Chapter 3

Chapter Three

" M other," Beatrice said, trying to steady her voice as she turned around.

Her heart was still pounding as she took in her mother; she was standing in the hallway, her expression stern and disapproving.

She noticed the door to the Duke's room slowly close with a soft click, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

The Dowager Countess looked furious. "Beatrice, where have you been? I have been looking for you ever since you made a spectacle of yourself."

"I… I got lost," Beatrice stammered, not entirely lying but far from revealing the whole truth.

Her mother seized her arm with a vice-like grip, dragging her down the corridor. "You got lost? How could you be so careless? Do you have any idea how much embarrassment you have caused me?"

Beatrice kept her head down, murmuring apologies. "I am sorry, Mother. I did not mean to…"

"Of course, you did not mean to," Prudence snapped. "You never mean to. You need to think, Beatrice. We are here to secure a match for you, not to create more scandal."

They ascended another flight of stairs, the harsh light of the sconces casting unforgiving shadows on the walls. Beatrice's relief that her mother had not seen her come out of the Duke's room kept her silent. She knew defending herself would only make things worse.

When they finally reached the rooms assigned to them, Prudence released her daughter's arm.

"Get some rest," she said sharply. "And try not to cause any more trouble."

"Yes, Mother," Beatrice whispered, watching as her mother disappeared into her own room.

Beatrice slipped into her bedchamber, closing the door behind her and leaning against it for a moment.

The familiar, comforting scent of lavender greeted her, and she took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart.

"Lady Beatrice, there you are," came the soft, soothing voice of her maid, Alice.

Alice was in her late twenties with warm brown eyes and a gentle demeanor that had always been a balm to Beatrice's troubled soul. She had been with the family for years and was one of the few people Beatrice could truly confide in.

Alice helped her out of her gown, her movements calm and efficient.

"How was the evening, My Lady?" she asked, a hint of curiosity in her voice.

Beatrice shrugged. "It was… uneventful."

Alice chattered on, her voice a comforting murmur. "You looked absolutely stunning tonight. Undoubtedly, the belle of the ball. All eyes were on you."

Beatrice smiled weakly, her mind replaying the evening's events. "Thank you, Alice. They were but not because of my gown."

Alice continued, unaware of Beatrice's inner turmoil. "I overheard some of the other lady's maids talking. They were all quite envious of your beauty. And your gown! It was simply exquisite."

As Alice helped her prepare for bed, Beatrice's thoughts swirled. The evening had been far from a success. She had nearly ruined her family's already fragile reputation and found herself in a situation that could have been disastrous. The memory of the Duke's piercing blue eyes and the tension between them was still vivid in her mind.

Once she was finally in bed, Alice lowered the wick on the lantern and gave her a reassuring smile. "Goodnight, My Lady. Tomorrow is a new day."

"Goodnight, Alice," Beatrice replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

As she lay there, staring at the ceiling, she could not shake the feeling that her encounter with the Duke of Dunford was only the beginning of something far more complicated.

How am I going to face him tomorrow?

Embarrassment flooded her cheeks once more.

The next morning, Beatrice descended the grand staircase to the dining room where breakfast was being served.

Long tables were covered in white linens, adorned with silver dishes of eggs, bacon, sausages, breads, and pastries.

She wore a pale blue muslin morning dress, trimmed with delicate lace at the cuffs and neckline. Her hair was styled simply with soft, loose curls framing her face, a few secured with a pearl comb.

Her mother had insisted on the simplicity of the outfit, reminding her that she was here to secure a husband and that she must appear both demure and desirable.

As Beatrice took her seat beside her mother, Prudence leaned in, her voice a harsh whisper. "Remember, Beatrice, stay out of trouble. You do not want to ruin your chances any further."

Beatrice nodded though her mind was elsewhere, preoccupied with the events of the previous night and her encounter with the Duke of Dunford. She could still feel the lingering tension, his hand gripping her wrist, his eyes boring into hers.

The dining room buzzed with the quiet chatter of other guests, all dressed in their finest morning attire. Gentlemen in tailored coats and cravats, ladies in colorful morning gowns, their hair covered with delicate bonnets or styled in intricate fashions. Footmen moved silently around the room, refilling cups and replenishing dishes with practiced ease.

From across the room, Lady Featherwell's sharp gaze landed on Beatrice.

