"Look naturally amused," Clara hissed at the officers, flashing a brilliant smile. "Laugh at something."
The dragoons, eager to please, let out boisterous guffaws. Clara laughed along, a melodic, practiced sound, positioning herself perfectly by the edge of the path so the Duke could not possibly miss her.
Arthur drew closer. He pulled slightly on the reins, slowing the stallion to a walk as the crowd thickened. His dark eyes scanned the faces. He saw Clara. Clara's smile brightened to the wattage of a small sun.
Arthur's gaze flicked past her. It landed on the brown pelisse. It traveled up the arm holding the pink parasol right to Beatatrice's flushed, sweaty face.
The stallion stopped right in front of them. The two dragoon officers stepped back, intimidated by the sheer size of the horse and the man on it. Clara took a confident step forward.
"Your Grace," Clara purred, sinking into a flawless curtsy. "What a delightful afternoon for a ride!"
Arthur did not look at Clara. He rested his hands on the pommel of his saddle and looked directly over Clara's head at Beatatrice.
"Miss Penhaligan," he said. His voice cut through the park's noise like a heavy blade.
Clara froze halfway out of her curtsy, her head snapped back up, her eyes wide with shock, looking from the Duke to her plain, brown-clad sister.
Beatatrice felt her stomach drop to her boots. This was a mistake. He was humiliating her or he was playing some cruel aristocratic game. She lowered the parasol slightly, clutching the ivory handle until her knuckles turned white.
"Your Grace," Beatatrice said, keeping her voice carefully neutral.
"You look warm," Arthur observed, his tone conversational as if they were the only two people in the park. "Why are you wearing wool in May?"
Clara made a choked, strangled sound. The dragoons stared openly. Beatatrice felt a hot flush creep up her neck.
"It is practical, Your Grace. It hides the dirt."
The corner of Arthur's mouth twitched. It wasn't quite a smile, but it was close. "And the umbrella?"
"I burn easily."
"You are standing in the shade of a large oak tree."
Beatatrice looked up. She was indeed standing directly beneath a massive leafy branch. She lowered the parasol completely, shutting it with a soft snap. "I appreciate your concern for my complexion, Your Grace. It is very touching."
The sarcasm slipped out before she could stop it. A defense mechanism. She braced herself for his anger. Dukes were not used to being mocked by spinsters in brown wool.
Instead, Arthur actually smiled. It transformed his face completely, erasing the brutal exhaustion and revealing something dangerously charming.
"Your sister," Arthur said, finally acknowledging Clara with a brief dismissive glance, "seems to have lost her voice. A tragic affliction on such a beautiful day."
Clara's face went scarlet. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
"I am sure she will recover," Beatatrice said dryly. "She has a very resilient constitution."
Arthur chuckled. A real, deep sound that startled his horse into tossing its head. He patted the beast's thick neck to calm him. "Tell me, Miss Penhaligan, do you ride?"
"Only when chased, Your Grace."
Arthur stared at her for a long moment. The amusement in his eyes settled into something sharper, something piercing. He saw her. Not the brown dress, not the wallflower. He saw the woman beneath the armor.
"A pity," Arthur murmured. "I have a terrible time finding riding companions who don't talk my ears off about the weather. Good day, Miss Penhaligan."
[clears throat]
He tipped his head slightly, ignored Clara entirely, clicked his tongue, and urged the stallion forward, disappearing into the crowd.
Silence descended upon their small group. The dragoon officers suddenly found their boots incredibly fascinating. Clara whipped around to face Beatatrice. Her beautiful features were twisted into a mask of pure, ugly fury.
"What was that?" she hissed, her voice trembling. "How do you know him?"
"I don't," Beatatrice said honestly, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
"Liar," Clara spat. She snatched the pink parasol from Beatatrice's hand. "You did something, you scheming little mouse. Wait until Mama hears about this."