Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

" I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but I would prefer to be alone," Beatrice said, her voice strained.

Kenneth ignored her plea, stepping closer.

"Who did this to you?" he asked, his voice hardening with anger. "Was it that idiot Lord Hartley?"

Beatrice shook her head, tears rolling down her cheeks. "Please leave me alone. I don't want anyone to see me like this."

Kenneth's eyes flicked to her dress, noticing the large red stain. "Your dress is stained."

Beatrice's eyes flashed with irritation. "Thank you, Your Grace. Your powers of deduction astonish me."

His patience worn thin, Kenneth bristled. "There's no need to be rude. I am only trying to help."

Beatrice squared her shoulders, a spark of defiance in her eyes. "Well, you are not helping. If anything, you are making it worse."

Kenneth took a deep breath, trying to keep his temper in check. "How did your dress get stained?"

Beatrice hesitated then sighed. "Lady Featherwell ‘accidentally' stumbled into me and caused me to spill my wine. She apologized, of course, but it was clearly intentional."

Kenneth's jaw tightened. "That woman has a talent for cruelty. But surely a stained dress isn't enough to bring you to tears."

Beatrice turned away, staring out into the night. "It's not just the dress," she muttered.

Kenneth stepped closer, his voice softening. "Then what is it, Lady Beatrice? There must be more to it than a ruined gown."

Beatrice's shoulders tensed up, and she took a deep breath. "It's nothing. I just… it's been a long day."

Kenneth frowned, his concern deepening. "My Lady, I can see there's more troubling you."

"You needn't worry about me, Your Grace. You can go ahead and enjoy yourself," she responded.

"I'm not leaving until you tell me what's truly bothering you," Kenneth insisted, his voice firm.

She rounded on him, her eyes blazing. "You wouldn't understand. This is not something that can be solved with your gallant efforts."

Kenneth did not back down, his gaze steady. "Try me. I might surprise you."

Beatrice clenched her fists. "Some things are beyond your reach, Your Grace."

Kenneth's voice was firm. "Maybe so, but I'm still here, and I'm not leaving until you talk to me."

She stared at him for a moment, taken aback by his words. Her eyes darted to the side before she looked back.

She hesitated, her eyes downcast. "It's… it's my mother. She's pressuring me to secure a match by the end of this house party. Her expectations… they are crushing me."

Kenneth's jaw clenched, but then something occurred to him.

"I have a proposition to make," he announced suddenly.

Beatrice turned back to him, suspicion in her eyes. "What kind of proposition?"

He met her gaze steadily. "Marry me."

Beatrice's eyes widened in shock. "Stop being cruel. This isn't the time for jokes."

"I am not joking," Kenneth said somberly. "You come from a family with a tarnished name, so most gentlemen wouldn't risk their reputations by marrying you."

"And you would?" Beatrice asked bitterly.

Kenneth did not answer directly. "I require a wife to manage my estate and provide an heir. You have shown a commendable sensibility, particularly as you are the only one with the courage to debate art with me, and you do not faint at my mere presence, like so many others. And while I have no immediate desire to sire a child, I understand my duty."

Beatrice looked at him in disbelief. "Since you have sung my praises so far, would you care to tell me why I should believe you are being honest about this proposition?"

Kenneth stepped closer, his expression earnest. "We both need a marriage of convenience. Consider it. You will not have to endure your mother's relentless pressure, and I will have a wife who isn't trying to manipulate me for her own gain."

"I do not like you, Your Grace. Do not expect me to swoon at your feet because you are making me an offer," Beatrice replied, her voice steady.

Kenneth smiled, finding her defiance refreshing. "I don't expect you to swoon, nor would I want you to. Swooning women are terribly inconvenient—they always seem to faint at the most inopportune moments."

Beatrice still hesitated.

Kenneth stepped even closer, lowering his voice. "I understand this is sudden and unconventional, but a marriage of convenience would solve both our problems. You need to secure a match, and I need a wife to fulfill my responsibilities."

Beatrice's eyes widened, her reluctance evident. "You can't be serious, Your Grace. We barely know each other."

"Do you really think you have any chance of gaining another man's attention to the point of receiving an offer?" Kenneth asked, watching her carefully.

She hesitated, the weight of his words sinking in. "I don't know… It feels so sudden."

"We may not know each other well, but we can come to an agreement. This arrangement could benefit us both."

Beatrice weighed his words, her mind racing. Finally, she looked him straight in the eye. "I have no dowry, Your Grace."

"I do not need money," he stated firmly. "I am one of the wealthiest dukes in England."

Beatrice hesitated before speaking again. "My mother would need her own residence. And additional funds to support a comfortable lifestyle."

"That poses no problem," Kenneth assured her. "I can provide a suitable residence and an allowance."

"What will you gain from this?" she asked, searching his face for any sign of deceit.

"It is my duty to marry and sire an heir," Kenneth answered. "Why you? Because you have some taste and are not completely mindless like most women of my acquaintance."

Beatrice's eyes flashed with indignation. "Not completely mindless? You think that's a compliment?"

Kenneth held up a hand to stop her. "Will you accept the proposal or not?"

There was a long pause as Beatrice weighed the implications of his offer. The cool night air brushed against her tear-stained cheeks, and the distant sounds of the evening drifted up from the garden.

