Chapter 3

Chapter Three

A LIFE IN RUINS

B eatrice wished she could leave the Atwood ball. She wished she could run far away to a place where no one knew her, to a place where she did not feel trapped. Only she could not. This would be her life from now on, forced to pretend, to put a smile on her face no matter how loudly her heart sobbed.

"There you are," her mother exclaimed, waving her closer.

Beatrice stumbled onward, barely aware of where she was going. Indeed, she ought to pay closer attention. Had she not just a moment ago collided with a young gentleman? And he had seen something in her eyes, had he not? Yes, Beatrice was certain of it. There had been concern in his voice, and the way he had stepped closer and tried to look into her eyes had deeply unsettled her. Every fiber of her being had screamed, He knows!

Of course, he could not know not the truth. Still, the way he had looked at her had brought fear to her heart.

As though she had witnessed her daughter's abrupt encounter with the young gentleman, Beatrice's mother eyed her disapprovingly. "Pretend better," she whispered, leaning in so no one would overhear. "You look miserable."

Indeed, Beatrice did feel miserable, and she felt even more miserable knowing that she would feel miserable for the rest of her life.

"Here he comes. Put on a smile."

Heeding her mother's words, Beatrice forced a smile on her face as she turned in the direction her mother was indicating. Indeed, her father was walking toward them, Mr. Carter at his side. He looked as Beatrice remembered him, tall and slender, his dark hair graying. Only the kindness she had always seen in his gaze was suddenly gone, for he fixed her with a hard stare. Yes, he knew. He knew the truth, and he was ashamed of it.

Beatrice wanted to sink into a hole in the ground. She wanted to run and flee this moment. Perhaps even her life. How had this happened? Only a few weeks past, everything had looked so promising. Her heart had been so full of hope. And now?

"Jonathan, you remember my daughter?" Beatrice's father said by way of greeting. His gaze held hers, urging her to act with decorum.

"Indeed," was all Mr. Carter said, his voice tight and his nose slightly wrinkled as he looked down at her.

"It is a pleasure to meet you again," Beatrice forced past her lips then quickly bowed her head, not quite in deference but to avoid having to look at him.

Mr. Carter scoffed. "From now on, I expect you to follow society's rules to a point," he said in an almost threateningly low voice. "I have agreed to this only in service to an old friend. But I warn you— if you bring shame to my family, you shall regret it."

Forcing her gaze upward, Beatrice looked at her father. Again, his gaze implored her to act as she had been taught, and so Beatrice nodded. "Of course. I thank you for your kindness."

Fortunately, this concluded Beatrice's part in their conversation. Turning their attention to other matters, her father and Mr. Carter soon left their side, joining a small circle of elderly gentlemen on the other side of the ballroom.

"Mother," Beatrice exclaimed, grasping her mother's arms, her eyes imploring, "I cannot marry him." Her voice was only a whisper, and yet it seemed to echo through the ballroom. "Please!"

Her mother heaved a deep breath, and for a moment, Beatrice thought to see regret and compassion in her eyes. Then, however, it vanished, and she spoke the words Beatrice had expected from the start. "I'm afraid there is no choice, dearest. If you do not, you doom us all." A weak smile touched her lips as she placed a hand upon Beatrice's cheek. "Trust me, this is the right choice."

Beatrice almost laughed at her mother's words. Had she not a moment ago said that there was no choice?

"Ah, Lady Benton!"

At the sound of their hostess's voice, mother and daughter turned around to greet Lady Atwood. To Beatrice's surprise, she was not alone but in the company of a couple the age of Beatrice's parents as well as a young gentleman.

The very gentleman whom Beatrice had collided with only moments before.

"Allow me to introduce to you Lord and Lady Whickerton," Lady Atwood intoned with a gracious smile, "as well as their eldest son, Charles Beaumont, Viscount Hawthorne." Beatrice felt their hostess's gaze linger upon her for a moment, the ghost of a frown crossing her face as though she, too, easily saw through Beatrice's mask. "And this here are Lady Benton and her daughter, Miss Beatrice Hartley."

Pleasantries were exchanged, and all the while, Beatrice could feel Viscount Hawthorne's gaze upon her. She barely dared look up, afraid of what she would see in his eyes. Why was he here? Why this introduction? Clearly, Lady Atwood was not acting upon her own initiative. Had Lord Hawthorne asked to be introduced to her?

Under other circumstances, Beatrice would have felt flattered. Yet today, here, she felt terrified. The idea that someone looked at her this closely unsettled her, and she felt a wave of nausea roll through her belly.

Interestingly so, while their parents conversed with ease, Lord Hawthorne did not say a word. He simply continued to look at her. Only when Lady Whickerton suggested to Beatrice's mother that they fetch themselves a beverage and moved away did Lord Hawthorne step toward her. "I apologize for… this ambush," he said with a teasing smile, yet there was a touch of shyness in his dark brown eyes. "I simply wish to…" The smile faded from his face, and Beatrice could see that he did not quite know how to put his motivation into words.

"That is quite all right," Beatrice heard herself reply, that plastered smile returning to her face. "It was as much my fault as it was yours. I was not looking where I was going, either." She nodded to him and made to turn away, feeling the strain of this forced conversation.

"Are you…?" Lord Hawthorne reached out a hand toward her, pausing it a bare inch before his hand touched hers. "I apologize," he said again, a rather shy smile playing across his features. "I simply meant to ask if there is anything I can do. You… You seemed quite distraught."

Lifting her chin, Beatrice dove deeper into that plastered smile. "As I told you before, I am quite all right. There is nothing wrong. I assure you." She glanced beyond his shoulder, unsettled by the intensity in his gaze, as though he could unearth her secrets even if she was unwilling to share them. "I apologize, but I must see to my friend. Good day, my lord." And without another word, Beatrice hastened away, afraid of what Lord Hawthorne might do if she did not escape him now.

The truly sad thing, though, was that if it were not for the fact that her life was in ruins, Beatrice would have liked him.