one will take me seriously ever again.

"I… I can't," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the roaring in her ears. "I won't let you control me—control my art."

Eastfold narrowed his eyes at her and roughly gripped her arm. "Come now, Your Grace, let's be reasonable. Haven't you faced enough scandal with your brother's unfortunate business? Do you really want to add to that?"

His words were like a knife twisting in her gut. Beatrice flinched, but Eastfold pressed on, his voice a silky poison.

"Besides, who does my selling your art truly harm? You'll still be creating, still expressing yourself. I'm merely offering you protection, a buffer between your talent and a world that wouldn't understand. Think of the good we could do together, the heights your art could reach with my connections."

Beatrice felt sick at his twisted logic, at how he tried to paint his blackmail as a kindness. "You're manipulating me," she spat, trying to pull away.

Eastfold's grip on her arm only tightened, his smile turning cruel. "Manipulating? Such an ugly word. I prefer to think of it as… a mutually beneficial arrangement. But make no mistake, Your Grace. You don't have a choice. Either you agree to my terms, or I will ruin you. It's as simple as that."

She stared at him, her mind racing, searching desperately for a way out, a solution to this impossible situation. But there was none. He had her trapped, cornered like a helpless animal, and she had no choice but to submit.

"What about Kenneth?" she asked, grasping at straws. "He'll notice if suddenly all my paintings are being sold through you."

Eastfold laughed, a cold, mirthless sound. "Oh, I'm sure we can come up with a convincing story. After all, isn't that what you've been doing all along? Lying to your dear husband? What's one more deception between a man and wife?"

His words cut deep, reminding her of the rift between her and Kenneth. She felt utterly alone with no one to turn to.

"Fine," she relented at last, her voice hollow, defeated. "I'll do as you say."

He gave her a cold, triumphant smile. "I knew you'd see reason, Your Grace. You're a smart woman, after all. This is for the best, truly. You'll see."

With that, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room, leaving her standing there, her world shattered, her dreams crumbling to dust around her.

Beatrice felt dirty, used, as if Eastfold's touch had left an oily residue on her skin. She wanted to scrub herself clean, to erase the memory of this encounter, but she knew it would be impossible.

As the door closed behind him, she sank to the floor, her legs no longer able to support her. The weight of what had just happened, of the trap she now found herself in, threatened to crush her.

How had it come to this? How could she have let herself be so vulnerable? So exposed?

And worst of all, how could she face Kenneth now, knowing that she would have to lie to him again?

Beatrice was still reeling from Eastfold's visit when she heard the front door open and the familiar sound of Kenneth's footsteps in the foyer.

What will I say to him? How can I hide the truth?

She scrambled to her feet and took a deep breath, trying to compose herself as he entered the parlor. He looked tired, his usually impeccable appearance slightly disheveled.

"Beatrice," he said, his voice weary. "I didn't expect to find you here."

Beatrice forced a smile, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. "Where else would I be, Kenneth? This is our home."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I know. I just thought… after everything that's happened, you might prefer some space. That is, after all, what we agreed to."

Space.

The word hung between them, heavy with unspoken meaning.

Beatrice swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "And what about you? What do you prefer?"

Kenneth met her gaze, his eyes searching hers. For a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of hurt, a glimpse of the pain he kept so carefully hidden. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by a cool, distant expression.

"I've decided to return to Dunford," he replied, his voice carefully neutral. "There are matters that require my attention there."

Beatrice's heart sank, a wave of panic washing over her.

If he goes back to Dunford, he'll be away from London, away from Eastfold. But if I go with him, Eastfold will know something is wrong. He'll suspect that I've told Kenneth the truth.

She took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she knew she had to do. "I… I think I'll stay here, in London. To continue my work as Westback."

Please understand, she silently pleaded . Please don't ask me why.

Kenneth was silent for a long moment, his jaw tight with emotion. Finally, he nodded, a short, sharp jerk of his head.

"I understand," he said, his voice cold. "Your art comes first. I respect that."

Beatrice's heart twisted, the lie bitter on her tongue.

He was already turning away, his broad shoulders tense with suppressed emotion.

"I should go," he uttered. "I have a long journey ahead of me."

She watched as he strode out of the room, his footsteps echoing in the suddenly too-quiet house. The sound of the front door closing behind him was like a physical blow, a final, terrible punctuation to the end of their conversation.

Beatrice sank onto the sofa, her head in her hands, tears streaming down her face.

What have I done?

Despair crashed over her in waves.

I've pushed him away, lied to him, hurt him. And for what? To protect a secret that could destroy us both?

She knew she should go after him and tell him the truth about Lord Eastfold and his visit. But the thought of his reaction, the anger and betrayal she knew she would see in his eyes, kept her rooted to the spot.

Kenneth strode out of the townhouse, his jaw clenched so tight that it ached. The cool London air did nothing to soothe the burning rage and hurt that threatened to consume him. He barked orders at his driver, not caring how harsh he sounded, and threw himself into the carriage.

As the wheels began to roll, taking him away from Beatrice, away from the life he thought they were building together, he felt something inside him shatter.

His hands clenched into fists, his nails digging painfully into his palms. He welcomed the pain, using it to anchor himself against the tide of emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

"Damn her," he muttered, his voice rough with suppressed emotion.

The memory of her face as she told him she was staying behind flashed through his mind. Had there been regret in her eyes? Pain? Or was it merely relief at finally being free of him, free to pursue her passion without his interference?

Kenneth laughed, a harsh, bitter sound that filled the carriage. How foolish he'd been to think that Beatrice truly cared for him, that their marriage could be more than just a convenient arrangement. He'd allowed himself to hope, to dream of a future with her by his side, and now, those dreams lay in ashes at his feet.

Never again. I won't make the same mistake twice. From now on, Beatrice can have her art, her life in London. I'll focus on what truly matters—Dunford, my legacy, my duty.

As the busy streets of London faded into the distance behind him, Kenneth felt a cold resolve settle over him. He would bury himself in his work, in the running of his estate. He would be the Duke his title demanded, nothing more and nothing less.

And if, in the quiet of the night, a small part of him ached for Beatrice's warmth, her laughter… well, he would simply have to learn to ignore it.