Chapter 28

Chapter Twenty-Eight

" A nother round, Your Grace?" a jovial voice broke through Kenneth's haze.

The din of the crowded pub barely registered in Kenneth's mind as he nursed his third tankard of ale. Or was it his fourth? He'd lost count, much like he'd lost track of the days.

He looked up to see a well-dressed gentleman with a neatly trimmed beard. "The Duke of Dunford, isn't it? I'm Baron Whitcombe, passing through on business. We met at Lord Darby's ball two years ago. Mind if I join you?"

Kenneth gestured vaguely to the empty chair. "Be my guest."

As the Baron settled in, Kenneth signaled for two more ales.

"What brings a man of your standing to drown his sorrows in this establishment?" Whitcombe asked.

Kenneth snorted. "Women. They're nothing but trouble."

"Ah." Whitcombe nodded sagely. "Wife troubles?"

"She doesn't understand the nature of our arrangement," Kenneth grumbled. "One minute of perceived slight and she's off in a tizzy."

Whitcombe leaned in, his eyes gleaming with interest. "Do tell, Your Grace. What's this arrangement you speak of?"

Kenneth, his inhibitions lowered by the ale, revealed their secret. "We agreed to a marriage of convenience, you see. Both of us free to pursue our own interests as long as we maintain appearances."

"A most modern arrangement," Whitcombe commented, raising his tankard in approval. "But I take it the Duchess is not holding up her end of the bargain?"

Kenneth's face darkened. "She accuses me of impropriety with other women, yet she spends countless hours alone with Lord Eastfold. The hypocrisy of it all!"

"Women," Whitcombe scoffed, shaking his head. "They demand freedom for themselves but seek to chain us down. You're absolutely right to be upset, Your Grace."

Kenneth nodded vigorously, spilling some ale in his enthusiasm. "Exactly! And now she's locked herself away, painting of all things. As if that's a proper occupation for a duchess."

"Painting?" Whitcombe raised an eyebrow. "How… quaint. Surely she should be focusing on more important matters, like running your household or preparing for social engagements."

"One would think," Kenneth agreed bitterly. "But no, she's obsessed with her art. And don't get me started on her friendship with Eastfold. The way they look at each other…"

Whitcombe patted Kenneth's arm sympathetically. "Your Grace, you have every right to be aggrieved. A wife should know her place, especially one who agreed to such an arrangement. You've done nothing wrong."

Kenneth felt a surge of vindication at the Baron's words. "You understand perfectly, Whitcombe. If only Beatrice could see reason like you do."

As they continued to drink, Kenneth's grievances poured out in a torrent. Whitcombe listened attentively, offering sympathetic nods and murmurs of agreement. With each tankard, Kenneth's sense of righteousness grew, along with his resentment towards Beatrice.

A flash of caramel-blonde hair caught his eye, and for a moment, his heart stopped. "Beatrice?" he mumbled, half-rising from his seat.

The woman turned, and Kenneth's hope crashed. It wasn't Beatrice, but Martha, the tavern owner's wife. She gave him a concerned look before bustling off to the kitchen.

"You still pine for her even after the way she's treated you?" Whitcombe asked.

Kenneth slumped back in his seat, his momentary hope replaced by a fresh wave of bitterness. "Weakness on my part," he muttered. "She's bewitched me, Whitcombe. Made me forget myself."

"Then it's high time you remembered who you are," Whitcombe declared, raising his tankard. "To the Duke of Dunford, a man of honor and standing. Don't let her manipulations sway you from your path."

Kenneth clinked his tankard against Whitcombe's, a grim smile on his face. "To remembering who I am," he echoed, downing the rest of his ale in one long gulp.

As the night wore on, Kenneth's resolve hardened. Bolstered by Whitcombe's unwavering support and the numbing effects of the ale, he convinced himself that he was entirely in the right. Beatrice was the one who needed to change, to remember her place and the terms of their arrangement.

By the time the tavern began to empty, Kenneth was barely able to stand.

