Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

W ill the surprises never cease? Dedicated readers will recall the shocking incident regarding Miss Haversham. After that, the lady in question, already a notable bluestocking and confirmed spinster, seemed destined for a life of singleness and misery.

The author of this journal was most amazed to read in the Gazette only this morning—along with the rest of you dear readers—that Miss Haversham is once again engaged, and to none other than Duke Blackheart himself.

The obvious question, albeit a rather unkind one, is why? Miss Haversham is hardly a debutante, with her strong will and tendency to drive off many eligible men, and the Duke is known to have earned his nickname and his hellish reputation. In fact, many of my fellow gossip authors have deemed the man unmarriageable, which is quite an insult to a duke, of all men.

Like the rest of you, this author waits with bated breath to discover whether Miss Haversham’s wedding—scheduled a mere week from now with a special license—will take place. And if it does take place, how will this ill-matched couple manage together? This author feels confident in saying that it is not a love match, but why on earth would a man such as Duke Blackheart go to such extremes to free Miss Haversham from an engagement and then marry her himself, if not for love?

Perhaps this author had read too many novels. Real life, as we all know, is seldom quite as neat as fiction, but it can be a good deal more satisfying.

Good luck, Miss Haversham, good luck. This author is not entirely sure which of the ill-fated pair she pities more.

“Put that rubbish down, Beatrice,” Helena scolded. “That is the third gossip column you’ve read today. They all say the same thing. Everybody is shocked by your engagement, and nobody believes that it will ever really happen. You are only torturing yourself. Who cares about their opinions?”

Beatrice bit her lip, obediently folding the journal away and setting it aside.

Breakfast was a rather strange affair. Several days had gone by since the Duke’s letter and Horatio’s fainting fit—he had recovered quite nicely, thank goodness—and the Duke had not visited once.

Not that Beatrice wanted him to visit, but surely he should have called once, at least? When the Marquess was brokering their engagement, it had seemed as if he were never gone from the house. The man was perpetually coming to supper, or arriving for luncheon, or asking Beatrice to promenade with him even if she was trying to read a book. She couldn’t move without tripping over the man.

The Duke was entirely different. There had been no notes, aside from the letter he sent to Horatio, and no correspondence at all. Frankly, Beatrice had been as surprised to see the engagement announcement in the Gazette as everybody else.

Her mother, however, seemed almost recovered. There was color in her cheeks now, and a spark in her eyes that had not been there when Beatrice was engaged to the Marquess.

Perhaps it was because the Duke was richer, or perhaps it was because he was better looking. Either way, Helena was smiling more often than she had before, and Beatrice couldn’t help but congratulate herself on putting that smile on her mother’s face again.

I have to marry somebody. It might as well be somebody who doesn’t wish to live a life with me.

That thought was more sad than reassuring, and Beatrice busied herself with pouring more tea for everybody to avoid dwelling on it for too long.

“I’m glad that you chose Anna to be your matron of honor,” Helena said, smiling blithely. “I think she was rather disappointed not to be involved when you were going to marry… Well, the less said about that, the better, I think. But you must write to the Duke and ask him what preparations he is making. I simply can’t sit back and let him organize everything. We have a good deal of leftover decorations and whatnot that we could put to use for this wedding.”

Beatrice winced. “I’m not sure the Duke cares to use second-hand wedding things. He said he wanted to organize things, so I think we should oblige him.”

“You always call him the Duke ,” John piped up, frowning. “It’s odd that you don’t use his name.”

“I suppose it feels odd,” Beatrice muttered.

Her fiancé’s name was Stephen, she knew that much, but it didn’t seem to fit. He was simply Your Grace or the Duke in her mind, something haughty and distant. Plain, old Stephen did not fit at all.

“What I want to know,” Horatio spoke up, tapping a finger on the table, “is what he is playing at. Why does he want to marry Beatrice? Beatrice , of all people!”

Helena’s eyes flashed. “How dare you, Horatio! What a horrid thing to say! Our daughter is beautiful and lovely, and any man would be delighted to marry her. She is a catch .”

