Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

“ Y ou’re mad,” Beatrice said, but Stephen could hear the laughter in her voice. He shot her a grin over his shoulder, towing her by her hand through the crowd.

“Mad, for sure.”

“And jealous,” she added. “I thought this was meant to be my birthday treat.”

“And I thought that your birthday was yesterday.”

She let out a hoot of laughter at that and then clapped a hand over her mouth as if to muffle the noise. It certainly wasn’t genteel to laugh loudly in a place like this.

Stephen grinned down at her, flustered and flushed as if he’d been drinking, even though they hadn’t had time to have so much as a sip of punch. He wanted her to laugh, to laugh properly, with her head thrown back and her mouth open, as if she didn’t care a jot what people thought of her.

He had seen disapproving looks thrown towards her scandalous dress, certainly, but many more ladies—and plenty of gentlemen—were looking at her admiringly. One quiet, mousy-looking girl sitting in a corner had watched Beatrice—bright, colorful, talkative Beatrice—with wide eyes and a dawning sense of realization.

I could look like that, she was clearly thinking. I could marry a duke and skip through the world confidently. I could do it.

Stephen glanced back over his shoulder and saw Beatrice following him closely, unaware of the hungry, envious gazes swiveling her way.

I am jealous, Stephen admitted to himself with a juddering rush. I don’t want to share her.

“We can stay if you like,” he said, once they made it out of the crush of the ballroom and into the cool, empty foyer. “I suppose I will have to clench my jaw and allow other men to dance with you.”

Beatrice shot him a quick, searching look. He’d gone too far, spoken too freely. Like a real husband.

“I don’t mind leaving,” she said, at last. “I can scarcely breathe in there, anyway.”

He gave a nod.

Reaching over the refreshments table and winking at a baffled-looking footman, Stephen picked up an entire bottle of champagne, took Beatrice’s hand, and they stepped out into the night.

The cool night air was delightful after the sticky heat of the ballroom. Tomorrow, the scandal sheets would have a field day. They’d write about Stephen and Beatrice’s unexpected arrival, her scandalous dress, her laughter, their single dance, and sudden departure, hand in hand. The ton would be confused—were they fond of each other or not?

“It always confuses them when people do not stay in their assigned boxes,” Stephen said aloud.

Beatrice shot him a quizzical look. “What are you talking about?”

“It hardly matters.” Stephen popped the champagne bottle open, careful not to waste too much foam, and handed it to Beatrice. “Ladies first.”

She blinked at the bottle. “We didn’t pick up glasses.”

“Hm. A conundrum. Still, a clever lady like you can surely figure it out.”

Beatrice rolled her eyes at him, then lifted the bottle to her lips and drank deeply.

It was an image that would have delivered swift apoplexy to any member of the ton—a lady, walking in the dark, drinking from a bottle of champagne. The motion, too, was rather… well, it was suggestive, bringing certain images to Stephen’s mind, of Beatrice’s full lips wrapped around other things.

Stop it!

The stuff revolutions were made of.

She handed the bottle to him, and he took a long swig.

“Thank you for taking me out tonight,” she said abruptly. “I didn’t mean to be so unkind to you earlier, you know. I remember our agreement and our rules, but… well, it was rather hard to read all those pitying articles about me in the scandal sheets. As if I was some poor, little, neglected maiden, weeping and alone, rather than a grown woman of middling intellect, who’d entered into a marriage with her eyes open.”

“Middling intellect? You are too modest, my dear.”

She rolled her eyes at him, taking back the champagne bottle. “Would you mind if we walked a little before getting back in the carriage? The fresh night air is the first thing that’s eased my headache all day.”

“Hangover,” he corrected. “And that certainly won’t help,” he added, nodding towards the champagne bottle.

She ignored him. Or tried to, at least.

“The stars are so beautiful,” she remarked, tilting her head back to avoid his stare. He wished she would meet his eyes. “I wish I could study astronomy.”

“It’s a fascinating field. For me, though, I think that what makes the stars beautiful is the people talking about them.”

Stephen wasn’t entirely sure what had made him say that, and his heart hammered at his own words.

What are you doing, man? What are you doing?

“I knew you loved astronomy,” Beatrice said, half to herself. “It’s a very singular pursuit, though. I assume that’s why you keep your observatory locked.”

He glanced sharply at her. “I do hope you haven’t gone in.”

She sighed. “No, I have not, don’t fret. I doubt that Mouse would give me the key even if I asked. But don’t worry, I have respected your wishes. I spent a lot of time in the conservatory—there was a minor disaster with one of the rarer plants and a tennis ball, by the way, I’m sure Mouse will fill you in on all that—but I have avoided the observatory.”

He relaxed a little. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

She gave a one-shouldered shrug, swigging again from the champagne bottle. “Rules are rules, are they not?”

He stared at her for a long minute. Bathed as she was in the moonlight, Beatrice almost seemed like some sort of goddess. One could easily imagine her as Venus rising from the sea, or Artemis drawing back her bow, ready to loose a well-aimed arrow.

Stephen cleared his throat. “I’m glad you stuck to the rules,” he heard himself say, “because if you’d broken them, I’d have had to punish you.”

There was a brief silence after that.

“Punish me,” Beatrice repeated, and he could feel her stare burning into the side of his face. “Punish me how , exactly?”