Whitcombe, seemingly less affected, helped him to his feet. "Come, Your Grace. Let's get you home. Remember what we discussed. Stand firm in your convictions."

Kenneth nodded unsteadily, his mind a haze of alcohol and righteous indignation. As he stumbled out into the cool night air, one thought remained clear: he would not be the one to bend. Beatrice would have to come to her senses and accept things as they were.

After all, he was the Duke of Dunford, and he answered to no one.

The morning sun filtered through the heavy curtains, assaulting Kenneth's eyes as he groaned and rolled over in bed. His head throbbed mercilessly, a stark reminder of the previous night's excesses. As he slowly sat up, clutching his temples, the events of the past week came rushing back.

Beatrice. Their argument. His foolish declaration that they should reconsider their arrangement.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, wincing at the sound of his own voice. "What a fool I've been."

As the fog of sleep and alcohol slowly lifted, fragments of the previous night's conversation with Baron Whitcombe drifted back to him. He remembered ranting about Beatrice, about her painting…

His stomach clenched. Had he revealed her secret? The thought of betraying her trust, even in his drunken state, filled him with a sickening guilt.

A gentle knock at the door made him flinch.

"Enter," he growled, immediately regretting his harsh tone.

Mr. Jennings glided into the room with a silver tray in hand. "Good morning, Your Grace. I've brought your morning tea and a letter that just arrived."

Kenneth grunted in acknowledgment, reaching for the steaming cup. As he sipped the restorative brew, his eyes fell on the envelope. His stomach churned when he recognized Lord Eastfold's seal.

With trembling fingers, he tore open the missive and began to read. Each word felt like a dagger twisting in his gut.

To the Duke and Duchess of Dunford,

I hope this letter finds you both in good spirits. I write to inform you of an upcoming art exhibition and auction at Somerset House. As patrons of the arts, I'm sure you'll find the collection most intriguing. There will be a grand ball following the auction, and I do hope Your Graces will attend. Your presence would greatly enhance the evening.

Yours sincerely, Lord Eastfold.

Kenneth's vision blurred with rage. He crumpled the letter in his fist and hurled it into the fireplace, watching with grim satisfaction as the flames consumed it. Any guilt he had felt moments ago evaporated, replaced by a burning anger.

"Jennings!" he barked, startling the butler. "Tell the stablehand to prepare my horse. I'm going out for the day."

"But, Your Grace," Mr. Jennings protested, his usual composure slipping, "you haven't eaten, and in your current state?—"

"Did I ask for your opinion?" Kenneth snarled, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "Do as I say, and be quick about it!"

Jennings bowed stiffly and retreated from the room.

As Kenneth dressed, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, his mind raced. The nerve of Eastfold, addressing them both as if nothing had changed. And Beatrice—was she already aware of this invitation? Had she perhaps orchestrated it herself?

He stomped down the stairs, ignoring the concerned glances from the staff. His head was still pounding, but the pain only fueled his anger.

As he reached the foyer, he bellowed, "Where are my riding boots?"

A terrified footman scurried forward with the boots, nearly dropping them in his haste.

Kenneth snatched them away, muttering darkly under his breath. He'd show them all. Beatrice, Eastfold, the entire ton. He was the Duke of Dunford, and he answered to no one.

With a final glare at the assembled staff, he wrenched open the front door and strode out into the morning light, leaving bewildered silence behind him.

The cool morning air hit him like a slap to the face, momentarily clearing his head. He strode towards the stables where a groom was already waiting with his horse, a magnificent black stallion named Tempest. Kenneth swung himself into the saddle, ignoring the twinge of pain in his head, and nudged the horse into a gallop.

As they thundered across the grounds, he felt some of his anger dissipate, replaced by a grim determination. He slowed Tempest to a trot as they approached the eastern fields where new irrigation systems were being installed. This was his doing, his vision for improving the estate.

He dismounted, patting Tempest's neck absently as he surveyed the work. The laborers, upon seeing him approach, redoubled their efforts. Kenneth nodded approvingly. This was what he should be focusing on, not the drama with Beatrice.

