Page 9 of A Bargain with the Rakish Duke
From across the room, Lady Featherwell’s sharp gaze landed on Beatrice.
The young widow’s look was one of pure disdain, her lips curling into a sneer before she turned to whisper something to the gentleman beside her—undoubtedly some scathing remark.
Beatrice’s stomach churned, but she forced herself to focus on her plate, taking small bites of the food before her. Her mother continued to murmur instructions and critiques, but her thoughts kept drifting back to the Duke.
Suddenly, a footman appeared at her side, offering more tea. She nodded absently, lost in her thoughts.
Her mother’s voice cut through her reverie. “Beatrice, pay attention. You must not appear distracted. Remember, we are here for a purpose.”
“Yes, Mother,” Beatrice replied automatically though her mind was still on the Duke. Under her breath, she muttered, “Not all of us can flee to France.”
Her mother’s eyes snapped to her, narrowing in warning. “What did you say?”
Beatrice straightened, meeting her mother’s gaze with a hint of defiance. “I said, not all of us can flee to France, Mother.”
Her mother was momentarily taken aback, her eyes widening in shock. But she quickly regained her composure, casting a glance around the room to ensure no one else had heard the exchange.
“We will discuss this later,” she hissed, her tone icy.
As the breakfast continued, Beatrice struggled to focus on the surrounding conversations, the exchanges of pleasantries, andthe subtle competitive and judgmental undercurrents. She knew she needed to stay composed to show that she was a suitable candidate for marriage, but her heart and mind were elsewhere.
The door to the breakfast room opened, and all heads turned.
Kenneth Spencer, the Duke of Dunford, had entered.
The room fell silent for a brief moment as everyone took in his tall, broad-shouldered figure, impeccably dressed in a morning coat that accentuated his powerful build.
His black hair was tousled, and his blue eyes blazed with intensity as he swept over the room, seeming to search for someone—perhaps his aunt, Lady Bernmere.
It was last night, she had discovered that the Duke of Dunford was her hermetic nephew.
Though he hadn’t behaved like a hermit with her.
When his gaze met Beatrice’s, her heart skipped a beat. She quickly looked away, focusing intently on the delicate floral pattern on her china cup.
A warm flush crept up her neck as she fought to maintain her composure.
He is so shameless! What if people notice that he stares at me?
He moved with purpose, crossing the room to where his aunt, Lady Bernmere, sat. He bowed slightly, his manner formal. “Good morning, Lady Bernmere.”
Lady Bernmere smiled warmly. “Good morning, Your Grace. It is always a pleasure to have you join us.”
Kenneth took a seat beside her, his demeanor exuding confidence and a touch of impatience. Several guests nearby attempted to engage him in conversation.
“Your Grace, how are things at Dunford Estate?” inquired Sir Reginald, a portly gentleman with a booming voice.
Kenneth’s response was curt. “Quite well, thank you.”
“Have you any plans for the Season, Your Grace?” Lady Featherwell asked, her tone overly sweet.
“None,” Kenneth replied, his voice flat and uninterested.
“Surely you must have some engagements planned, Your Grace?” Lady Featherwell pressed, her eyes sparkling with a feigned innocence.
Kenneth’s eyes flicked to her briefly before he replied, “My focus remains on the estate.”
Beatrice watched covertly from beneath her lashes, careful not to let her gaze linger too long when Kenneth glanced her way. His presence seemed to fill the room, making it difficult for her to concentrate on anything else.