Horatio had the grace to look embarrassed, shooting Beatrice an apologetic look. “I am sorry, Beatty. I didn’t mean it in an insulting way—truly, I didn’t. It’s just that… well, you’re plumper than is fashionable…”

“ Horatio! I will throw the teapot at your head if you don’t stop.”

“It’s alright, Mama,” Beatrice spoke up, smiling wryly. “I’m under no illusions here. I am not beautiful, and we’re on the brink of bankruptcy, so?—”

“Enough,” Helena interrupted. “I will not sit here and listen to you demean yourself, Beatrice. You say you are not beautiful, and that is quite untrue. Yes, perhaps the fashion changes year by year, and this year’s fair beauties with waists a man can wrap his hands around are in vogue, but really, that is not achievable. Bodies are not clothes to change with the seasons. You are pretty enough, Beatrice, and even if you were not, it is character and what lies inside that matters the most.”

“You are right,” Beatrice agreed. “But I’m not sure the men of the ton would agree. Or most of the women.”

Helena sighed. “Perhaps not. But that does not make it untrue.”

“Going back to the Duke,” Beatrice continued, carefully not looking at anyone. “I think he is marrying me because he feels guilty. Guilty over ruining my reputation so thoroughly, even though I did not want to marry the Marquess.”

“It would have been a good match,” Horatio tried feebly. “At least, it would have been if the man didn’t have so many vices.”

“But why would he speak up in the first place?” John asked, frowning and shaking his head. “It doesn’t make any sense. He’s not much of a philanthropist if the rumors are to be believed. Why would he involve himself in this way?”

The conversation was edging close to something dangerous, a topic that Beatrice did not want to discuss. She couldn’t discuss it, the Duke had made that clear. His rules were strange but very straightforward.

What sort of life are we going to lead together?

She shivered.

Not, of course, that we will be leading it together.

She was saved from further explanation by the butler, who shuffled in with an awkward expression.

“I am sorry to interrupt,” he said carefully, “but there is a rather large box in the hallway, which has arrived for Miss Haversham.”

Beatrice flinched. “For me? What is it?”

“I cannot say, but it is from…” The butler hesitated, clearing his throat. “From the Duke of Blackwood.”

There was a moment of silence, then a general panicked scrabbling as they all shoved themselves away from the table and hurried to the hallway.

The butler had not exaggerated. A crepe-wrapped box, about as big as a medium-sized trunk, stood by the foot of the stairs. A purple ribbon was tied around it, and there was a note attached to the bow.

The others hesitated, hanging back almost as if they were nervous, letting Beatrice move forward to inspect her parcel.

It was a fairly simple note.

To Miss Beatrice Haversham,

I thought you would want to get married in a dress you do not entirely loathe.

I have enclosed the details of the modiste who sewed this gown, and you may address her for any alterations you wish to make. The bill will, of course, be sent to me.

The modiste assures me that the gown is à la mode and that you will like it very much. I have bowed to her experience in these matters.

Regards, S.

“S?” John said aloud.

“Stephen,” Beatrice responded absently.

Picking at the purple bow, she undid it with a sort of reverence and lifted the lid. Inside was a profusion of more crepe paper, along with a neatly written note containing the name and address of a famous French modiste whose pieces were too expensive for Beatrice. The woman was extremely fashionable, and her prices had increased exponentially with her success, but she was supposed to create the finest dresses in London.

Despite herself, despite everything, Beatrice felt a frisson of excitement. The hideous dress that the Marquess had provided for her was still hanging in her cupboard, mostly because the material was not terrible and might be used for something. It served as a reminder of just how much the man had hated her.

“A wedding dress,” Helena breathed, coming to stand beside Beatrice. “Come, you must try it on at once.”

Half an hour later, Beatrice was standing in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection.

The dress, needless to say, was beautiful. Fashionable, yes, but not a paper-doll copy of other wedding dresses she had seen. And, more to the point, it suited her. It suited her perfectly .

The dress was not white exactly, more of a faint, blush pink, the silken fabric layered with silvery gauze. Rather than clashing with her red hair, it seemed to bring out the golden hue in her coppery locks, making her hair seem even more vivid and beautiful, her skin even smoother and creamier.