For the next few hours, he rode across the vast Dunford estate, inspecting various projects and improvements. He spoke with tenant farmers, reviewed plans for new outbuildings, and even rolled up his sleeves to help repair a broken fence. With each task, he felt more centered, more in control.

As the sun reached its zenith, Kenneth found himself atop a hill overlooking the castle. From this vantage point, he could see the full extent of the Dunford lands. Fields of wheat swayed in the breeze, dotted with grazing sheep and cattle. The newly repaired mill wheel turned steadily, its rhythmic creaking carrying on the wind.

Kenneth's chest swelled with pride. This was his legacy, the fruit of his labor. When he had inherited the title, the estate had been on the brink of ruin, thanks to his father's excesses. Through sheer determination and hard work, he had turned it round, making it profitable again.

"I did all this without her," he muttered to himself, a hint of his earlier bitterness creeping back into his voice. "I was fine before Beatrice, and I'll be fine now."

Yet, even as the words left his mouth, he felt a hollow ache in his chest. The estate might be thriving, but the castle felt empty without her.

Kenneth took a deep breath, his resolve hardening. He would not be his father. And he would be fine with or without Beatrice.

A week had passed since Kenneth's departure, and Beatrice found herself alone in their London townhouse, accompanied only by a handful of servants, including her trusted lady's maid, Anna. The once lively halls now felt empty and dull, a reflection of the void in her heart.

She had thrown herself into her painting, desperately seeking solace in the familiar strokes of her brush. But even as she worked, her mind was consumed with thoughts of Eastfold and the leverage he now had over her.

How could I have been so blind?

Her brush slashed across the canvas with a fury born of frustration and self-recrimination.

I thought him charming, intelligent, a friend to Kenneth and me. But now I see the truth. He's nothing but a wolf in sheep's clothing, a man consumed by his greed and ambition.

The memory of his smug smile, the glint of avarice in his eyes as he spoke of her art as nothing more than a commodity, made her stomach churn with disgust.

He cares nothing for the beauty, the emotion, the soul of my work. To him, it's just another means to line his pockets, to increase his wealth and status.

Her current painting, a seascape, was a departure from her usual style. Dark, turbulent waves crashed against jagged rocks, the sky above a roiling mass of angry clouds. The scene was lit by a single, feeble ray of light, struggling to pierce the gloom. It was a reflection of her inner turmoil, the darkness that threatened to consume her.

Kenneth… I should have told you the truth from the start. I should have trusted you, trusted in your strength. But I was so afraid of losing you, of seeing the disappointment in your eyes when you learned of my deception.

She knew that her husband was a man of honor, a man who valued honesty and integrity above all else.

What will he think of me now? Will he ever be able to forgive me for my lies? For the secrets I've kept from him?

The thought of losing Kenneth, of seeing the warmth in his eyes replaced by cold disdain, was almost too much to bear.

I have to make this right . I have to find a way to stop Eastfold, to protect my art and my identity, without losing the man I ? —

As she wrestled with her thoughts, a sudden clarity washed over her.

This wasn't just about the physical attraction that had always drawn them together. It wasn't about the passion that ignited every time they were near each other.

This was love .

Deep, undeniable love. She loved Kenneth with all her heart, and the realization filled her with both fear and determination. She couldn't lose him.

But how could she protect her secret and their future together? Eastfold was a powerful man with connections that reached into the highest echelons of society. And she was just a woman—a duchess, yes, but still bound by the constraints and expectations of her gender.

No. I am more than just a duchess. I am an artist, a creator, a woman with a voice and a vision. And I will not let Eastfold or anyone else silence me.

She stepped back from the easel, her eyes roaming over the angry, turbulent seascape. It was raw, unpolished, a far cry from the serene, idyllic scenes she was known for. But it was honest, a true reflection of her heart and soul.

A knock at the door jolted her out of her dark thoughts.

"Your Grace," Anna's voice called softly. "Lord Eastfold is here to see you."

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

So soon?

