Page 22 of A Bargain with the Rakish Duke
Why does she affect me this way?I must find a way to understand this… and her.
Chapter Seven
Beatrice stood in the drawing room, holding a glass of sherry and trying to maintain her composure as Lord Cranfield droned on about art.
She had been hopeful when he approached her, his easy smile and confident demeanor suggesting a pleasant conversation.
Her mother had looked on approvingly, especially when Lord Cranfield expressed an interest in discussing art, a topic close to Beatrice’s heart.
However, it quickly became clear that Lord Cranfield had no intention of engaging in a meaningful dialogue. Instead, he launched into a long-winded lecture about the merits of classical art, his voice dripping with condescension.
“You see, Lady Beatrice,” he said, his voice carrying a smug undertone, “true art is all about precision and detail. Take, for instance, the works of Raphael and Titian. Their mastery ofform and technique is unparalleled. Any deviation from such precision, in my humble opinion, is simply a lack of skill.”
Beatrice nodded politely though she felt her patience wearing thin.
She glanced around the room, noticing how Lady Featherwell continued to monopolize the Duke’s attention. Kenneth’s eyes, however, seemed to wander occasionally, landing on her and Lord Cranfield.
Lord Cranfield continued, oblivious to her lack of interest.
“You see, Lady Beatrice, modern artists often lack the discipline of the masters. They get caught up in emotional excesses and abstract concepts that distract from the true essence of art. Women, of course, might find such emotional indulgence appealing.”
Beatrice fought hard to control her frustration. “Lord Cranfield, while I understand your perspective, I believe that art is about more than just technique. It’s about capturing emotion and the essence of a moment.”
Lord Cranfield blinked, clearly taken aback by her statement. He stammered slightly, his confidence wavering. “Well, yes, but… you must understand that precision is the hallmark of true artistry. Something women might not fully grasp.”
Beatrice’s eyes flashed with determination. “Precision is important, but so is innovation. Without artists willing to push boundaries and explore new methods, art would stagnate. The emotional impact of a piece is just as crucial as its technical execution.”
Lord Cranfield seemed to shrink before her, his earlier bravado evaporating. “I see… well, perhaps you have a point,” he mumbled, clearly uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken.
Sensing his discomfort, Beatrice maintained her composure. “Thank you for the conversation, Lord Cranfield. It’s always enlightening to hear different viewpoints.”
Lord Cranfield, looking somewhat flustered, muttered a hasty farewell and excused himself.
Beatrice watched him go. Satisfaction and disappointment settled over her. She had hoped for a meaningful exchange, but she had encountered yet another man who underestimated her.
Why do they always assume we know nothing?
Her frustration mingled with a sense of triumph at having stood her ground.
Her mother’s approving gaze had turned into a frown, but Beatrice felt a sense of liberation. She would not be patronized, not even in the pursuit of securing a match.
As she glanced around the room, her eyes met Kenneth’s, and for a moment, she saw a flicker of something in his gaze—something more physical, more primal. It was brief, but it was enough to make her heart skip a beat.
Kenneth excused himself from Lady Featherwell’s clutches and began to make his way towards Beatrice. Her heart fluttered, and heat crept up her cheeks. However, before he could reach her, another gentleman stepped in front of her.
Beatrice noticed Kenneth’s scowl at the interloper, his expression darkening with displeasure.
“Lady Beatrice,” drawled Lord Hartley, a man with slicked-back hair and an oily demeanor to match. His eyes were small and beady, his smile thin and insincere. “What a pleasure it is to see you this evening.”
Beatrice forced a polite smile. “Good evening, Lord Hartley.”
“Have you any interest in entomology, Lady Beatrice?” Lord Hartley asked, his voice dripping with condescension. “I have recently come across a most fascinating specimen of the Lepidoptera family. The intricacies of their wing patterns are simply extraordinary.”
Beatrice inwardly sighed but maintained her composure. “That sounds… interesting, My Lord.”
“Oh, it is more than interesting,” Lord Hartley continued, oblivious to her lack of enthusiasm. “Did you know that there are over two thousand species of moths and butterflies? The diversity is truly astounding. Just the other day, I was examining a rare specimen with iridescent wings, and the patterns were so complex, one could spend hours simply marveling at them.”
As he droned on about his insect collection, Beatrice’s attention wandered. She glanced around the room and saw Kenneth being waylaid by the Dowager Duchess and Lady Bernmere. Despite being deep in conversation, his eyes flicked back to her repeatedly. Noticing this, Beatrice decided to play along with her mother’s expectations and smiled sweetly up at Lord Hartley, even as his monotonous discourse continued.