The young widow's look was one of pure disdain, her lips curling into a sneer before she turned to whisper something to the gentleman beside her—undoubtedly some scathing remark.

Beatrice's stomach churned, but she forced herself to focus on her plate, taking small bites of the food before her. Her mother continued to murmur instructions and critiques, but her thoughts kept drifting back to the Duke.

Suddenly, a footman appeared at her side, offering more tea. She nodded absently, lost in her thoughts.

Her mother's voice cut through her reverie. "Beatrice, pay attention. You must not appear distracted. Remember, we are here for a purpose."

"Yes, Mother," Beatrice replied automatically though her mind was still on the Duke. Under her breath, she muttered, "Not all of us can flee to France."

Her mother's eyes snapped to her, narrowing in warning. "What did you say?"

Beatrice straightened, meeting her mother's gaze with a hint of defiance. "I said, not all of us can flee to France, Mother."

Her mother was momentarily taken aback, her eyes widening in shock. But she quickly regained her composure, casting a glance around the room to ensure no one else had heard the exchange.

"We will discuss this later," she hissed, her tone icy.

As the breakfast continued, Beatrice struggled to focus on the surrounding conversations, the exchanges of pleasantries, and the subtle competitive and judgmental undercurrents. She knew she needed to stay composed to show that she was a suitable candidate for marriage, but her heart and mind were elsewhere.

The door to the breakfast room opened, and all heads turned.

Kenneth Spencer, the Duke of Dunford, had entered.

The room fell silent for a brief moment as everyone took in his tall, broad-shouldered figure, impeccably dressed in a morning coat that accentuated his powerful build.

His black hair was tousled, and his blue eyes blazed with intensity as he swept over the room, seeming to search for someone—perhaps his aunt, Lady Bernmere.

It was last night, she had discovered that the Duke of Dunford was her hermetic nephew.

Though he hadn't behaved like a hermit with her.

When his gaze met Beatrice's, her heart skipped a beat. She quickly looked away, focusing intently on the delicate floral pattern on her china cup.

A warm flush crept up her neck as she fought to maintain her composure.

He is so shameless! What if people notice that he stares at me?

He moved with purpose, crossing the room to where his aunt, Lady Bernmere, sat. He bowed slightly, his manner formal. "Good morning, Lady Bernmere."

Lady Bernmere smiled warmly. "Good morning, Your Grace. It is always a pleasure to have you join us."

Kenneth took a seat beside her, his demeanor exuding confidence and a touch of impatience. Several guests nearby attempted to engage him in conversation.

"Your Grace, how are things at Dunford Estate?" inquired Sir Reginald, a portly gentleman with a booming voice.

Kenneth's response was curt. "Quite well, thank you."

"Have you any plans for the Season, Your Grace?" Lady Featherwell asked, her tone overly sweet.

"None," Kenneth replied, his voice flat and uninterested.

"Surely you must have some engagements planned, Your Grace?" Lady Featherwell pressed, her eyes sparkling with a feigned innocence.

Kenneth's eyes flicked to her briefly before he replied, "My focus remains on the estate."

Beatrice watched covertly from beneath her lashes, careful not to let her gaze linger too long when Kenneth glanced her way. His presence seemed to fill the room, making it difficult for her to concentrate on anything else.

Her mother's voice interrupted her thoughts. "Beatrice, do try to contribute to the conversation. You are being far too quiet."

"Yes, Mother," Beatrice murmured, though she felt incapable of forming coherent words with the Duke so near.

Kenneth's answers to the questions of those around him remained laconic and blunt, signaling his lack of interest in their attempts at polite conversation. His focus seemed divided, as if his mind was elsewhere. Every so often, his gaze would drift in Beatrice's direction though she pretended not to notice, her heart racing each time.

"Your Grace," another guest ventured, "have you checked the latest improvements in agricultural techniques? They say it could revolutionize estate management."

Kenneth nodded slightly, his tone neutral. "I am aware. We are always considering improvements."

Beatrice risked another glance at him, catching a sardonic smile that played briefly on his lips as their eyes met. Her breath hitched, and she quickly looked away, her cheeks flushing.

What is he thinking about?

She watched him, intrigued by his distant demeanor.

Lady Bernmere, sensing his mood, leaned in to speak quietly with him, drawing his attention back to her. "Kenneth, you seem preoccupied. Is everything all right?"

