Beatrice slipped away before the procession even reached the main hallway. She was an expert at disappearing. It was a tactical skill she had honed over six years of living on her Aunt Agatha's charity. If she remained in the drawing room, she would be asked to fetch a shawl, or play the pianoforte badly so Caroline could look good by comparison, or simply be used as a physical prop to demonstrate the Fitzroys' benevolence toward their poor relations.
Instead, Beatrice turned sharply down a narrow, unlit corridor that led to the Rutledge library. The library was cool, dark, and blessedly empty. Moonlight filtered through the heavy mullioned windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. Beatrice exhaled a long, shuddering breath and leaned against the heavy oak door. She closed her eyes. The silence was magnificent.
She walked over to a leather wingback chair in the darkest corner of the room, sat heavily, and immediately reached down to unbutton her left boot. The heel was worn down on one side, and the leather had been biting into her ankle for three hours. With a quiet groan of relief, she slipped the boot off and rubbed her bruised foot.
"I wouldn't sit there if I were you. The spring in the cushion is broken."
Beatrice froze. Her heart hammered violently against her ribs. She hadn't heard anyone in the room. She whipped her head toward the deep shadows near the fireplace.
A figure moved. The scrape of a match flared briefly, illuminating a harsh, angular face before settling onto the wick of a single candle.
It was the Duke.
He was standing by the mantelpiece minus his ruined coat and cravat. He wore only his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, holding a half-empty glass of amber liquid. He looked tired—deeply, fundamentally tired.
Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in Beatrice's throat. A single woman alone in a dark room with a man, let alone a duke, was a scandal that could see her thrown onto the streets by morning. She scrambled to put her boot back on, her fingers fumbling blindly with the buttons.
"Your Grace," she said, her voice tight, dropping her gaze to the floor. "I apologize. I did not realize the room was occupied. I will leave immediately."
"Don't."
The word wasn't a command; it was a request—rough, quiet, and startlingly weary.
Beatrice paused, one boot on, one boot off. She looked up.
Darius took a slow drink from his glass. He didn't look at her with the predatory gleam of a rake, nor the condescending superiority of a lord. He looked at her like a fellow refugee who had just crawled into the same trench.
"If you leave," Darius said, his voice carrying clearly across the quiet room, "I will be forced to return to the drawing room. If I return to the drawing room, I will have to listen to your cousin explain the intricacies of breeding spaniels. I am begging you, as a fellow Christian, do not make me do that."
Beatrice stared at him. For a moment, the ingrained instinct to curtsy, apologize, and flee warred with her natural, pragmatic bluntness.
The bluntness won. "She doesn't even like spaniels," Beatrice said flatly. "She prefers pugs, but she read somewhere that the Duchess of York favors spaniels, so she has adopted the personality trait for the season."
Darius halted. He lowered his glass, his dark eyes fixing on her. For a long moment, the room was completely silent. Then a short, rough sound escaped his chest. It took Beatrice a second to realize it was a laugh.
"I knew it," he murmured, stepping slightly closer, though he kept a respectful distance. He leaned his shoulder against the bookshelves. "You were the one at the end of the table—the one laughing at me."
"I was not laughing at you, Your Grace," Beatrice corrected smoothly, abandoning the boot and pulling her foot up under her skirt to hide her stockinged toe. "I was mourning the sugar swan. It lived a short, sticky life."
Darius's mouth curved into a genuine, asymmetrical smile. It transformed his face entirely, erasing the grim lines around his mouth. "You looked at me with profound pity."
"I looked at you," Beatrice said, her voice dropping its formal cadence and finding a steady, honest rhythm, "the way one looks at a bear in a baiting pit. It is an impressive creature, but the dogs are relentless."
Darius went perfectly still. The smile faded, replaced by something much sharper. He studied her—really studied her. He took in the faded green dress, the lack of jewels, the severe way her dark hair was pinned back without a single curling iron applied to it. He noticed the rigid set of her shoulders, the defensive posture, but also the sharp, intelligent gleam in her eyes.
"Who are you?" he asked quietly.
"No one," Beatrice answered instantly. It was not a self-deprecating remark; it was a statement of fact. "My name is Beatrice Ashdown. I am Mrs. Fitzroy's niece. I am meant to be wallpaper, Your Grace. You are not supposed to notice me."
"Why?"
"Because if I am noticed, I am expected to perform. I am expected to simper, or flatter, or play the spinet. I have no dowry, no title, and a very short temper. I possess nothing this society values. Therefore, invisibility is my safest strategy." She looked at him squarely, refusing to flinch under the weight of his stare. "You would do well to learn it. It saves one a lot of dry-cleaning bills." She glanced pointedly at his missing coat.
Darius looked down at his ruined shirtfront, then back up at her. He realized, with a strange twisting sensation in his gut, that this was the first honest conversation he had had in London in six months. No one spoke to him like this. Men deferred to him; women flattered him. Everyone wanted a piece of his influence, his wealth, his name. This girl in the corner with one shoe on just wanted to be left alone.