"Where is Billy?" the dowager asked, interrupting Beatrice as she read to her from the newspaper that morning.
Biting down on her lower lip, Beatrice let out a shaky breath. Her fingers trembled as they clung to the newspaper and she fought to come up with a soothing answer to the dowager's question. Considering the fact that the dowager appeared to be in a constant foul mood, Beatrice didn't want to worsen her mood with bad news.
"Speak up, girl!"
Lowering the newspaper to her knees, Beatrice swallowed. "The duke journeys to Devonshire as we speak." She delivered the news with great apprehension, the frown that immediately settled on the dowager's face confirming Beatrice's fear; she was infuriated by the news.
The duke was on his way to Devonshire. Beatrice had only been informed of the news by a servant that morning, and she immediately knew she was the sole purpose for the duke's desertion of his home and mother. She didn't think it was a coincidence that the duke chose the morning after she had turned down his advances to return to Devonshire; even if she knew she couldn't blame him, for although she had tried to be polite about her rejection, she was certain she had bruised not only his heart but also his ego.
"Not a word of farewell? Perhaps I'm used to his abandonment, but Billy knows better than to leave town without first saying goodbye!" she barked at Beatrice, reaching forward so suddenly, Beatrice didn't see the flying teapot until it grazed her face and crashed to the floor behind her.
Horrified, Beatrice felt a trickle of something warm slide down her left cheek as fear constricted her lungs. Stiffly, she glanced at the shards behind her before turning back to the dowager because she feared she might hurl yet another object at her.
"And perhaps I might keel over before he returns?" The dowager was on her feet. "Perhaps he doesn't think of these things or of me. He cares nothing for me! Which is why he keeps me trapped here like a prisoner with no one else to keep me company but an unsightly widow!" she hissed.
Beatrice watched her pace the room with her stick, before reaching up to examine her bruised cheek. Indeed, the warm substance was blood. She stared at her blood for several seconds, anger replacing her initial fright. She didn't deserve the dowager's cruelty! She had done nothing but serve the dowager diligently, and perhaps the dowager was upset with the duke for his desertion, but Beatrice couldn't say she felt the same way about the duke. On the contrary, Beatrice envied the duke! At least he got to leave his mother's side! With a mother as vicious as the dowager, it was certainly no wonder.
"It's no wonder," Beatrice blurted, only realizing that her thoughts had found expression through her lips when the dowager stopped pacing and turned eyes of steel her way.
"What?" the dowager asked. "Do you have something to say?"
Tempted, yet knowing she couldn't give in to her anger, Beatrice clasped her hands before her and shook her head.
"Of course you don't. You're painfully dumb. Never say anything clever."
"And you're awfully wicked!" she blurted, losing her restraint. "It's no wonder the servants work extra hard to avoid your venom. It's no wonder you have no visitors calling on you." She watched the dowager's face turn crimson, but she wasn't certain she cared; she cared nothing for the consequences that would follow her decision to call out the dowager to her face. She only knew she had had enough of the dowager's horse shit. "It certainly is no wonder the duke labors to be away from you. He spends all those weeks in Devonshire and I envy him for it!"
"Get out!" the dowager erupted, pointing her stick to the exit. "Now!"
Beatrice stared at her, rage pumping through her veins until she feared she might pass out from it.
"No!" she muttered. She wanted nothing more than to storm out those doors and never have to endure the gruelling presence of the dowager. But Beatrice knew her departure would give satisfaction to the dowager and grief to the duke—and she was as determined to keep the dowager unhappy as she was determined to make the duke happy.
"No?!" The dowager watched her, her hands trembling slightly where they clung to her stick.
"I have suffered your presence for far too long to be dismissed easily; it is for this reason, and for the reason that His Grace's absence inevitably burdens upon me the role of your caregiver, that I'm unwilling to be dismissed... Nor am I willing to be further disrespected by you. I shall remain, and by whatever it is you hold sacred, Your Grace, you shall give me the respect I deserve."
"I do not wish for your company!"
"It is not singularly up to you to decide. I was hired with His Grace's approval; I shall only be dismissed thus."
"Very well, I shall write to Billy right away."
"And I shall provide you with some ink to aid your endeavor. But until that is done, I shall see to your care in the duke's absence. I'm certain we can both be civil to each other, and if you would like, then I suggest we go for a ride later. You appear quite pale and I'm certain the sun shall do your skin some good. In the meantime, I shall ring for a maid to bring in some more tea," she glanced at the broken teapot behind her, "seeing as you disposed of the first pot in the most unconventional way."
**
Billy,
You have deserted me and left me in the company of the most intolerable woman. She keeps me here, imprisoned against my will, constantly brooding and breathing down my neck. I have tried to fire her, but she remains, an insufferable presence I'm unable to rid myself of. It is for this reason I insist that you write a letter confirming the termination of Lady Atkins' employment.
