Chapter 5

Chapter Five

" B eatrice, you must participate. Standing on the sidelines does nothing for your prospects," Prudence insisted, her voice low but firm.

Beatrice stood on the manicured lawn, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows on the green expanse. The air was filled with the sounds of laughter and the gentle clink of mallets striking balls.

Pall Mall was the game of the hour, and while Beatrice had hoped to simply observe, her mother had other plans.

"Mother, I am not skilled at this game. I would rather not make a fool of myself," Beatrice replied, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice.

"Nonsense," Prudence said, her eyes narrowing. "Viscount Haddington is here, and you must make a good impression. He is fabulously wealthy and would be an excellent match."

Beatrice sighed inwardly. Viscount Haddington, a man with a rabbit face and an arrogant air, was not someone she found remotely appealing.

She overheard him speaking to another player nearby and could only wince as his pompous tone grated on her nerves.

"You see, Lady Smythe, the only way to truly appreciate a fine wine is to have an extensive collection of your own," Lord Haddington declared, his tone dripping with self-importance. "Of course, not everyone can afford such luxuries. It requires a certain level of sophistication and, naturally, wealth."

Lady Smythe nodded politely though her eyes seemed to glaze over as the Viscount continued his monologue.

"And then there's the matter of proper estate management," he went on. "I've always maintained that only those with a keen intellect and a firm hand can truly succeed. Lesser men simply do not possess the necessary attributes."

Beatrice could barely suppress a groan.

The Viscount's incessant need to assert his superiority and his complete disregard for the thoughts or interests of others made him profoundly unappealing. His conversation was a relentless monologue about his own accomplishments, interspersed with patronizing remarks about the inferiority of others.

But she understood her duty to her family. She needed a good match to secure their future, and her feelings had little bearing on that necessity.

"Very well, Mother," she relented, forcing a smile. "I will play."

"Good. Now go on," Prudence urged, giving her a gentle but insistent push towards the game.

As Beatrice approached the playing field, she tried to recall the rules of Pall Mall. The game was like croquet with players taking turns to strike wooden balls through a series of hoops set up on the lawn. The goal was to kick the ball through all the hoops in the correct order and hit the final peg to win.

It sounded simple enough, but Beatrice knew from experience that coordination was not her strongest suit.

The lawn was lush and green, the scent of freshly cut grass mingling with the floral fragrances from the nearby garden. Beatrice could hear the gentle hum of conversation and the occasional exclamation of triumph or frustration from the other players.

The sun was beginning its descent, casting a warm, golden glow over the scene, enveloping the guests in a soft, almost magical light.

Several young women stood in small clusters, chatting congenially, their laughter ringing out across the lawn. They seemed carefree, their conversations filled with light-hearted banter and shared confidences.

Beatrice felt a pang of longing as she watched them. She remembered a time when she, too, had been part of such groups, when her days were filled with friends and laughter. But that was before her brother Patrick had ruined their family with his lecherous behavior.

A sense of sadness settled over her, mingling with the anxiety she felt about the game. She did not see a future where she would once again be accepted into the ton, and the realization was like a weight pressing down on her chest.

She missed Catherine so much. But her friend wasn't there as the Dowager Duchess had carefully selected her younger guests: all of them unmarried or at least widowed.

The loneliness was almost unbearable, a constant ache that she could not seem to shake. She felt trapped in a situation that was beyond her control, burdened by the mistakes of her brother and the expectations of her mother.

"Ah, Lady Beatrice," Lord Haddington greeted her as she joined the group. His thin lips curled into a smile that did not reach his eyes. "It is a pleasure to see you participating."

Beatrice forced herself to smile politely, but the effort to maintain her composure added to the heaviness in her heart. The Viscount's presence, with his rabbity face and arrogant air, only served to remind her of the precariousness of her situation. She felt like an actress playing a role, her true self hidden behind a mask of dutiful compliance.

Prudence, satisfied that her daughter was engaged, made her way to a nearby table where some older ladies were drinking lemonade.

Beatrice watched her mother for a moment, feeling a pang of longing to retreat to a room and paint, to express her true feelings, but she knew better. Her duty was clear, and she would not let her family down.

The game began, and she struggled to keep up.

The other players seemed to maneuver their balls with ease while hers veered off course more often than not. Every time she took a shot, it seemed to go in the opposite direction of where she intended, eliciting stifled laughs and barely concealed smirks from some of the players.

"Bad luck, Lady Beatrice," Lord Haddington remarked with a patronizing smile. "Perhaps you need a bit more practice."

Beatrice forced a polite smile though her frustration was mounting. She watched as the Viscount expertly guided his ball through the next hoop, his movements precise and confident.

Nearby, Lady Smythe executed her shot with equal skill, her ball rolling perfectly into position.

