Page 3 of The Duke and the Runaway Bride

“I have heard His Grace is a stern man with no humor,” Hannah noted.

Beatrice was glad her sister had spoken up so she would not have to. There was something about Agnes that brought out her competitive streak. Part of it was due to Agnes holding back. They had encountered each other in the past, and Agnes had always thrown barbs, but not this time. Perhaps she was content now that she was going to marry or worried about her suitor. Beatrice felt a hint of sympathy toward the woman.

“His Grace is a good man, and we will make a fine couple when we wed.” Agnes leaned toward Beatrice. “I shall not become anotherRunaway Bride.”

“What?” Beatrice gasped a little too loudly.

Agnes leaned in even closer so she could whisper. “That is what they are calling you now.The Runaway Bride!Isn’t it fitting? I was very proud when I came up with it.”

Beatrice was too worried to be annoyed at her. “Do they really call me that?” she whispered.

“Oh, all the time,” Agnes said. “Not to your face, of course. You are the talk of the town still, and I am sure you will be for months.” She giggled. “Were you really sick? There were some who suggested you were with child.”

“What?” Beatrice gasped loudly.

“What are you saying?” Hannah hissed, getting close to the two women.

She and Beatrice had an eye on their father, who was conversing with Lord Pemberton—they did not want any trouble at the ball.

“Oh, nothing,” Agnes replied, down with her troublemaking. “Only informing your sister of some gossip.”

Beatrice wanted to scream but noticed her father staring at her. Agnes was not only relaying gossip; she had started the gossip and was proud of it. Beatrice fervently wished that the Duke Agnes was to wed would not be loving, and that Agnes’s life would be miserable.

Oh, stop it! This is not you, Beatrice. You cannot stoop to her level. It doesn’t matter if she is happy or not. It only matters that you make Father happy.

Beatrice wanted to cry. Did her happiness matter at all?

The small group rearranged itself, and she stood by Lord Pemberton, a welcome respite from Agnes. He made a comment about her dress, but Beatrice did not fully hear it because of her father. Phineas looked constantly toward the door, and Beatrice knew the Baron would arrive soon.

She avoided looking in that direction, needing to put off the moment for as long as possible. It was her last few minutes of complete freedom—as free as she could be with her father watching her every move.

“I wish to thank you, My Lord,” Beatrice said when she had a moment alone with Robert.

“Whatever for?” he asked.

“You stepped in when things got uncomfortable for my father and me. These past few months have not been easy, and the less we can talk about it, the better.”

“Everyone deserves their privacy,” Robert stated. “I am sure you had your reasons for doing what you did, and I can see you have returned to face your past mistakes. I have not seen your father often, but I have encountered him enough over the past few months to know he is more content.”

Beatrice nodded. “He doesn’t deserve the trouble I have caused, but I will cause no more trouble.”

“A good lesson for all of us. I am often around people who cause unending trouble. It is entertaining at times, but it can become tiring too.”

Beatrice hoped Lord Pemberton was talking about Agnes—someone else must see how she truly was. He was a good man, that much she could see from their brief interactions, and part of her wished she was promised to him instead of the Baron. Lord Pemberton was the right age, handsome, and could hold a conversation and navigate societal pressures. She had no idea of his situation, but if she pleaded with her father, he might?—

Her thought was interrupted when Phineas’ face lit up in recognition. He moved swiftly to her and took her by the arm.

“Beatrice, come and meet Lord Mutton.”

Her father gripped her arm tightly, as if she might try to make a run for it.

Beatrice took a final look at Robert and knew that dream was over. Besides, she barely knew him, and asking her father to reconsider who she would marry would seem hypocritical. She had not yet met the Baron.

“Oh,” she muttered under her breath.

The thought of Lord Pemberton had been removed when her father took her arm, but all other thoughts were removed when she saw the Baron approach. Never in her wildest dreams had she expected the man who commanded the attention of everyone else in the room, even if he did look extremely angry to be attending the ball.

He was tall with an athletic build and broad shoulders, his tailored suit hovering between being too tight and not tight enough. His black hair starkly contrasted with his bright green eyes, which lingered on her for a moment before they moved on. He stood tall, looking down on everyone else.

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