Darius walked into the room. He was a physical imposition on the delicate, feminine space. Dressed in impeccable daytime riding clothes—a dark tailored coat, a crisp linen cravat, and polished Hessians—he looked massive, dangerous, and entirely out of place among the floral cushions.
"Your Grace!" Aunt Agatha cried, dropping into a deep curtsy that threatened to dislocate her knees. "What an unexpected and profound honor. Please, do come in. Caroline and I were just speaking of you."
Caroline rose, fluttering her eyelashes and dropping into a delicate curtsy. "Your Grace, I am so relieved you have called. I haven't slept a wink, entirely consumed by guilt over your ruined coat."
Darius stood in the center of the room. He held a silver-topped walking stick in one hand and a pair of dark leather gloves in the other. He looked at Aunt Agatha. He looked at Caroline. He executed a precise, chillingly polite bow.
"Mrs. Fitzroy. Miss Fitzroy," he said. His voice was polite, perfectly modulated, and utterly devoid of warmth. He did not look at Caroline's left ear, but he might as well have; he was an unreadable mirror.
Then his gaze bypassed them completely, sweeping across the room until it landed on the corner by the window. Beatrice was halfway to the side door. She froze, trapped in the light streaming through the glass.
Darius's posture changed. The rigid, aristocratic mask vanished; the tension dropped from his shoulders. He walked directly past Caroline, leaving her standing with an expectant, wavering smile, and crossed the room toward the window. Aunt Agatha gasped quietly.
Beatrice stared at him, her chest tight. What are you doing? she thought frantically. Stop! You are ruining me!
Darius stopped three feet away from her. He looked down into her wide, panicked eyes.
"Miss Ashdown," Darius said. His voice was different now. It wasn't the flat baritone he used with the ton; it was the rough, grounded voice from the library.
"Your Grace," Beatrice managed, dropping into a stiff curtsy. She kept her eyes on his polished boots. "I was just taking my leave."
"You left this in the library last night," Darius said calmly.
He held out his hand. Resting on his large palm was a single, battered brass button. It had popped off her boot when she had been frantically trying to put it back on.
The room behind them was so silent Beatrice could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. The implication of his words hung in the air like a physical weight: Last night. The library. He had just deliberately, surgically destroyed her invisibility.
Beatrice looked at the button, then slowly looked up at his face. He wasn't smiling, but there was a resolute, stubborn gleam in his dark eyes. He was daring her to retreat.
She reached out, her fingers brushing the warm leather of his glove as she took the button. "Thank you, Your Grace. How careless of me."
"Not at all," Darius replied. He didn't step back. He held his ground, forcing everyone else in the room to reorient around them. He turned his head slightly, acknowledging the gaping Aunt Agatha without actually looking at her. "Mrs. Fitzroy, the weather is uncharacteristically mild today. I have brought my carriage. I would be honored if Miss Ashdown would accompany me for a drive through Hyde Park."
Caroline let out a sound that was half-choke, half-sob.
Aunt Agatha stumbled forward, her face a mask of profound confusion and rising horror. "Your Grace, forgive me. Perhaps there is a misunderstanding. Beatrice... Beatrice is... she is not out in society. She is merely my niece. Perhaps you meant Caroline—"
Darius turned slowly. He looked at Aunt Agatha. The sheer, crushing weight of generations of absolute aristocratic power settled onto his features. It was a look that had commanded armies and ruined dynasties.
"I am entirely aware of who I meant, Mrs. Fitzroy," Darius said softly. The softness was terrifying. "I asked Miss Ashdown. Unless, of course, you are forbidding her to go."
"No!" Aunt Agatha squeaked, terrified. "No, of course not! If... if His Grace wishes it."
Darius turned back to Beatrice. The coldness vanished. He offered her his arm. "Miss Ashdown?" he asked.
Beatrice looked at his arm. She looked at Caroline, who looked ready to faint into the upholstery. She looked at her aunt, who was staring at Beatrice as if she had just sprouted horns.
Six years of blending in. Six years of apologizing for taking up air, of eating the smallest portions, of wearing castoffs. If she took his arm, she was stepping out of the shadows and directly into the blinding, brutal light of London high society. They would tear her apart.
She looked up at Darius. He knew exactly what he was asking her to do. He wasn't offering her a fairy tale; he was offering her the front lines. But as she looked into his tired, steady eyes, she realized she wouldn't be fighting alone.
Beatrice took a deep breath, lifted her chin, and placed her hand on the Duke's arm. "I would be delighted, Your Grace," she said.
The door of the ducal carriage clicked shut, sealing them inside a cavern of plush navy velvet and polished mahogany. Outside, the midday traffic of Mayfair roared past—a chaotic symphony of iron wheels and shouting vendors. Inside, the silence was absolute.