Beatatrice watched Clara storm away, leaving her standing alone in the dust. For the first time in her life, she didn't feel afraid of her mother's wrath. She felt alive.
The rumors spread with the vicious speed of a cholera outbreak. By Tuesday, society whispered that the Duke of Westmoreland had spoken to the ugly Penhaligan sister. By Thursday, the story had morphed. The Duke had rescued her from a runaway carriage. By Saturday, Lady Culper's salon was buzzing with the absurd theory that the Duke was using Beatatrice to make Clara jealous.
Lady Hemsley firmly believed the latter. "It is a classic tactic," Lady Hemsley declared, pinning a horrific arrangement of fake fruit into Clara's hair. "Men of his station do not simply pursue what they want. They play games. He insulted Clara to lower her guard and spoke to you, Beatatrice, because you are entirely unthreatening. It is a compliment to Clara's overwhelming beauty."
"Of course, Mama," Beatatrice said, sitting in the corner mending a tear in Clara's glove.
"Tonight is the Duke's own ball at Westmoreland House," Lady Hemsley continued, her eyes gleaming with manic ambition. "He will undoubtedly ask Clara for the first waltz. It is the only logical conclusion to this charade. Oh, Beatatrice, you will wear the gray silk."
"The gray silk has a stain on the hem, Mama."
"Then stand behind a fern," her mother snapped. "We do not have time for your complaints."
Westmoreland House was a palace of marble and gold. It was a stark contrast to the Duke himself, who seemed to despise ostentation. The ballroom was massive, the chandeliers dripping with crystal tears, the floor polished to a mirror finish. It was intimidating. It was designed to make everyone who entered feel small.
Beatatrice felt microscopic. The gray silk felt heavy and sad. She found a corner near a massive potted palm, taking her mother's advice literally, and stood perfectly still, clasping her mended gloves in front of her.
Clara, however, was glowing. She wore a gown of spun gold, her hair arranged in a complex weave of braids and pearls. She stood near the center of the room, flanked by her mother, laughing, glowing, waiting.
The string quartet tuned their instruments. A hush fell over the crowd. Arthur appeared at the top of the grand staircase. He wore evening blacks, stark and unforgiving, a severe contrast to the peacock-bright coats of the other men. He looked out over the sea of faces with an expression of profound boredom.
He descended the stairs slowly. The crowd parted for him instinctively. The orchestra struck the first chord of a waltz. The opening dance, the most important moment of the evening.
Arthur walked toward the center of the room. Clara's breath hitched. She subtly adjusted her posture, offering her best, most winning smile. Lady Hemsley clutched her fan so tightly the ivory ribs bowed.
Arthur stepped into the clearing. He passed Lord Danforth. He passed Lady Culper. He stopped directly in front of Clara.
Clara's smile became triumphant. She gracefully extended a hand, preparing to accept the invitation.
Arthur didn't even look at her. He didn't break stride. He stepped around Clara as if she were a piece of misplaced furniture. The collective gasp from the surrounding ton was audible over the music. Clara's extended hand hung in the air, frozen, her face draining of color.
Arthur kept walking. He bypassed the center of the room. He bypassed the glittering debutantes. He walked directly toward the shadows, toward the potted palm.
Beatatrice watched him come, her heart hammering wildly against her sternum. No, she thought. Please, no, don't do this. She could feel the eyes of 500 people swiveling toward her. The weight of their collective shock was crushing.
Arthur stopped 2 feet in front of her. Up close, she could see the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the hard, stubborn set of his jaw. But his eyes, when they met hers, were warm. Amusement danced in their dark depths.
"Miss Penhaligan," he said, his voice carrying clearly in the suddenly silent room.
Beatatrice swallowed hard. Her throat was desert dry. "Your Grace. You are... you are supposed to be dancing."
"I am aware of my duties as a host," Arthur replied, his face completely serious, though a muscle ticked in his jaw. "But I find myself in a dilemma."
"A dilemma?"
"Yes. The music is playing and I have a terrible fear of dancing with women who bore me. It is a genuine medical condition."
A scattered, shocked murmur rippled through the crowd behind him. Clara let out a stifled sob. Beatatrice felt a hysterical urge to laugh. He was insane. He was actively destroying her sister's reputation and elevating her to the center of a scandal. She should turn him down. She should run from the room.
But then she looked at his outstretched hand, a large masculine hand in a pristine white glove. He wasn't playing a game. He wasn't trying to make Clara jealous. He was asking her. Beatatrice. The invisible woman.
"I am not a very good dancer," Beatatrice whispered, a final desperate plea for him to reconsider.
"Excellent," Arthur said, stepping closer. "Then we can just walk in circles and insult the guests. Will you do me the honor?"
Beatrice looked past his broad shoulder. She saw her mother's face, pale and horrified. She saw Clara, trembling with rage and humiliation. She saw a lifetime of brown wool dresses, empty reticules, and silent corners.
Then she looked back at Arthur.
Beatatrice took a slow, deep breath, raised her arm, and placed her small gloved hand into his. "I would be delighted, Your Grace."
When his fingers closed around hers, strong and warm, a shockwave of electricity shot up her arm. Arthur pulled her gently from the shadows and led her onto the floor. The orchestra, realizing what was happening, fumbled briefly before picking up the tempo of the waltz.
Arthur placed a hand on her waist. It was a firm, solid weight. He didn't hold her gingerly, as if she were made of glass. He held her as if she anchored him to the earth. They stepped into the turn. Beatatrice tripped on her first step, her toe catching the hem of her gray dress. Arthur's grip tightened, catching her effortlessly. He didn't miss a beat.