Page 88 of A Bargain with the Rakish Duke
Eastfold’s smile turned cold. “Then perhaps it’s time the world learned the truth about the mysterious Eric Westback. I wonder how your dear husband would react to such news?”
The threat hung in the air between them. Beatrice wanted to scream, to rage against the injustice of it all. But she knew it would do no good. Eastfold held all the cards, and he knew it.
With a supreme effort of will, she nodded curtly. “Very well. You’ll have your painting.”
“Excellent,” Eastfold purred, clearly savoring his victory. “I knew you’d see reason, Your Grace. You’re so much more… agreeable than your husband.”
Beatrice felt her skin crawl at his insinuation, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Without another word, she turned on her heel and strode out of his study, her back ramrod straight.
It wasn’t until she was safely in her carriage, hidden from prying eyes, that she allowed a single tear to fall. But even as it traced a path down her cheek, she felt a spark of determination ignite within her.
This isn’t over. I will find a way to beat you, Lord Eastfold.
Chapter Thirty
Kenneth sat in his study, a glass of whiskey in his hand. The amber liquid swirled in the cut crystal, catching the light from the flickering fire in the hearth. It was his third glass that evening, a habit he had fallen into since returning to the estate without Beatrice.
Beatrice.
Her name echoed in his mind, a constant ache that refused to be soothed. He had thought that throwing himself into his work, into the management of the estate and the endless cycle of meetings and paperwork, would distract him from her absence. But if anything, the long hours and the solitude only made him feel her loss more keenly.
He missed her. Missed her quick wit, her bright laughter, the way her eyes sparkled when she spoke of her art. Missed the warmth of her presence, the feel of her soft curves against him in the night.
I should have fought harder.
Guilt and regret twisted in his gut.
I should have insisted that she come with me, should have made her see how much I need her, how much I…
He couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought. The words, the depth of his feelings, still felt too raw, too vulnerable to voice.
A knock at the door startled him from his brooding.
“Enter,” he called, his voice rough from the whiskey and the weight of his emotions.
To his surprise, it was Lady Featherwell who swept into the room, her skirts rustling with the movement.
Kenneth felt a surge of irritation at the sight of her, at the memory of their last encounter and the role she had played in driving a wedge between him and Beatrice.
“Lady Featherwell,” he said, his tone cold. “To what do I owe this unexpected… pleasure?”
She smiled, a coy, practiced curve of her lips. “Your Grace,” she purred, moving closer. “I heard you had returned to Dunford, and I simply had to come and see you. It’s been far too long since we last spoke.”
Kenneth’s jaw tightened, his grip on the whiskey glass tightening. “I’m afraid I’m not in the mood for company, Lady Featherwell. If you’ll excuse me…”
But she didn’t take the hint, instead perching on the edge of his desk, her skirts brushing against his leg.
“Oh, but, Your Grace,” she persisted, her voice low and suggestive, “surely you must be lonely here, all by yourself. Without your Duchess to keep you warm at night.”
Kenneth’s temper flared, his patience snapping.
“My wife is none of your concern,” he growled, setting his glass down with more force than necessary. “And I’ll thank you to keep your insinuations to yourself.”
Lady Featherwell’s eyes widened, a flicker of surprise crossing her face before it was replaced by a sly, knowing look. “Forgive me, Your Grace,” she said, her tone anything but apologetic. “I meant no offense. I only thought you should know…” she trailed off.
Kenneth’s heart raced, cold dread seeping into his veins. “Know what?” he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.
Lady Featherwell’s smile widened, a predatory gleam in her eyes. “That your dear wife has been seen in the company of Lord Eastfold. Quite frequently in fact. One might almost think?—”
