Chapter 8

I suspect we shall meet again.The Dowager Duchess's words echoed in Beatrice's mind, sharp and dry as a winter branch. It wasn't an invitation; it was a summons.By Thursday, the entire ton was vibrating with a hysterical, frantic energy. Modistes were working their seamstresses to the bone, florists were ransacked, and the rumor mill was churning out wild theories.The most prominent theory, loudly broadcasted by Mrs. Finch at a Tuesday musical, was that the Duke had seen Harriet through the window of Madame Valerius's shop on his way through town, had been instantly captivated by her golden profile, and decided to throw a ball solely to secure an introduction.Beatrice had listened to this theory from a corner of the room, her face perfectly blank."She is insufferable," Louisa had whispered, watching Harriet preen by the pianoforte."She is terrified," Beatrice corrected quietly. "Loud people usually are. If she stops talking about how inevitable her triumph is, she might have to consider the possibility of failure."Now, standing before her narrow bedroom mirror on Friday evening, Beatrice prepared for the slaughter. She had refused to buy a new dress; instead, she wore her darkest, least obtrusive gown—a deep plum silk that swallowed the light. She wore no jewelry save for a simple string of seed pearls that had belonged to her mother. Her dark hair was pulled back severely, anchored with heavy pins. She looked exactly like what she intended to be: part of the furniture."You look like you are going to a very fashionable funeral," Louisa observed, leaning in the doorway. Louisa, by contrast, looked like a spun-sugar confection in pale pink."I am," Beatrice said, turning away from the glass. "I am going to the funeral of my quiet, uninterrupted life. Let us get this over with."Ashborne House did not merely occupy space on the square; it dominated it. It was a massive, imposing structure of Portland stone, its dozens of windows blazing with the light of thousands of wax candles. The line of carriages waiting to deposit their aristocratic cargo stretched around the corner.The air inside the ballroom was suffocating. It smelled of crushed orchids, hot wax, and the metallic tang of sweat hidden beneath expensive French perfume. A string orchestra played a lively waltz in the gallery above, but the music was nearly drowned out by the roar of three hundred people trying to sound more important than they were.Beatrice immediately initiated her survival protocol: she steered Louisa toward a cluster of potted palms near the terrace doors. It offered a clear view of the room while providing a physical barrier against the crowd. Richard vanished within three minutes, drawn to a group of elderly lords like a moth to a flame."It is magnificent," Louisa breathed, her eyes wide as she took in the gilded ceiling and the massive crystal chandeliers."It is loud," Beatrice said.She scanned the room. The social hierarchy was visibly mapped out on the floor: the minor gentry hovered near the walls; the wealthy merchants trying to buy their way into the peerage clustered near the food; and in the center, near the grand staircase, stood the apex predators.

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