Chapter 6

"Apologies, Your Grace!" the footman stammered, bowing so low he nearly scraped the pavement. "But the traffic, Your Grace—"Beatrice froze in her tracks about ten paces away. A duke.She watched, her breath catching, as the terrifying giant of a man turned his dark, furious gaze away from the footman. He looked toward the curb. He looked at the old woman in the frayed gray wool coat.Beatrice braced herself. If he shouted at the old woman, duke or not, she was going to hit him with her parasol.But the Duke did not shout. The cold fury evaporated from his face, replaced instantly by a look of profound, exasperated affection. He stepped forward, closing the distance to the old woman, and gently, with massive, gloved hands, took her by the elbows."Mother..." Leopold, the Duke of Ashborne, sighed, his deep voice softening into something incredibly tender. "What did we discuss about you wandering off without a footman? And why are you wearing that hideous coat? It smells like mothballs and despair."The old woman—the Dowager Duchess of Ashborne—smacked her son lightly on the arm with her wooden cane. "Oh, hush, Leo. It keeps the sycophants away. If I dress in my silks, I can't take two steps without some mother shoving her simpering daughter in my path.""You are going to give my steward a heart attack. He thought you'd been kidnapped." The Duke looked down at her hands and noticed the small tissue paper package. "What is that?"Agatha, the Dowager Duchess, looked down at the package containing the Brussels lace. A slow, knowing smile spread across her wrinkled face. "A gift," Agatha said softly, her sharp blue eyes flicking up from the package and scanning the crowd, "from a most remarkable young woman."Beatrice stood frozen, her heart slamming against her ribs like a trapped bird. Mother. Your Grace. Leo.Beatrice realized she was staring. She realized her mouth was slightly open. She realized she had just berated the daughter of a shipping magnate to defend the mother of the most powerful, ruthless duke in England. She had given charity to a woman who owned half of Derbyshire.Agatha's scanning gaze locked onto Beatrice. The old woman's smile widened. She raised her gnarled hand, still holding the small package, and offered Beatrice a tiny, deliberate wave.The Duke, following his mother's line of sight, turned his head.Beatrice found herself pinned under a stare so intense it felt physical. His eyes were dark—a stormy, impossible gray. He looked at her, standing there in her plain afternoon dress, her parasol clutched in a white-knuckled grip. He didn't look at her the way the rest of the ton did; he didn't look through her. He looked at her intently, taking in her flushed cheeks, her wide eyes, her rigid posture.For a second, the bustling street fell entirely silent. The world narrowed down to the space between them.Then panic set in.

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