“I am sure,” he responded, flashing her a wicked grin, “I could devise a fitting punishment. Don’t you?”

She let out a chuckle, shaking her head, and something tightened inside Stephen—something like desire but also edged sharply with something else, something deeper.

The rattling of carriage wheels jolted him out of his reverie. They both twisted around, seeing a high-sprung coach rushing towards them. Taking Beatrice’s arm, Stephen nudged her aside, giving the coach plenty of room to pass by.

Rather than rumbling past, however, the coach slowed down until it came to a stop beside them. It was a green lacquered coach, notably devoid of a crest on the side, but immaculate and expensive and quite clearly not hired.

It was the curtains that made Stephen realize just how much trouble he was in. Pink, ruched, lacy curtains covered the windows.

He’d seen the inside of those curtains far too often.

“What’s all this?” Beatrice said, directing her attention to the coachman, but the man only grunted unintelligibly.

The door swung open, and a lady stepped out.

Not just any lady, of course. Stephen had known who it would be before ever the door opened.

A small, pointed foot appeared first, clad in expensive rose-colored silk. A wide, frilled skirt followed, following the latest fashion of ruffles and ruches.

What followed the voluminous skirts was a remarkably beautiful woman. According to the scandal sheets and Society papers, one of the most beautiful women in England.

Stephen shot Beatrice a quick glance and saw at once that she recognized the woman.

She was tall, fair-haired, willowy in a way that all the Society belles were at the moment, and of course, impeccably dressed.

“I know you,” Beatrice blurted out. “You’re Cornelia Thompson. Forgive me, Miss Thompson. You’re the opera singer.”

Cornelia shot her a cool glance and gave her a tight, unfriendly smile. “But of course. And you require no introduction. You are the Duchess of Blackwood. A coveted position in Society, as I’m sure you’re aware. What a pleasure to meet you.”

She extended one thin, elegant hand, which Beatrice took, smiling nervously.

Stephen felt almost rooted to the spot. The champagne bottle hung limply from his hand, threatening to slip from his grasp and fall to the ground at any moment, where it would undoubtedly shatter. He tightened his grip on the neck of the bottle.

The entire situation was not unlike watching one heavily laden cart careen towards another, with a number of innocents in the way, about to be run down or crushed between the two. A horrifying situation, where one feels disbelief and panic but is unable to do anything about it.

Cornelia turned her icy-blue eyes—set in a doll-like face that Society papers waxed lyrical about, and about which several poems had been written—onto Stephen.

“Your Grace,” she said, her tone smooth. “You must have been despondent not to have seen me at my performance in Paris. I had my half-brother visiting. I hope you understand.”

Stephen cleared his throat. “I’m not sure I attended that performance at all.”

She threw back her head, set on a swan-like neck—a horrifying image, in all honesty, but another term used gleefully by Society papers—and laughed merrily.

“No, no, of course not! Silly me. At that time, you’d already boarded a ship and gone back to England, is that not correct?”

Stephen swallowed hard, feeling anger surge up inside him.

What must I do to get this woman to leave me alone?

He risked a glance at Beatrice, who was looking between the two of them with a blank expression. She would be a fool not to feel the animosity radiating from Cornelia, and he knew full well that Beatrice was no fool.

“He’s a wretch, is he not, Duchess?” Cornelia said suddenly, her eyes fixed on Stephen. “He promises ladies to meet with them and then breaks his promise. What do you think of that, Your Grace? Of a man who breaks his promise?”

Beatrice didn’t immediately respond until Cornelia turned that cold blue gaze on her again.

Stephen knew from experience how intimidating it could be to find oneself on the receiving end of such a glare. It was one of the things that had attracted him to Cornelia in the first place—her core of steel, her disdain for sensibility, and her cold-heartedness. She had struck him as a woman who matched him in every aspect.

What a fool I was . She did match me, and that is not a good thing for either of us.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Thompson,” Beatrice managed, at last. “But what, exactly, are you saying? Do you have a prior acquaintance with my husband?”

Cornelia let out a resounding, scornful laugh. “Why, yes, Duchess! Oh, she is a sweet little thing, Stephen. What a wretch he is, Duchess, to be sure, leaving you alone for all these months. Naughty, naughty man! I’m sure we can bring him to heel between us. Or perhaps I can manage it for you.”

Beatrice recoiled, glancing up at Stephen as if expecting him to refute what the woman was saying.

The truth was, much as he hated to admit it, Stephen had been taken by surprise. He had not expected Cornelia here. She had followed him to Paris, which was odious enough, but he had been so sure that when he returned to England without telling her, she would take the hint.

She did not.

I was a fool. I underestimated her and overestimated myself .

“I am not sure now is the time for this conversation, Miss Thompson,” he said.

It was the wrong thing to say, as it turned out.

Cornelia narrowed her eyes at him, and Beatrice stiffened.

“It’s only that you did not meet me at the time we agreed upon,” Cornelia cooed, doing an excellent impression of wounded femininity. “I was worried. I’m sure Her Grace here will understand.”

“Oh, I understand perfectly,” Beatrice responded, her voice cold. “I do apologize, it’s clear you two have things to discuss. I should hate to keep you from your meetings , Stephen. I’ll return to the carriage.”

Before Stephen could say a word, she had snatched the champagne bottle out of his hand and turned on her heel, marching away, alone, in the foggy night.