Her hand trembled slightly as she set down her brush.

I thought I would have more time, more space to breathe before he descended upon me once again.

But she knew she had no choice. With a deep, steadying breath, she rose to her feet, smoothing down the skirts of her paint-stained dress.

"Send him in, Anna," she said, her voice sounding far calmer than she felt.

Moments later, Eastfold strode into the room, his footsteps heavy on the polished wooden floor. He was followed by two burly footmen, their arms laden with empty canvas bags and packing materials.

"Your Grace," he said, his voice dripping with false warmth.

His gaze fell on the painting on her easel, and he paused. His brow furrowed, a flicker of displeasure crossing his features.

"What's this? This isn't Westback's usual style."

Beatrice stiffened, jutting her chin in defiance. "It's a new direction I'm exploring. Art is about growth, about pushing boundaries and exploring new territories."

Eastfold's eyes narrowed, his tone sharpening. "Art, Your Grace, is a commodity. And I will not lose value because you've decided to be uncooperative. You will paint in Westback's style, the style that my clients expect and demand. Is that clear?"

Beatrice felt a surge of anger at his words, at the way he presumed to dictate her creative process. But she swallowed her pride, knowing that, for now, she had no choice but to comply.

"Of course, My Lord. In fact, I have the painting you commissioned in Westback's usual style, just completed yesterday. It's over there, leaning against the wall. Eastfold followed her gesture, his expression softening as he took in the painting. It was a serene landscape, all soft colors and gentle lines, a far cry from the turbulent seascape on her easel.

"Excellent," he uttered, his lips curling into a cold smile. "This is more like it. My client will be most pleased."

Beatrice watched in silence as his men carefully removed the painting from its resting place, wrapping it in protective cloth and placing it in one of the canvas bags.

"I will have your payment delivered to you within the week," Eastfold said, his tone businesslike. "And I will be back soon with new commissions. I have several clients who are most eager to acquire a Westback original."

Beatrice's stomach twisted at the thought of more paintings, more deadlines, more of her soul poured into the canvas for Eastfold to sell to the highest bidder. But she forced a smile, inclining her head in a nod of acquiescence.

"Of course, My Lord. I look forward to our continued partnership."

The words tasted like ash on her tongue, but she forced them out, knowing she had no other choice.

For now, I must play his game, dance to his tune. But it will not be forever. Somehow, some way, I will find a way out of this nightmare. I will reclaim my art, my life, my freedom. I must. Because the alternative is too terrible to contemplate.

Eastfold's smile widened, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "As do I, Your Grace. As do I."

With that, he turned on his heel, striding out of the room with his men in tow. The door closed behind them with a soft click, but to Beatrice, it sounded like the slamming of a prison gate, the sealing of her fate.

She sat in stunned silence, staring at the closed door. The room seemed to shrink around her, the weight of his threat pressing down on her chest. She felt a profound sense of isolation, a loneliness that gnawed at her insides.

Her gaze fell to her brushes, still wet with paint. She rose mechanically, her movements robotic as she began to clean them. The familiar rhythm of rinsing and wiping usually brought her comfort, but now, it felt hollow, an empty gesture in the face of her inner turmoil.

Kenneth's face flashed in her mind. She longed to go to him, to seek his comfort and support. But the memory of their argument, the cold anger in his eyes, and the biting words they had exchanged stopped her short.

How could I turn to him now when he clearly doesn't trust me? How could I turn to him after everything that's happened? He sees me as a burden, not a partner.

The realization cut deep, a fresh wave of despair washing over her. She had never felt so alone, so trapped. Even her art, once a sanctuary, now felt tainted by Eastfold's threats.

I need someone to talk to. Someone who will understand, who will help me find a way out of this nightmare.

A name floated to the surface of her thoughts—Catherine. Her dearest friend, her confidante, the one person who knew her better than anyone else. Catherine would know what to do.

I'll go to her.

A flicker of hope sparked in Beatrice's chest.

I'll tell her everything, and together, we'll find a way to stop Eastfold, to break his hold on me.