Chapter 9

Harriet Finch was there. She wore the gold silk. It was admittedly a stunning dress, cut dangerously low and draped perfectly. She stood surrounded by her mother and a gaggle of sycophants holding court, her eyes darting constantly toward the empty landing of the staircase. She was waiting for her duke.Beatrice took a step back, letting the shadow of a large fern obscure her face. She just needed to survive three hours: three hours, and she could go home, take off her shoes, and forget any of this had happened.A sudden, collective hush fell over the room. It didn't happen all at once; it rolled from the grand staircase outward—a wave of silence killing the conversation.At the top of the stairs stood Leopold, Duke of Ashborne.He was wearing stark, severe evening dress: black coat, white cravat, no medals, no ribbons. He didn't need them; his sheer physical presence commanded the room. He looked down at the sea of expectant faces with an expression of profound, soul-deep exhaustion. He didn't look like a man searching for a bride; he looked like a man evaluating a room full of cattle.Beside him stood the Dowager Duchess.Beatrice's breath hitched. Agatha was transformed: gone was the frayed gray wool and the ugly black bonnet. She wore a gown of heavy midnight-blue velvet that swallowed the light. At her throat rested a sapphire the size of a quail's egg, surrounded by diamonds that threw prisms of light across the walls. She leaned on her wooden cane, but her posture was iron-straight. She looked like a queen surveying a slightly disappointing kingdom.The Duke and his mother began their descent. The crowd parted for them, practically pressing themselves into the walls to create a wide path.Harriet Finch stepped forward, right to the edge of the human corridor, posing perfectly, a bright, practiced smile plastered across her face. Mrs. Finch was practically vibrating with anticipation behind her.Leopold reached the floor. He began to walk. He didn't look at the women throwing themselves into his line of sight; he didn't acknowledge the deep bows of the men. His dark, stormy eyes were scanning the perimeter of the room, moving past the gilded mirrors, past the ice sculptures, past Harriet Finch.Harriet's smile faltered as the Duke walked right by her without breaking his stride. He didn't even blink in her direction.He was walking toward the potted palms.Beatrice felt the blood drain from her face. She instinctively took another step back, her heel hitting the plaster wall. Don't look at me. Walk past. Please, God, keep walking.But he didn't.The crowd parted ahead of him, leaving a clear, painfully empty stretch of floor between the Duke of Ashborne and Beatrice Hastings.He stopped a few feet away. Up close, the harsh angles of his face were even more pronounced; the faint shadow of a beard along his jaw suggested he hated his valet as much as he hated this party. He looked down at her.

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