"There are worse things than Lady Culper," Beatatrice offered, her voice quiet.
"Name one."
"My mother."
A short abrupt laugh barked out of the Duke's chest. It sounded rusty, as if he didn't use it often. "Who is your mother?"
"Lady Hemsley."
The Duke thought for a moment, then grimaced. "The one in the purple turban? The one who cornered Lord Danforth and interrogated him about his estate yields?"
"That would be her."
"My condolences."
"Thank you."
Beatatrice stood awkwardly near the door. The silence stretched between them, thick, but strangely devoid of tension. It wasn't the agonizing silence of a bad dance. It was just quiet.
"You can take the shoes off," the Duke said suddenly, gesturing with his glass to a small settee near the fire. "Just keep your feet off the Persian rug. I wasn't joking about the hounds."
Beatatrice hesitated. She knew the rules. She knew what this looked like. But her feet throbbed with a vengeance, and the Duke of Westmoreland was looking at her not as a woman to conquer or a pawn to move, but simply as a tired human being.
She walked over to the settee, sat down, and kicked the shoes off. The relief was instantaneous. She let out a small sigh, and leaned back against the cushions.
The Duke watched her in silence. He didn't ask her name. She didn't offer it. For 20 minutes, they sat in the quiet library, listening to the muffled strains of the orchestra through the thick mahogany doors. Two refugees hiding from the absurdity of the world outside.
When the clock on the mantle chimed midnight, Beatatrice knew she had to go back before her absence was noticed. She slipped her painful shoes back on and stood up.
"Thank you, Your Grace," she said softly, smoothing her faded skirt. "For the sanctuary."
"Anytime, Miss Hemsley."
"Penhaligan," she corrected gently. "Beatatrice Penhaligan. Good night."
She opened the door and stepped back into the suffocating noise of the ballroom. She didn't look back. She knew better than to think a 20-minute silence meant anything to a man who owned half of Yorkshire. But as she took her place behind Clara, carrying her sister's discarded fan, Beatatrice felt a strange, quiet warmth in her chest. She wasn't entirely invisible. Not tonight.
Breakfast at the Hemsley Townhouse was an exercise in competitive delusion.
"He was captivated," Lady Hemsley declared, spreading a thin layer of marmalade onto her dry toast. "Absolutely captivated. Did you see the way he looked toward the supper room, Clara?"
"I did, Mama." Clara smiled, sipping her tea. She looked radiant, even at 9:00 in the morning, her hair pulled back into a simple ribbon. "He seemed rather intense."
"Dukes are intense, my dear. It is the burden of their immense wealth. We must ensure you are walking in Hyde Park this afternoon. He is known to ride a black stallion near the Serpentine at 3:00."
Beatatrice sat at the far end of the table methodically cutting a sausage into tiny precise pieces. She said nothing.
"Beatatrice," her mother barked, annoyed by the silence. "You will accompany Clara. Wear the brown pelisse. It hides the dirt."
And it makes me look like a muddy puddle, Beatatrice thought, but she merely nodded. "Yes, Mama."
"And carry Clara's parasol. The pink silk one. It frames her face beautifully, but her arms get tired holding it up."
"Yes, Mama."
Hyde Park was a chaotic theater of the absurd. Carriages jammed the pathways, horses stamped the dusty ground, and the elite of London paraded up and down in a desperate bid to see and be seen.
Beatatrice walked half a step behind Clara, her arm raised high, holding the heavy pink parasol over her sister's head. The brown pelisse was too thick for the mild spring afternoon, and sweat prickled at the nape of her neck. Clara was engaged in a loud, trilling conversation with a pair of dragoon officers, oblivious to Beatatrice's discomfort.
Beatatrice tuned them out. She watched the carriages. She watched the footmen. She watched a small boy chasing a hoop in the grass. She found peace in observing the world she was excluded from. It made everything seem smaller, less important.
"Oh, heavens," Clara whispered suddenly, her fingers tightening on her reticule. "There he is. Mama was right."
Beatatrice looked up. Approaching from the east, riding a massive beast of a black horse, was the Duke of Westmoreland. In the harsh daylight, he looked even more formidable. He wore no hat, and the wind had ruffled his dark hair. His shoulders were broad, his posture relaxed, but commanding in the saddle. He looked straight ahead, ignoring the eager waves and tipped hats of the people he passed.