Page 77 of His Unwanted Duchess

It shouldn’t bother me,she told herself while dressing briskly.He has been more than clear about what we are to each other. I understood it all before we were even married, and I have no right to complain now.

And yet… and yet she could not stopthinkingabout him, could not stop replaying the way he’d looked, the things he’d said, the way hetouchedher over and over in her mind.

The opera singer’s face returned to her mind often, too. Miss Cornelia Thompson. Beatrice had seen her likeness on countless papers and scandal sheets before, her fine features and enviable figure sketched out lovingly. Even the more austere and unyielding of matrons knew Miss Thompson’s name, and eventheycould not deny her talent, her beauty, herinfluence.

Unlike some opera singers, Miss Thompson did not boast about her patrons and conquests, which made her all the more alluring to titled, wealthy gentlemen who wanted a famous mistress but did not want the unpleasant publicity that came with it.

Gentlemen like Stephen, for example.

Beatrice closed her eyes momentarily. She could remember how Cornelia had looked at Stephen, her eyes alight with hope and anger, fixed so intensely on him. Shewasbeautiful, far more beautiful than Beatrice could ever hope to be. Try as she might, Beatrice could not recall how Stephenhad looked when Cornelia had appeared.

I imagine it was inconvenient if he’s thrown her off,Beatrice thought sullenly, piling her hair on top of her head and jamming pins into the mess haphazardly.

It looked ridiculous, so she took it all down again and opted for a neat, simple, demure knot at the back of her head.

I bet Miss Cornelia Thompson never wears her hair carelessly. I daresay nothing she does is ever careless, or sloppy. And even if it were, she’d still be the most beautiful woman alive.

Beatrice paused, eyeing her red face in the mirror, tangled locks of hair falling free from the knot.

Who, exactly, am I angry at? Is it Miss Thompson? Is it Stephen? Or perhaps I am simply angry at myself for being so phenomenally foolish as to start caring for the wretched Duke Blackheart. He warned me. Over and over again, he warned me. Everybody did. But, no, I would not listen, and now I am in a mess of my own making.

She dropped her hands with a sigh. The twisted knot at the back of her head slowly and grandly began to unravel.

Defeated, Beatrice got up, moved over to the bell pull in the corner, and tugged on it. She would need help to dress, after all.

Beatrice nearly tripped over her feet when she entered the dining room and found Theodosia at the breakfast table, docilely drinking tea.

“Oh, there you are, dearest. How did you sleep?”

Beatrice blinked. “I didn’t know you were coming for breakfast.”

Theodosia arched a perfect eyebrow. “Surely my darling daughter-in-law is not implying that I amnot welcomein her home without notice?”

Beatrice snorted, shaking her head and plopping down in the seat opposite Theodosia. “How was the party last night?”

Theodosia beamed. “Excellent. And I had a very enlightening conversation with my son last night. Have some of the scrambled eggs, they’re rather good this morning.”

Beatrice helped herself. She was suddenly ravenous. The business of Stephen and Cornelia and all the nonsense associated with it seemed rather small and paltry in the face of good, plain, old hunger. She was busy tucking in when she felt eyes on her face, and she glanced up to find Theodosia watching her.

The woman was swirlingwinein her glass, the thin stem clutched between her fingertips. At this hour of the morning!

“You are fond of him, aren’t you?” Theodosia said, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain. “You know who I mean.”

Beatrice did.

She swallowed hard, glancing down. “I… I am fond of him. He’s a good man. Many women have worse husbands.”

“It’s no good comparing yourself to others,” Theodosia said firmly. “I know many women—myself included—who believed that they could not complain about the hand they were dealt because somebody else was in a worse situation. Well, let me tell you that there is always somebody in a worse situation. Is there to be only one person in the whole wide world who truly suffers, and can therefore consider themself badly done by? I think not. That was not what I was asking, Beatrice.”

Beatrice bit her lip. This was the first reference, however oblique, to the suffering she knew Theodosia had gone through during her marriage. There was no pain on her face, no regret, no self-pity. It was a simple, plain, statement of fact.

“If I thought that my son, my beloved little boy, had grown up to be… to be like his father,” Theodosia continued, swallowing hard, “I don’t know what I would have done, or how I would have lived with myself.”

“He is not like his father,” Beatrice responded at once. “Not at all. Stephen can be cold, I won’t deny that. You already know it. But he’s a good man. He adores you, and… and I am fond of him.”

I am fond of him.It felt like a confession.

Theodosia’s gaze sharpened, just for an instant, and Beatrice wondered whether the older woman had read between the lines and knew what she really meantto say.

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