The game continued, and Beatrice did her best to stay focused. However, Lady Featherwell was also playing, and her glares were hard to ignore. Every time Beatrice lined up her shot, she could feel the weight of Lady Featherwell's disdain.

"Oh dear. Lady Beatrice, it seems you're having a bit of trouble today," Lady Featherwell noted with a fake sympathetic tone. "Perhaps you should stick to more ladylike pursuits."

Beatrice bit back a retort, determined not to give Lady Featherwell the satisfaction of seeing her upset. She lined up her shot again, trying to block out the whispers and judgmental glances around her.

"Focus, Beatrice," she muttered to herself before taking a deep breath and striking the ball.

It moved forward, but once again, it missed the mark, rolling to a stop far from the target.

Lady Featherwell's laugh was a light, tinkling sound that grated on her nerves.

"Better luck next time, my dear," she said with a smirk. Then she leaned in closer and whispered, "That's all ladies like you can hope for. Luck ."

Beatrice sighed inwardly. No matter how hard she tried, she could not shake the feeling of being an outcast. Her family's scandal hung over her like a dark cloud, and moments like these only served to remind her of her precarious position in Society.

Nearby, a rather portly gentleman named Lord Oxthorpe fumbled his shot, the ball rolling comically off course and into a flower bed. He let out a hearty laugh, seemingly unfazed by his failure.

"Well, that's one way to do it, I suppose!" he declared, earning chuckles from the other players.

At least Lord Oxthorpe can laugh at himself.

Beatrice wished she could be as carefree. As the game wore on, she tried to emulate his good-natured attitude, reminding herself that it was just a game.

The Viscount, however, was not as forgiving.

"Really, Oxthorpe," he said, shaking his head, "one must take these things seriously if one is to improve."

"Lighten up, Haddington," Lord Oxthorpe replied with a wink. "It's all in good fun."

Beatrice managed a small smile at Lord Oxthorpe's response.

Her turn came again, and as she prepared to strike the ball, Lady Featherwell accidentally nudged her mallet just as she was about to swing, causing her to miss the ball entirely.

"Oh dear, I am so sorry," Lady Featherwell said in an overly sweet tone, her eyes gleaming with malicious pleasure.

Beatrice wanted to protest, to call out the blatant sabotage, but she heard her mother clear her throat nearby, a stern reminder to remain civil. With a deep breath, she smoothed down her dress and tried to compose herself.

As she took her place again, she tried to focus on the game. The wooden balls clinked as they struck each other, and the gentle rustle of the leaves in the breeze created a serene backdrop that contrasted sharply with the tension she felt.

Lady Featherwell's whispers to her fellow players were as bothersome as a fly buzzing in her ear. Difficult to ignore and persistent.

Her turn came once more, and just as she was about to swing, she noticed a rider approaching the field.

The horse was a magnificent creature, its coat gleaming in the sun, and its rider handled it with expert skill. The man rode with a natural grace, guiding the horse effortlessly over the manicured lawn.

As he got closer, Beatrice recognized him.

It was the Duke, dressed in riding clothes but noticeably without a cravat. His neck glistened with sweat under the sun, and he had undone a button, revealing the top of his chest. The sight of him, so raw and unrefined, sent a tingling sensation through her, an attraction and an excitement that she found hard to suppress.

Lady Featherwell's voice cut through her thoughts. "Lady Beatrice, do hurry up. We haven't all day."

Beatrice glanced at Lady Featherwell, who was also watching the Duke's approach with unmistakable interest. The mocking smile on Lady Featherwell's face was now tinged with a hint of hunger.

Beatrice shook her head, trying to refocus. She lined up her shot, her hands trembling slightly on the mallet.

The presence of the Duke, his disheveled but undeniably attractive appearance, made her heart race.

With a determined breath, she struck the ball, sending it rolling across the lawn.

Suddenly, a shrill cry pierced the air. Lady Featherwell collapsed dramatically onto the grass. Instantly, everyone rushed to her side, their concern palpable. Kenneth halted his horse and dismounted, running towards the commotion.

"Lady Featherwell, are you all right?" he asked, kneeling beside her.

Lady Featherwell, feigning weakness, leaned heavily into his arms. "Oh, Your Grace, I feel so faint," she murmured, her eyes fluttering shut.

Kenneth looked genuinely concerned as he helped her to her feet. "I will take you back to the house," he said, his tone polite.

As he guided her towards the house, he stopped briefly next to Beatrice.

"Lady Beatrice. It seems you have won the game," he said with a small smile.

Beatrice blinked, looking down at the lawn. With all the fuss, no one had noticed that she had scored the winning point. A small smile of joy began to form on her lips.

But her mother's hand gripped her arm tightly, pulling her back to reality.

