Chapter 10

The silence in the ballroom was absolute: three hundred pairs of eyes were pinned on the spinster in the plum dress."Miss Hastings," Leopold said. His voice was a low, resonant rumble that carried perfectly in the quiet room.Beatrice sank into a flawless, mechanical curtsy. Her mind was racing, trying to find a way to deflect this, to disappear. "Your Grace," she said, keeping her eyes fixed on the silver buckles of his shoes."Look at me."It wasn't a request; it was a command, spoken softly but with absolute authority.Beatrice straightened. She met his gaze. His eyes were not cold, she realized; they were just aggressively observant. He was dissecting her just as his mother had done outside the modiste's shop."My mother informed me that I owed a debt to a woman in a modiste shop," Leopold said slowly, loud enough for the closest bystanders to hear. "She told me this woman defended a stranger against a remarkably vicious attack by a young girl with more money than sense."A sharp, collective intake of breath echoed from the center of the room. Harriet Finch let out a strangled squeak.Leopold didn't break eye contact with Beatrice. "I assumed my mother was exaggerating. She enjoys drama. But I see she was understating the matter.""I merely spoke out of turn, Your Grace," Beatrice said, her voice tight but steady. "I have a habit of doing so. It is a flaw I am constantly reminded of.""Is it?" The corner of his mouth twitched—a millimeter of a smile. "I find it remarkably efficient. You cut straight through the rotting wood to get to the core. A rare trait in this city." He held out his hand. It was a large hand, encased in white silk. "They are playing a waltz, Miss Hastings," he said, "and my mother has threatened to beat me with her cane if I do not dance with you."Beatrice stared at his hand. This was a public execution. If she took his hand, she would be placing a target on her back for the rest of her life: the ton would tear her apart; Harriet Finch would likely hire an assassin.She looked at his face. He knew exactly what he was doing: he was forcing her out of the shadows. But there was no malice in his eyes, only a quiet, demanding challenge: Are you brave enough?Beatrice let out a slow, steadying breath. She placed her gloved hand in his. "I would hate for Your Grace to suffer a bruising on my account," she said flatly.Leopold's fingers closed around hers. His grip was firm, warm, and entirely grounding. "You are very kind. Come, let us go ruin your reputation."He did not lead her to the center of the floor immediately. He walked at a measured pace, forcing the crowd to fall back, giving them space. The orchestra, which had faltered during the Duke's approach, frantically picked up the tempo of the waltz.

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