Beatrice sat as far into her corner as the leather squabs allowed. She stared rigidly at the brass handle of the door, her heart thrashing against her ribs like a trapped bird. She waited until the carriage lurched forward, merging into the stream of traffic heading toward Hyde Park.
Then she looked directly at the Duke. "You have just ruined my life," she said. Her voice was entirely devoid of dramatics; it was a flat, terrifyingly calm statement of fact.
Darius was sitting opposite her, his long legs stretched out, taking up an unreasonable amount of space. He had removed his hat and was resting his hands on the silver head of his cane. He did not look surprised. "I asked you to take a drive in the park."
"You did not ask me for a drive. You painted a target on my back!" Beatrice snapped, the pristine veneer of her composure cracking. She leaned forward, the faded wool of her day dress rustling. "Do you have any idea what you just did in that room? My aunt is currently calculating the exact monetary value of my existence. My cousin is likely tearing her bedsheets with her teeth. By tomorrow morning, every gossiping dowager in London will know that the Duke of Westmorland bypassed a perfectly acceptable debutante to parade a penniless spinster around in his carriage!"
Darius watched her. His dark eyes were unnervingly steady. "Let them talk."
"They will do more than talk!" Beatrice's voice rose, a desperate edge bleeding into the words. She hated that he didn't understand. The luxury of his ignorance was suffocating. "You are a duke. You are insulated by your title! When this amusement of yours concludes, when you grow bored of my lack of conversational filter and return to your Yorkshire estates, you will leave me behind. And I will no longer be invisible. I will be the Duke's castoff—a failed novelty. I will be entirely unmarriageable, utterly ruined, and Aunt Agatha will banish me to a drafty cottage in Cornwall to die of dampness and sheer humiliation!"
She sank back into the squabs, her chest heaving, suddenly exhausted by her own outburst. She looked out of the window at the passing stone facades of the townhouses.
"I survived by blending in," she whispered, her throat tight. "You took down my only defense."
The carriage swayed as it turned onto the wide gravel paths of Hyde Park. For a long time, the only sound was the steady rhythm of the horses' hooves.
Then Darius shifted. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, closing the physical distance between them. The sheer size of him dominated the small, enclosed space.
"I am not playing a game, Beatrice," he said quietly. It was the first time he had used her given name; it sounded rough and deliberate on his tongue.
She turned her head to look at him, her eyes guarded.
"I have spent the last ten years surrounded by people who agree with everything I say before I have even finished saying it," Darius continued, his voice low, scraping the bottom of his register. "I have women throwing themselves into my path, and men offering me their sisters in exchange for a hunting lease. I am suffocating in a room full of people." He looked down at his gloved hands, turning the cane slowly. "Last night, you looked at me, and you pitied me. You told me the truth. You did not ask for a single thing." He looked back up, holding her gaze with a fierce, uncompromising intensity. "I do not want to be amused. I want to be spoken to like a human being, and I refuse to apologize for dragging you into the light to get it."
Beatrice stared at him. She saw the defensive set of his shoulders, the deep lines of exhaustion bracketing his mouth. He wasn't a god plucking a mortal from obscurity; he was a drowning man looking for a raft.
"If you bring me into the light, Your Grace," she said, her voice dropping to a cautious, steady murmur, "the light will burn me. Society does not tolerate aberrations. They will tear me to pieces just to punish you."
Darius's jaw tightened. A dark, dangerous shadow crossed his face—a fleeting glimpse of the ruthless power that backed his ancient title.
"Let them try," he said softly.
Aunt Agatha's shock lasted precisely four hours. By teatime, it had been replaced by a rabid, terrifying ambition: if the Duke of Westmorland wanted the ugly duckling, then by God, the Fitzroy family would supply her on a silver platter.
The following three days were a blur of screaming modistes, pinpricks, and suffocating credit. Beatrice's faded wools were burned. In their place came silks—not the pastel pinks and yellows of a debutante; Aunt Agatha was practical enough to know Beatrice couldn't pull off innocent youth, but rich, severe colors: deep emerald, midnight blue.
On Saturday night, Beatrice stood at the entrance of the Holloway ballroom, feeling entirely like a soldier about to step onto a battlefield with a target painted on her chest. She wore a gown of dark indigo silk. It had no lace, no ruffles, no desperate attempts at frivolity. It was cut sharply across her collarbones, relying entirely on the stark contrast of the rich color against her pale skin and dark hair. She wore no jewels. She didn't need them; the sheer audacity of her presence was loud enough.
Darius had not called on her since the carriage ride. He had sent a brief, brutally efficient note stating he would meet her at the Holloway ball.
"Stand up straight," Aunt Agatha hissed, her fingers digging into Beatrice's elbow like talons. "And for heaven's sake, if Lady Jersey looks at you, curtsy until your knees snap."
They descended the stairs into the crowded ballroom. The reaction was instantaneous. The collective hum of three hundred voices faltered, dipping into a sudden, tense lull before roaring back to life as a furious, buzzing whisper. Heads turned; eyes dragged up and down Beatrice's frame. Fans snapped open, shielding mouths that were currently tearing her character to shreds:
"The Fitzroy cousin, can you believe it?"
"Completely penniless."
"What on earth is Westmorland thinking?"
"She looks like a governess."
Beatrice kept her chin perfectly level. She kept her eyes focused on the opposite wall, refusing to look at the left ear of anyone. She would not hide behind a mirror tonight.