"Beatrice, how could you let Lady Featherwell get away with that? You should have done something!"

"Mother, I cannot control Lady Featherwell's disposition," Beatrice replied, trying to keep her voice steady.

Prudence's eyes narrowed. "She did it to get the Duke's attention, and you should have done something too!"

"I will not swoon just to get a man to help me up," Beatrice shot back, her frustration bubbling over.

Her mother's grip tightened painfully around her arm. "Do you understand what is at stake here?" she hissed, her voice low and dangerous. "Our future depends on you making a good match. You cannot afford to be so proud."

Beatrice's heart sank, her mother's words cutting deeply. She felt trapped, suffocated by the weight of her family's expectations. The sharpness of her mother's grip and the intensity of her scolding left her feeling small and powerless.

"I am trying, Mother," she whispered, her voice trembling with suppressed emotion. "I am doing my best."

Prudence released her arm but continued to glare at her. "Your best is not enough. You need to do more."

Beatrice nodded silently, the joy of her small victory now completely overshadowed by the heaviness in her heart. She felt the sting of tears but blinked them back, refusing to let her mother see her cry.

As they walked back towards the house, Beatrice could not shake the feeling of inadequacy that clung to her. Her mother's words echoed in her mind, a constant reminder of the pressure she was under.

She glanced back at the lawn where she had scored the winning point, wishing she could hold on to that fleeting moment of happiness.

But reality was unforgiving, and she knew she had to continue playing the part, no matter how much it hurt inside.

Kenneth strode through the dimly lit hallway, his mind preoccupied with the events of the day.

The Pall Mall game had been an unexpected source of amusement, particularly Lady Beatrice's determination despite her lack of skill. Her spirit was refreshing, a stark contrast to the simpering ladies who usually sought his attention.

His thoughts also drifted to Lady Featherwell's rather dramatic swoon during the game. It was clear to him that her collapse was nothing more than a ploy to capture his attention and sympathy. He had seen such tactics employed by many ladies in the past, and it only served to fuel his growing disinterest in their shallow pursuits.

Lost in thought, he barely noticed a figure rounding the corner until they collided. Instinctively, his hands reached out to steady the person, and he found himself staring into the startled blue eyes of Lady Beatrice.

"Your Grace," she gasped, her hands grasping his arms for balance. "I apologize. I didn't see you."

Kenneth's lips curved into a smirk. "It seems we have a habit of running into each other, Lady Beatrice."

She blushed, the color rising in her cheeks. "So it would seem."

It was the first time they were alone since the night they met, and Kenneth did not realize how quickly desire kicked into him, how desperately he wanted to feel her body against his.

He didn't release her immediately, enjoying the feel of her in his arms. Her warmth seeped through the layers of his clothing, and he caught the faint scent of flowers that seemed to follow her everywhere.

"I must say, I was impressed by your determination on the Pall Mall field today," he said, his voice low and teasing. "Even amidst the… challenging conditions."

Beatrice's brow furrowed slightly. "Challenging? Oh, you mean Lady Featherwell's fainting spell during the game?"

Kenneth nodded, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Yes, her timing was rather impeccable, wasn't it?"

She sighed, "Still, I do hope she is all right. That sudden collapse of hers was quite alarming."

"Indeed," he murmured, his gaze drifting to her lips. "Though I must admit, I suspect her collapse was more theatrics than ailment."

Beatrice looked up at him, "Oh. You believe she was pretending?"

"Surely you deduced that too, no?"

She glanced away as though she did not want to show that she had guessed what the widow had been up to.

"I prefer not venture into the realm of assumptions," she responded.

Kenneth's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Very astute of you, Lady Beatrice. Either way, it is safe to say that I've seen enough of Lady Featherwell's performances to recognize when she's putting on a show."

"Oh. I see," she replied.

Distracted by the pretty curve of her lips, Kenneth did not notice that they'd fallen into a soft silence.

The air between them crackled with tension. He leaned in just a fraction closer, the scent of her perfume intoxicating him.

"You, on the other hand," he said softly, "are refreshingly genuine."

Beatrice's cheeks flushed, and for a moment, neither of them moved. The world seemed to narrow down to just the two of them, the space between them charged with unspoken possibilities.

Just as Beatrice parted her lips to respond, the sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway.

They sprang apart, Kenneth's hands falling to his sides as a servant rounded the corner.

The servant bowed. "Dinner is about to be served in the dining room."

Kenneth nodded, composing himself. "Thank you. We'll be right there."

As the servant disappeared, Kenneth turned back to Beatrice, who was smoothing her skirts with shaky hands.

"Until dinner, Lady Beatrice," he said, his voice still rough with desire.

She met his gaze. "Until dinner, Your Grace."

With a final, heated glance, Kenneth turned and walked away, his body humming with the promise of what was to come.