The neckline was perhaps a little too low, but Beatrice had to admit it hugged her bosom very nicely, and the pearls and silver studs on the bodice shone and glittered in even the faintest light. The bodice was not too tight, surprisingly well fitted considering that the modiste did not have her measurements.

Below the waist, the gown fell to the ground in swathes of silk, gauze, and rich silvery embroidery almost drowning out the faint pink. There was a pair of shoes in the bottom of the trunk, matching blush pink with pearls and silver trim on the toes.

I don’t believe I’ve ever felt more beautiful, Beatrice realized, with a shiver.

Oh, she knew that a woman was meant to feel that way on her wedding day, or when she put on her wedding gown for the first time, but so far, that had not been her experience.

Did he choose this for me? How did he know that I would look so beautiful in this? Why did he care? Was it simply that he didn’t want me to embarrass him on our wedding day? I suppose that could be it. I suppose… I suppose the modiste could have picked it out.

“Well,” Helena said, breaking into Beatrice’s thoughts.

Her mother had helped her get into the gown, dealing with the troublesome lacing and the countless tiny, mother-of-pearl buttons at the back. But since then, she had been rather quiet.

“Well?” Beatrice prompted.

Helena ran her fingers over the studded pearls at Beatrice’s waist. “I was just thinking that the modiste is the most expensive one in London for a reason. She has impeccable taste. You look absolutely ravishing, my darling girl.”

Beatrice flashed a nervous smile. The haunted beauty in the mirror smiled back. “Do you think so? I thought perhaps the Duke had chosen it himself.”

“Perhaps. He might have chosen the color. But you know how useless men are when it comes to this sort of thing. It must have cost a fortune, I must say.”

“Don’t you think he is being a little too generous?”

Helena met Beatrice’s eyes in the mirror. “I don’t, actually. He ruined your prospects, you know. Yes, he exposed the Marquess—who was quite clearly never suitable for you, I have no idea what your papa was thinking—but at what cost? It is my opinion that the good Duke was thinking only of himself, how to best expose a man he did not like. It was thoughtless. What if you were in love with the Marquess and looking forward to marrying him?”

“He knew that I wasn’t,” Beatrice answered absently before she could think twice.

At once, she knew she’d made a mistake, and her eyes shot up to meet her mother’s in the mirror.

Helena’s gaze was fixed on her. “And why would the Duke know such a thing?”

Beatrice swallowed dryly. “Well, anybody could tell that I didn’t care for the Marquess.”

“I think you are a better actress than you give yourself credit for, Beatrice. Anna herself was not entirely sure what it was that you wanted. Even I was not sure. Still waters run deep, and you are so used to concealing your feelings that you don’t even know what they are anymore.”

Beatrice flinched. “That’s not true.”

“No? Well then, darling, why don’t you tell me exactly what you’re thinking at this very moment?”

I am thinking that I don’t understand the Duke, not at all. He warned me that I wouldn’t, but I suppose I thought I would be cleverer than him, in the end.

I am wondering why he cares whether I feel pretty or not in my wedding dress, considering that our marriage is to be a white one, with no children or any semblance of an ordinary life.

I am afraid that I will become fond of him.

No, that is silly. He’s not the sort of man one falls in love with.

Beatrice cleared her throat, meeting her mother’s gaze squarely. “What do you mean, Mama? I’m just thinking of how pretty this dress looks, and how lucky I am to be marrying a man who gave me such a wonderful gift.”

Helena seemed to deflate, just a little, and Beatrice felt guilty.

Jane was always open and honest about her feelings. How did she do it?

“Well, I just want you to know that you are not obliged to go through with this wedding,” Helena said firmly. “We can send all of this back and reimburse him for the special license, and have the announcement retracted from the Gazette . Nothing is irrevocable, my dear. You always have time to change your mind.”

“What, and marry that delightful candidate Papa was talking about?” Beatrice snorted.

It was a terrible attempt at a joke, and neither of them smiled. Clearing her throat, Beatrice turned her attention back to her reflection.

John’s tuition. Papa’s debts cleared. The light back in Mama’s eyes.

Yes, I think this marriage is a good idea. If I can keep my head, of course.