Page 61 of His Unwanted Duchess

She sighed. “No, I have not, don’t fret. I doubt that Mouse would give me the key even if I asked. But don’t worry, I have respected your wishes. I spent a lot of time in the conservatory—there was a minor disaster with one of the rarer plants and a tennis ball, by the way, I’m sure Mouse will fill you in on all that—but I have avoided the observatory.”

He relaxed a little. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

She gave a one-shouldered shrug, swigging again from the champagne bottle. “Rules are rules, are they not?”

He stared at her for a long minute. Bathed as she was in the moonlight, Beatrice almost seemed like some sort of goddess. One could easily imagine her as Venus rising from the sea, or Artemis drawing back her bow, ready to loose a well-aimed arrow.

Stephen cleared his throat. “I’m glad you stuck to the rules,” he heard himself say, “because if you’d broken them, I’d have had to punish you.”

There was a brief silence after that.

“Punish me,” Beatrice repeated, and he could feel her stare burning into the side of his face. “Punish mehow, exactly?”

“I am sure,” he responded, flashing her a wicked grin, “I could devise a fitting punishment. Don’t you?”

She let out a chuckle, shaking her head, and something tightened inside Stephen—something like desire but also edged sharply with somethingelse,something deeper.

The rattling of carriage wheels jolted him out of his reverie. They both twisted around, seeing a high-sprung coach rushingtowards them. Taking Beatrice’s arm, Stephen nudged her aside, giving the coach plenty of room to pass by.

Rather than rumbling past, however, the coach slowed down until it came to a stop beside them. It was a green lacquered coach, notably devoid of a crest on the side, but immaculate and expensive and quite clearly not hired.

It was the curtains that made Stephen realize just how much trouble he was in. Pink, ruched, lacy curtains covered the windows.

He’d seen the inside of those curtains far too often.

“What’s all this?” Beatrice said, directing her attention to the coachman, but the man only grunted unintelligibly.

The door swung open, and a lady stepped out.

Not just any lady, of course. Stephen had known who it would be before ever the door opened.

A small, pointed foot appeared first, clad in expensive rose-colored silk. A wide, frilled skirt followed, following the latest fashion of ruffles and ruches.

What followed the voluminous skirts was a remarkably beautiful woman. According to the scandal sheets and Society papers, one of the most beautiful women in England.

Stephen shot Beatrice a quick glance and saw at once that she recognized the woman.

She was tall, fair-haired, willowy in a way that all the Society belles were at the moment, and of course, impeccably dressed.

“I know you,” Beatrice blurted out. “You’re Cornelia Thompson. Forgive me,MissThompson. You’re the opera singer.”

Cornelia shot her a cool glance and gave her a tight, unfriendly smile. “But of course. Andyourequire no introduction. You are the Duchess of Blackwood. A coveted position in Society, as I’m sure you’re aware. What a pleasure to meet you.”

She extended one thin, elegant hand, which Beatrice took, smiling nervously.

Stephen felt almost rooted to the spot. The champagne bottle hung limply from his hand, threatening to slip from his grasp and fall to the ground at any moment, where it would undoubtedly shatter. He tightened his grip on the neck of the bottle.

The entire situation was not unlike watching one heavily laden cart careen towards another, with a number of innocents in the way, about to be run down or crushed between the two. A horrifying situation, where one feels disbelief and panic but is unable to do anything about it.

Cornelia turned her icy-blue eyes—set in a doll-like face that Society papers waxed lyrical about, and about which several poems had been written—onto Stephen.

“Your Grace,” she said, her tone smooth. “You must have been despondent not to have seen me at my performance in Paris. I had my half-brother visiting. I hope you understand.”

Stephen cleared his throat. “I’m not sure I attended that performance at all.”

She threw back her head, set on a swan-like neck—a horrifying image, in all honesty, but another term used gleefully by Society papers—and laughed merrily.

“No, no, of course not! Silly me. At that time, you’d already boarded a ship and gone back to England, is that not correct?”

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