Kenneth's expression softened slightly as he spoke with his aunt, a hint of warmth breaking through his otherwise stern demeanor.

"Quite, Aunt Marjorie."

Lady Bernmere pursed her lips, not entirely convinced by his answer. "Are you certain, my dear?"

Kenneth eyed her carefully. "Yes, Aunt Marjorie. I am quite certain," he said steadily.

Beatrice watched the exchange with curiosity. Although his tone was stern, it was somewhat warmer when he addressed his aunt.

Lady Bernmere, seeing the cold steeliness in her nephew's eyes, did not pursue the matter further.

Just as Beatrice took a sip from her tea, the Duke's gaze landed on her, and she almost choked on her hot beverage. A shiver ran down her spine as he stared at her with the same intensity as the night before.

She looked straight back at him.

Goodness , he was handsome. The blue of his eyes a still, beckoning sea.

Her mind wandered, pondering what would've happened if Lady Bernmere had not knocked on his door. If he had come closer to her, if he'd touched her, if she'd been able to feel the ridges of his muscular torso, his hot breath on her cheeks, her lips?—

For Heaven's sake, Beatrice. Get a hold of yourself.

She took another sip from her teacup, hoping it'd jolt her back to reality.

Despite her mother's chagrin at her silence, Beatrice remained quiet, her thoughts a tumultuous mix of anxiety and intrigue.

She could not shake the feeling that her path and the Duke's would cross again.

The uncertainty of what that might bring left her both apprehensive and strangely exhilarated.

Kenneth finished his breakfast, the polite but shallow conversations grating on his nerves.

He turned to his aunt and spoke quietly, "Aunt Marjorie, would you accompany me for a walk in the gardens?"

Lady Bernmere nodded, a knowing smile on her lips. "Of course, dear."

They left the dining room and made their way through the grand halls. As they stepped into the gardens, the crisp morning air filled Kenneth's lungs, providing a welcome relief from the stifling atmosphere inside. The neatly trimmed hedges and vibrant blooms provided a picturesque setting, but he was too preoccupied to appreciate the surrounding beauty.

Once they were out of earshot, Kenneth turned to his aunt, his frustration simmering just below the surface, a tight knot in his chest and a tension in his jaw betraying his irritation.

"You told me that coming to this house party would provide me with new investment prospects, Aunt Marjorie. Yet, I see no business-inclined gentlemen in attendance. Just clucking mother hens and indulgent fathers, intent on marrying off their daughters. This was clearly a scheme to get me here and shove some innocent debutante my way."

Lady Bernmere's expression remained calm. "Marriage is an investment too, Kenneth. There are plenty of prospects here for you to consider. You have been shut away in Dunford for far too long. It is time for you to venture out and meet eligible young ladies."

"I do not appreciate being manipulated, Auntie," Kenneth said, his tone cold. "I will stay one more day for the sake of the Dowager Duchess, but that is it. My friend, Thomas, would never forgive me if I was rude to his grandmother."

Lady Bernmere opened her mouth to protest, but Kenneth raised a hand, silencing her.

"If I desire to find a wife, I will do it my way on my own terms. I shall brook no further argument."

Without waiting for a response, he turned and stalked away, his frustration boiling over.

He strode through the gardens and back into the house, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. As he navigated the maze of corridors, the voices of guests and servants a distant hum, he tried to quell the anger that simmered beneath his composed exterior.

Just as he was about to turn a corner, he paused, drawn in by the sound of voices coming from a room he was passing. The door was slightly ajar, and the conversation within was animated. Kenneth could not make out the words, but something about the tone piqued his interest.

He hesitated for a moment then moved closer, straining to hear. The voices became clearer, and he recognized the melodic cadence of Lady Beatrice's voice.

A stirring sensation gripped him, one he wanted to dismiss but couldn't.

He caught himself holding his breath, picturing her blue eyes lighting up with enthusiasm and the way she jutted her chin defiantly when she spoke her mind.

Why does she have this effect on me?

Kenneth moved closer, drawn in by the conversation. He peered through the small opening in the door, his eyes locking onto Beatrice as she stood beside the Dowager Duchess, her expression animated and full of life. The way she spoke, the grace of her movements—everything about her seemed to capture his attention.

This is foolish. I cannot afford to be distracted by her.

Yet, as he stood there, hidden in the shadows, he couldn't tear his eyes away.