Page 15 of A Bargain with the Rakish Duke
“Good. Now go on,” Prudence urged, giving her a gentle but insistent push towards the game.
As Beatrice approached the playing field, she tried to recall the rules of Pall Mall. The game was like croquet with players taking turns to strike wooden balls through a series of hoops set up on the lawn. The goal was to kick the ball through all the hoops in the correct order and hit the final peg to win.
It sounded simple enough, but Beatrice knew from experience that coordination was not her strongest suit.
The lawn was lush and green, the scent of freshly cut grass mingling with the floral fragrances from the nearby garden. Beatrice could hear the gentle hum of conversation and the occasional exclamation of triumph or frustration from the other players.
The sun was beginning its descent, casting a warm, golden glow over the scene, enveloping the guests in a soft, almost magical light.
Several young women stood in small clusters, chatting congenially, their laughter ringing out across the lawn. Theyseemed carefree, their conversations filled with light-hearted banter and shared confidences.
Beatrice felt a pang of longing as she watched them. She remembered a time when she, too, had been part of such groups, when her days were filled with friends and laughter. But that was before her brother Patrick had ruined their family with his lecherous behavior.
A sense of sadness settled over her, mingling with the anxiety she felt about the game. She did not see a future where she would once again be accepted into the ton, and the realization was like a weight pressing down on her chest.
She missed Catherine so much. But her friend wasn’t there as the Dowager Duchess had carefully selected her younger guests: all of them unmarried or at least widowed.
The loneliness was almost unbearable, a constant ache that she could not seem to shake. She felt trapped in a situation that was beyond her control, burdened by the mistakes of her brother and the expectations of her mother.
“Ah, Lady Beatrice,” Lord Haddington greeted her as she joined the group. His thin lips curled into a smile that did not reach his eyes. “It is a pleasure to see you participating.”
Beatrice forced herself to smile politely, but the effort to maintain her composure added to the heaviness in her heart. The Viscount’s presence, with his rabbity face and arrogant air, only served to remind her of the precariousness of her situation.She felt like an actress playing a role, her true self hidden behind a mask of dutiful compliance.
Prudence, satisfied that her daughter was engaged, made her way to a nearby table where some older ladies were drinking lemonade.
Beatrice watched her mother for a moment, feeling a pang of longing to retreat to a room and paint, to express her true feelings, but she knew better. Her duty was clear, and she would not let her family down.
The game began, and she struggled to keep up.
The other players seemed to maneuver their balls with ease while hers veered off course more often than not. Every time she took a shot, it seemed to go in the opposite direction of where she intended, eliciting stifled laughs and barely concealed smirks from some of the players.
“Bad luck, Lady Beatrice,” Lord Haddington remarked with a patronizing smile. “Perhaps you need a bit more practice.”
Beatrice forced a polite smile though her frustration was mounting. She watched as the Viscount expertly guided his ball through the next hoop, his movements precise and confident.
Nearby, Lady Smythe executed her shot with equal skill, her ball rolling perfectly into position.
The game continued, and Beatrice did her best to stay focused. However, Lady Featherwell was also playing, and her glares were hard to ignore. Every time Beatrice lined up her shot, she could feel the weight of Lady Featherwell’s disdain.
“Oh dear. Lady Beatrice, it seems you’re having a bit of trouble today,” Lady Featherwell noted with a fake sympathetic tone. “Perhaps you should stick to more ladylike pursuits.”
Beatrice bit back a retort, determined not to give Lady Featherwell the satisfaction of seeing her upset. She lined up her shot again, trying to block out the whispers and judgmental glances around her.
“Focus, Beatrice,” she muttered to herself before taking a deep breath and striking the ball.
It moved forward, but once again, it missed the mark, rolling to a stop far from the target.
Lady Featherwell’s laugh was a light, tinkling sound that grated on her nerves.
“Better luck next time, my dear,” she said with a smirk. Then she leaned in closer and whispered, “That’s all ladies like you can hope for.Luck.”
Beatrice sighed inwardly. No matter how hard she tried, she could not shake the feeling of being an outcast. Her family’sscandal hung over her like a dark cloud, and moments like these only served to remind her of her precarious position in Society.
Nearby, a rather portly gentleman named Lord Oxthorpe fumbled his shot, the ball rolling comically off course and into a flower bed. He let out a hearty laugh, seemingly unfazed by his failure.
“Well, that’s one way to do it, I suppose!” he declared, earning chuckles from the other players.
At least Lord Oxthorpe can laugh at himself.
