Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

B eatrice stood in the drawing room, holding a glass of sherry and trying to maintain her composure as Lord Cranfield droned on about art.

She had been hopeful when he approached her, his easy smile and confident demeanor suggesting a pleasant conversation.

Her mother had looked on approvingly, especially when Lord Cranfield expressed an interest in discussing art, a topic close to Beatrice's heart.

However, it quickly became clear that Lord Cranfield had no intention of engaging in a meaningful dialogue. Instead, he launched into a long-winded lecture about the merits of classical art, his voice dripping with condescension.

"You see, Lady Beatrice," he said, his voice carrying a smug undertone, "true art is all about precision and detail. Take, for instance, the works of Raphael and Titian. Their mastery of form and technique is unparalleled. Any deviation from such precision, in my humble opinion, is simply a lack of skill."

Beatrice nodded politely though she felt her patience wearing thin.

She glanced around the room, noticing how Lady Featherwell continued to monopolize the Duke's attention. Kenneth's eyes, however, seemed to wander occasionally, landing on her and Lord Cranfield.

Lord Cranfield continued, oblivious to her lack of interest.

"You see, Lady Beatrice, modern artists often lack the discipline of the masters. They get caught up in emotional excesses and abstract concepts that distract from the true essence of art. Women, of course, might find such emotional indulgence appealing."

Beatrice fought hard to control her frustration. "Lord Cranfield, while I understand your perspective, I believe that art is about more than just technique. It's about capturing emotion and the essence of a moment."

Lord Cranfield blinked, clearly taken aback by her statement. He stammered slightly, his confidence wavering. "Well, yes, but… you must understand that precision is the hallmark of true artistry. Something women might not fully grasp."

Beatrice's eyes flashed with determination. "Precision is important, but so is innovation. Without artists willing to push boundaries and explore new methods, art would stagnate. The emotional impact of a piece is just as crucial as its technical execution."

Lord Cranfield seemed to shrink before her, his earlier bravado evaporating. "I see… well, perhaps you have a point," he mumbled, clearly uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken.

Sensing his discomfort, Beatrice maintained her composure. "Thank you for the conversation, Lord Cranfield. It's always enlightening to hear different viewpoints."

Lord Cranfield, looking somewhat flustered, muttered a hasty farewell and excused himself.

Beatrice watched him go. Satisfaction and disappointment settled over her. She had hoped for a meaningful exchange, but she had encountered yet another man who underestimated her.

Why do they always assume we know nothing?

Her frustration mingled with a sense of triumph at having stood her ground.

Her mother's approving gaze had turned into a frown, but Beatrice felt a sense of liberation. She would not be patronized, not even in the pursuit of securing a match.

As she glanced around the room, her eyes met Kenneth's, and for a moment, she saw a flicker of something in his gaze—something more physical, more primal. It was brief, but it was enough to make her heart skip a beat.

Kenneth excused himself from Lady Featherwell's clutches and began to make his way towards Beatrice. Her heart fluttered, and heat crept up her cheeks. However, before he could reach her, another gentleman stepped in front of her.

Beatrice noticed Kenneth's scowl at the interloper, his expression darkening with displeasure.

"Lady Beatrice," drawled Lord Hartley, a man with slicked-back hair and an oily demeanor to match. His eyes were small and beady, his smile thin and insincere. "What a pleasure it is to see you this evening."

Beatrice forced a polite smile. "Good evening, Lord Hartley."

"Have you any interest in entomology, Lady Beatrice?" Lord Hartley asked, his voice dripping with condescension. "I have recently come across a most fascinating specimen of the Lepidoptera family. The intricacies of their wing patterns are simply extraordinary."

Beatrice inwardly sighed but maintained her composure. "That sounds… interesting, My Lord."

"Oh, it is more than interesting," Lord Hartley continued, oblivious to her lack of enthusiasm. "Did you know that there are over two thousand species of moths and butterflies? The diversity is truly astounding. Just the other day, I was examining a rare specimen with iridescent wings, and the patterns were so complex, one could spend hours simply marveling at them."

As he droned on about his insect collection, Beatrice's attention wandered. She glanced around the room and saw Kenneth being waylaid by the Dowager Duchess and Lady Bernmere. Despite being deep in conversation, his eyes flicked back to her repeatedly. Noticing this, Beatrice decided to play along with her mother's expectations and smiled sweetly up at Lord Hartley, even as his monotonous discourse continued.

Kenneth's scowl deepened at her display of interest.

Why is he looking at me like that?

A small thrill ran through her at Kenneth's reaction, even as she endured Lord Hartley's endless prattling about pupae and metamorphosis.

"The transformation from larva to adult is nothing short of miraculous," Lord Hartley said, "and the study of their life cycles offers such profound insights into nature's marvels."

