Page 2 of A Bargain with the Rakish Duke
“Did you hear about her brother? Attacked the poor Duchess of Newden, he did. Such a disgrace,” one lady said.
“Indeed. The family was quite prominent once, but now… well, you know how these things go,” the other responded.
Beatrice’s cheeks flushed, but she kept her head high, determined not to let the gossip affect her.
Beatrice understood her duty, but there was a simmering resentment that she had to bear the brunt of fixing the damage Patrick had caused. It was unfair that he could escape the consequences, leaving her to navigate the treacherous waters of Society’s expectations alone. Yet, she knew she had no other choice. Her mother’s survival and their family’s future depended on her ability to make an advantageous match.
As she and her mother stepped further into the room, her heart raced—not from fear, but from the thrill of the unknown.
Tonight could change everything.
As they made their way through the ballroom, the strains of a lively waltz filled the air, the sound of violins and pianoforte blending harmoniously. Beatrice allowed the music to wash over her, momentarily drowning out the whispers and judgmental glances. The elegant movements of the dancers twirling gracefully across the polished floor provided a soothing distraction from the anxiety gnawing at her.
They reached a row of seats along the edge of the ballroom where Lady Bernmere was already seated.
The Dowager Marchioness of Bernmere was a kind-looking woman in her sixties, but many considered her to be slightly eccentric. Beatrice cared not a whit. The whimsical nature ofLady Bernmere was a welcome change from her mother’s harsh words.
“Ah, Lady Afferton, Lady Beatrice,” Lady Bernmere greeted them warmly. “Please, do sit down. Such a lovely evening, isn’t it?”
“Indeed,” Prudence replied though her tone was clipped.
Beatrice offered a polite smile as she took her seat.
“I hope my nephew will attend the party this time,” Lady Bernmere said, her eyes twinkling with anticipation. “It has been far too long since he made an appearance. I fear that he has become a hermit.”
The Dowager Duchess of Newden, who was sitting nearby, chuckled softly. “I would not get my hopes up. You know how he is these days—rarely leaving his estate.”
Who was this hermit nephew of Lady Bernmere’s?
Although Beatrice interest was piqued, and she wanted to inquire further, she stopped herself when a lady seated nearby leaned over and whispered to another.
“Such a shame about Lady Beatrice’s family. The scandal must be unbearable,” the lady said.
Her mother’s eyes narrowed upon hearing the lady’s whispering, her lips pressing into a thin line.
“Beatrice, fetch me a cup of punch,” she commanded, her voice cold and firm. “Now.”
“Yes, Mother,” Beatrice replied, rising to her feet.
She knew her mother’s command was not just about quenching her thirst but also about removing her from the potentially damaging conversation.
Beatrice wended her way through the dancers gracefully, her lavender gown swishing around her like a soft whisper.
The strains of the waltz provided a comforting backdrop as she made her way to the refreshments table.
A servant, impeccably dressed in livery, stood ready to assist.
“May I help you, My Lady?” he asked, bowing slightly.
“Yes, please. A glass of punch for my mother,” Beatrice requested.
The servant turned to the ornate punch bowl, its surface shimmering under the light of the chandeliers. He ladled the punch into a delicate crystal glass intricately etched with floral patterns that glinted as they caught the light.
As Beatrice accepted the glass, feeling the cool surface against her fingers, she took a moment to compose herself.
Finally, she turned and made her way back, the punch glass steady in her hand.
Navigating through the crowd, Beatrice was almost back in her seat when her foot caught on the edge of a rug.