From,
Your discarded mother.
Beatrice read the note the dowager handed to her that evening, right after the dowager had thrown a tantrum, protesting Beatrice's refusal to let her forgo their planned visit to the park.
Beatrice knew the dowager hated being told what to do, but it surprised her to find that three days proved insufficient to break the dowager's resolve to frustrate Beatrice into quitting. Rolling her eyes, she folded the note and replaced it in the envelope. Then she wrote a note of her own to accompany the dowager's. She kept the pleasantries short, explaining to the duke the actual situation.
"What Her Grace refers to as imprisonment is indeed a daily visit to the park and tea parlors. My brooding and 'breathing down her neck' is my watchfulness to ensure Her Grace isn't unduly taking out her anger on the servants nor is she disrespecting anyone." She refilled the ink. "I do not mean to say Her Grace speaks falsely, but I'm afraid her words are greatly exaggerated and if Your Grace wishes to fire me after all this, then I shall respectfully take my leave."
She tucked her note in the same envelope as the dowager's and sent a footman to deliver it to the duke in Devonshire.
The duke's response arrived two days later, along with an invitation to a ball.
"A letter from His Grace, as well as an invitation to a ball addressed to my lady," a maid announced, handing the envelopes to Beatrice, who nodded her appreciation.
Nervously, she stalked to the drawing room for some privacy. She knew she had failed to convince the duke to keep her in his employ; her letter had been short and poorly worded. Still, Beatrice knew the duke would choose his mother over her, irrespective of how she had worded her letter.
She settled on a couch and let out a shaky breath as she tore open the envelope.
My Lady,
I'm well acquainted with my mother's penchant for exaggerating things. While I love my mother, I trust you; I not only trust that you're telling me the truth, I trust you with my mother.
I have informed Her Grace of my decision to keep you in charge until my return—incharge of not only my mother, but the entire house.
Yours faithfully,
Beale Cavendish.
Uncertain of what it was she was looking at, Beatrice stared at the note. It wasn't his decision to keep her in his employ that made her smile; it was the words he wrote; he trusted her. Somehow, the mere thought of it warmed her heart.
Tucking the note back in the envelope, Beatrice was suddenly reminded of the invitation that arrived with it. She opened the second envelope, hoping to discard the invitation—for she was in no mood to honor invitations—and glossed over it. But the name written on it made her heart stop; Noah!
He was throwing a ball, and he wanted her present. Running her fingers over his name that possessed the power to control her heart, Beatrice considered the invitation.
Why was he throwing a ball? The invitation didn't give away the purpose for the ball, but a part of Beatrice—a stubborn part that clung to the idea of being with Noah—hoped it was for her. She didn't think he was throwing a ball in her honor, but she hoped he was throwing one for a legitimate reason to be with her; to steal some time away with her.
She planned her outfit in that second; a red number like the one she wore the evening they first kissed. She had never worn the dress since Oliver paid the dressmaker to design it, for she always thought it would draw the attention of the room. At the time, she had done all she could to stay hidden in the crowd, away from their scrutiny and vicious rumors. But right now, there was one man's attention she wanted, and she knew the gown would work effortlessly to gain it.
The evening of the ball came, and once she had given instructions for the care of the dowager, Beatrice climbed into the carriage. She had taken extra care to get ready that evening; the maids worked extra hard to see to the braiding of her hair and fitting of her dress. The servants appeared happier now that the dowager's temper was put on a leash, and they knew they only had Beatrice to thank for it.
The carriage pulled to a halt before Noah's grand mansion and once Beatrice was helped down, she made her way inside. Her gaze swept the large ballroom that swarmed with people, her lips falling slightly open at the sight of the two enormous chandeliers that hung from the ceiling covered in murals of angels. The gold panels on the wall contrasted beautifully with the green curtains draped over the two windows.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" A clicking sound gained her attention. She turned to the man in the center of the room, barely recognizing him.
Noah stood there in his charcoal suit. His hair appeared shorter, was parted at the side and slicked back. His chin was covered in beards; something Beatrice had never seen on him.
And as she stood there, staring at him—hearing and seeing no one else but him—Beatrice knew she loved him. She knew because the world didn't matter anymore as the room faded around them; she knew because when he turned and caught her eyes, her breath ceased and even oxygen didn't appear to matter; she knew because she saw it in his eyes too—he loved her.
In that second, Beatrice wanted nothing more but to close the distance between them and tell him how she really felt.
Releasing a shaky breath, she mentally damned society and its expectations as she stepped forward to follow her heart for the first time in her life.
"I invited you all here to announce my engagement to Lady Penelope," he said, his words not only stopping Beatrice dead in her tracks, it stopped her heart.