Finally, she met his gaze, her voice steady. "I accept, Your Grace."

Kenneth felt relief and satisfaction at the same time. He had not anticipated this turn of events when he arrived at the house party, but the solution felt unexpectedly right. He watched Beatrice, noting the determination in her eyes, and felt a newfound respect for her.

"There is one more matter," she added, her voice firm.

He nodded. "What is it?"

"You will need to write to my brother," Beatrice said, her eyes unwavering.

Kenneth nodded again. "Of course. I require his approval to marry you since he is the one responsible for you."

"Patrick may try to coax money out of you," she continued, her tone cautious.

Kenneth felt a flicker of irritation at the mention of her brother, but he maintained his calm demeanor. "I can deal with your brother. And I shall speak with your mother and take care of everything. Tomorrow, I'll leave to acquire a special license so that we can be wed as soon as possible."

"My mother will be thrilled with the arrangement," she muttered under her breath then looked up at him. "I'd like to request something else," she said, her voice slightly hesitant.

Kenneth motioned for her to continue. "Go on."

"Give my mother a residence that's far away," she demanded, her expression serious.

He almost smiled at that, understanding the depth of her desire for freedom from her mother's influence. So he simply nodded. "Consider it done."

Beatrice blinked, slightly taken aback by his assertiveness. "Thank you, Your Grace."

As they stood there, the tension between them crackled in the air.

Kenneth felt a sense of resolve settle over him.

This marriage, born out of convenience and necessity, could serve him quite, quite well. He admired Beatrice's strength and intelligence, qualities that would aid them both in the future.

He moved even closer, their faces inches apart. "We have an agreement," he murmured.

Beatrice nodded, her posture relaxing slightly. "Yes, we do."

Kenneth leaned in, drawn by his undeniable attraction to her. The warmth of her breath, the way her eyes sparkled, pulled him closer. His gaze dropped to her lips, and he found himself wanting to close the distance between them.

But just as he was about to, Beatrice placed a hand on his chest, stopping him.

"Someone might see us," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly.

Kenneth stepped back, both frustration and understanding in his eyes.

"Very well," he said, his tone a touch gruff.

With a final nod, he turned and left the balcony, his mind already racing with the tasks ahead.

He couldn't ignore the thoughts that intruded on his sense of duty—thoughts of Beatrice and their impending wedding night. Though he knew this marriage was born of necessity, he couldn't help but think about how desperately he wanted to bed her. The memory of her defiant gaze, her fiery spirit, and the way her gown hugged her curves haunted him.

Kenneth quickened his pace, his resolve hardening.

He would be a husband soon, and although duty was at the forefront, the desire that simmered just beneath the surface was undeniable.

"You have always been such a dutiful daughter, Beatrice," Lady Afferton gushed, her voice sickeningly sweet. "And now, securing such an advantageous match! You have truly done our family proud."

Beatrice forced a smile, her stomach churning.

Her mother had dragged her outside for a walk around the garden right after hearing news of the Duke's proposal, singing her praises in a manner that felt entirely disingenuous. Yet, Beatrice's mind raced with the events of the day.

"Thank you, Mother. I am pleased you are happy."

Lady Afferton beamed, her eyes gleaming with barely concealed greed. "Happy? My dear, I am overjoyed. You have ensured our future."

Beatrice couldn't resist a subtle jab. "It's remarkable how quickly things change. Just last night, you had quite a different opinion of me."

Lady Afferton, too wrapped up in her own triumph, barely registered the comment. "Oh, nonsense, Beatrice. What matters now is that you've made an excellent match. We can put any unpleasantness behind us."

Beatrice nodded, her forced smile still in place. "I have a headache, Mother. I think I should retire to my room."

Lady Afferton's concern was immediate but insincere. "Oh, of course, my dear. Do take care of yourself. We cannot have you falling ill now, can we?"

Beatrice nodded and excused herself, making her way back towards the house.

The hallways were dimly lit, the flickering candlelight casting shadows on the walls. As she neared her room, the faint rustle of silk and the sharp scent of lavender perfume reached her before a figure stepped out from a nearby alcove.

Lady Featherwell's piercing gaze met hers, the haughty tilt of her chin making it clear that she intended to confront her. "Lady Beatrice," she hissed, her eyes narrowing, "how did you manage to ensnare the Duke? Did you compromise yourself?"

Beatrice pushed past her, trying to maintain her composure. "I have no time for your accusations, Lady Featherwell."

But Lady Featherwell grabbed her wrist, pulling her back with surprising force. "You may be his betrothed, but remember the Duke's past. He will soon tire of you and seek a mistress. You could never satisfy him."

Anger and humiliation surged through Beatrice. She wrenched her wrist free and stormed off to her room, slamming the door shut behind her. She collapsed onto her bed, silent tears streaming down her face.

Doubt gnawed at her. She found the Duke handsome, undeniably so, but his arrogance was infuriating. She enjoyed their debates about art, but the prospect of marriage filled her with uncertainty.

Would she have to stop painting now that she was to be a wife?

The thought of giving up her secret passion was unbearable. Painting was her solace, her escape, and the idea of losing that part of herself added to her inner turmoil.

The uncertainty of her situation weighed heavily on her, and she could only hope that, somehow, she would navigate this new path.

She drifted off to a restless sleep, her heart heavy with doubt and fear for what lay ahead.