Beatrice nodded politely, her thoughts far from the entomological details being shared.

She caught Kenneth's eye once more as he made his way towards the garden. She could only read the frustration in his expression. However, there was something else too, something she could not quite pinpoint again—a combination of emotions that made her senses heighten.

With one final glance, Kenneth stepped out into the cool evening air, leaving Beatrice to navigate the remainder of the dull conversation with Lord Hartley.

As Lord Hartley continued to drone on about the life cycles of insects, Beatrice made noncommittal noises of agreement, wishing she could be one of the twenty-four-hour life insects he mentioned, if only to escape his monotonous lecture.

"Oh, and did you know that some of these insects live for only a single day?" he asked, his tone somehow both excited and condescending. "Imagine such a brief existence!"

"Yes, quite fascinating," Beatrice murmured, her attention waning.

Just then, Lady Featherwell passed by and ‘accidentally' stumbled into Beatrice, causing her to spill wine all over her gown. Beatrice gasped as the red liquid spread across the delicate fabric.

"Oh dear, how clumsy of me," Lady Featherwell said with a fake apologetic smile, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

Lord Hartley, being a fool, stifled a laugh at the sight, clearly finding the incident amusing.

Beatrice clenched her hands into fists at her sides, and she had to fight the urge to slap the smug smile off Lady Featherwell's face. Instead, she took a deep breath and composed herself.

"It is quite all right, Lady Featherwell," she said evenly. "Excuse me, I need to change."

She turned and walked away, her steps measured despite the burning humiliation she felt. As she made her way upstairs, she was cornered by her mother in a quiet corridor.

"Utterly useless!" Lady Afferton hissed. "You cannot converse with any gentleman like a proper lady, and now, the Duke is leaving before you have had a chance to secure his attention. You have made a fool of yourself twice tonight."

"Mother, Lady Featherwell did it on purpose," Beatrice protested, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Don't give me excuses!" her mother snapped. "You are a terrible daughter. You don't care about this family. Unlike Patrick, who was unfairly shunned by Society yet still sends us money because he cares so deeply." The final blow came with a sneer. "I wish it had been you who went away instead of Patrick."

Beatrice felt a surge of emotion she could no longer contain.

"Your son? Your son, who assaulted my friend?" she retorted, her voice shaking with anger and hurt. "You want to know the truth about your son? Patrick has squandered our fortune abroad on gambling and mistresses. He has not sent us any money or letters for months. I have been the one caring for this family, not him."

Lady Afferton's eyes widened in shock and then narrowed in anger. "How dare you speak to me like that? Patrick is the only one who understands the burden of this family's legacy. You, on the other hand, are a disappointment. Always making excuses, never taking responsibility."

"Taking responsibility?" Beatrice's voice rose. "I've been the one holding this family together while Patrick squanders our resources. I've sacrificed my happiness, my future, to ensure we survive. And all you do is criticize and belittle me."

"I am tired of your excuses, Beatrice," Lady Afferton snapped back. "If you had done your duty properly and found a husband, we wouldn't be in this mess. Patrick is doing everything he can to help us from afar. We are lucky he sends us money."

"He doesn't send us anything!" Beatrice growled, her control slipping. "Everything you think he's done is a lie. He's abandoned us, and I've been the one picking up the pieces."

Lady Afferton recoiled as if struck. "You… you're lying. You? Picking up the pieces? Don't be ridiculous, Beatrice."

"I wish I were," Beatrice said, her voice breaking. "But I'm not. I've been the one sacrificing, the one struggling, while you put your faith in a son who doesn't care about us. I won't let you belittle me anymore. I've done everything I can for this family, and I won't be your scapegoat any longer."

Lady Afferton's face twisted with rage. "How dare you speak to me this way? You ungrateful child! Everything I have done is for this family, and you repay me with insolence? I will not stand here and listen to you speak ill of your brother. He is a good son, and he would never abandon his family."

Beatrice took a step back, her own anger boiling over.

"Everything you have done is to keep up appearances! You care more about what Society thinks than the well-being of your own children. I will not be your pawn any longer."

Lady Afferton slapped her, the sharp sting making Beatrice gasp.

"You insolent girl! How dare you speak to me like that? If your father had lived to see this day, he would be utterly disappointed in you. You are a disgrace to this family."

Beatrice's heart shattered. The mention of her late father's disappointment cut deeper than any slap.

She turned and fled, running through the halls until she found a balcony.

As she stepped outside into the cool night air, she burst into sobs that wracked her body.

She stared up at the night sky, longing for her life to be different, to be anywhere but there. The stars blurred through her tears as she cried, her heart aching with the harshness of her reality.

The sound of footsteps behind her made her stiffen. She quickly wiped at her tears, trying to compose herself.

"Lady Beatrice?"

She turned to see the Duke standing there, concern etched on his face.