She was the girl whose name you forgot before the introduction finished. Beatatrice didn't mind being the wallpaper. Wallpaper doesn't get its heart broken. But when the Duke walked past every glittering diamond of the season to ask for her hand, the entire ballroom forgot how to breathe.
The ballroom smelled of melting beeswax, wilted lilies, and desperation. Beatrice stood exactly three paces behind her sister Clara, holding a feathered fan she was not allowed to use and a reticule that was empty. She was 22, wearing a pale blue silk gown that had been turned and hemmed so many times the fabric felt brittle to the touch. It was a color chosen by her mother specifically because it washed out her complexion.
"We cannot have you distracting from Clara, B. You understand?"
Beatatrice understood perfectly. Clara was the investment. Beatatrice was the staff.
A sharp trill of laughter brought Beatatrice's attention back to the present. Clara was holding court, surrounded by a gaggle of younger sons and balding viscounts. Her blonde hair caught the candlelight precisely as it was meant to. Clara possessed the kind of beauty that demanded a room's surrender. It was sharp, aggressive, and flawless.
Beatatrice watched her sister tilt her neck, exposing a length of white throat, and felt a dull ache in her lower back. It was her fourth season. She had long ago stopped hoping someone would ask her to dance. Now she only hoped her shoes wouldn't blister before the carriage ride home.
"Did you hear?" Mrs. Harrington whispered loudly to Beatatrice's mother, Lady Hemsley, completely ignoring Beatatrice's presence just inches away. "Westmoreland is here."
Lady Hemsley's spine snapped straight. "The Duke? Tonight? But he despises Lady Culper's events."
"He just arrived. Looking absolutely wretched, I might add. But a wretched Duke is still a Duke."
Beatatrice felt the subtle electric shift in the room. It was the same shift a flock of pigeons makes when a hawk circles above. The matrimonial market had found its prime target.
Arthur Pendleton, the Duke of Westmoreland, did not stride into the room like a romantic hero. He entered looking like a man who had been dragged from a comfortable armchair at gunpoint. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and severely dressed in stark black and white. There was no gold fob on his waistcoat, no diamond pin in his cravat. He wore his wealth in the ruthless, unyielding cut of his coat and the bored, dark scowl on his face.
Beatatrice observed him from her safe harbor against the flocked wallpaper. He was handsome, she supposed, in a brutal sort of way, but mostly he looked exhausted.
Within seconds the ambush began. Mothers materialized from the woodworks, dragging blushing daughters by their wrists. Lord Culper cornered him, waving a glass of port. The Duke's jaw clenched. He nodded tightly. He offered terse, one-word replies.
Beatatrice watched a muscle tick furiously in the Duke's cheek. She knew that tick. It was the physical manifestation of wanting to scream. She felt it herself every Tuesday when her mother made her read aloud from dreary conduct books.
When Clara spotted the Duke, she didn't rush forward like the amateurs. She simply positioned herself by the doorway to the supper room, laughing loudly at a terrible joke made by a baron, ensuring the sound carried over the string quartet.
The Duke's eyes flicked toward the noise. He looked at Clara.
Lady Hemsley dug her fingernails into Beatatrice's forearm. "He saw her. He's looking at her. Stand up straight, Beatatrice. For God's sake, you look like a wilted cabbage."
Beatatrice straightened. The Duke's gaze slid right past Clara, right past the glowing blonde hair and the perfect posture, and hit the wall where Beatatrice stood. For a fraction of a second, his dark eyes locked onto hers. He didn't smile. He didn't blink. He just stared.
Then he turned on his heel and walked out the open French doors onto the terrace, vanishing into the night.
"Well," Clara muttered, her smile dropping into a vicious thin line. "Rude!"
An hour later, the heat in the room became unbearable. Beatatrice's corset stays were biting into her ribs. Lady Hemsley was deeply engaged in a character assassination of a rival debutante, and Clara was dancing a cotillion. Nobody was watching the wallpaper.
Beatrice slipped out the side door into the dimly lit corridor. She needed air, just a breath. She found the library. The door was ajar. The room heavy with the scent of old paper, dust, and brandy. The only light came from the fireplace. She stepped inside, letting out a long, ragged exhale. She reached down, unlacing her tight slippers, and groaned in absolute unladylike ecstasy as her toes finally uncurled.
"I wouldn't walk on this rug in stocking feet if I were you. Culper's hounds have accidents on it."
Beatatrice froze. She snapped her head toward the wingback chair, hidden in the shadows of the corner. A man was sitting there. The Duke of Westmoreland. His long legs were stretched out, crossed at the ankles. A glass of amber liquid rested on his knee. He was looking at her.
Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in Beatatrice's chest. She had just been caught removing her clothing, even if only her shoes, in a dark room with a notorious bachelor. Her mother would have apoplexy. Clara would mock her into an early grave. She scrambled to shove her feet back into the cruel leather slippers, her hands shaking.
"Your Grace, I... forgive me. I thought the room was empty."
"It was," he said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated in the quiet room. "Until you barged in and started undressing."
Beatatrice's cheeks flamed. "I was not undressing. My shoes are half a size too small."
"Vanity?" he asked, taking a sip of his drink.
"Poverty," she snapped back before she could stop herself.
The Duke paused. He lowered the glass. The shadows masked half his face, but she could see the heavy line of his brows draw together in surprise.
Beatatrice squeezed her eyes shut. Stupid. Stupid. "I apologize, Your Grace. That was entirely inappropriate. I will leave you in peace."
"Don't." She stopped, her hand hovering over the brass doorknob. "Don't go," he repeated, softer this time. He shifted in the leather chair, leaning forward so the firelight caught the sharp angles of his cheekbones. "If you open that door, someone out there will see me, and then I will have to talk to Lady Culper again. I would rather endure a root canal."
Beatrice let her hand fall away from the door. She looked at him. He wasn't teasing her. He looked genuinely desperate.