Page 92 of His Unwanted Duchess

He did call himself Blackheart and warned me that his darkness would swallow up my light. I suppose he was trying to warn me, in his way. I should have listened.

She tore her eyes away from the paper to find Miss Boules staring at her, gleeful and expectant.

Beatrice smiled. “Goodness, you girls do spend a great deal of time reading this nonsense, don’t you? Perhaps if you concentrated on your characters a little more rather than gossip, you might catch husbands for yourselves. Time is slipping away, ladies.”

Miss Boules flinched at that, two spots of color blooming in her cheeks.

Beatrice stepped forward, inches away from the woman, and shoved the scandal sheet back at her, none too gently.

“Did you truly believe that this would upset me?” she asked, her voice low. “You will have to try harder than that, I fear. Good day to you, Miss Boules. Come along, girls. We have things to do today—can’t stay and gossip in the Park all day. Let us leave these…ladiesto their business.”

She hooked an arm through Daphne’s and Emily’s again and dragged them down the pathway. Miss Boules was left clutching the crumpled scandal sheet, her face as red as beets.

Beatrice did not look back.

Anna’s carriage was waiting for the girls and Beatrice. They were meant to go straight back to Anna’s home, to spend the afternoon with her, Kitty, and the new baby.

Frankly, Beatrice was glad of the distraction. She had told Miss Boules that the scandal sheet had not bothered her, but it was not strictly true. Words stuck in her mind. Whoever said that sticks and stones could break bones, while words could do no harm, had clearly never had a particularly poisonous article written about them.

Words were jumbled up in her head, a combination of Miss Boules’ taunts and the scandal sheets’ contempt and pity.

I think it would have been better for you to remain a spinster.

The oblivious Duchess of Blackwood ventures out in Society once again, unaware of her humiliation.

I do pity you, my dear. Nobody deserves this.

Could the Duchess’s bluestocking tendencies be to blame for the failure of her marriage?

Beatrice Walford, the Duchess of Blackwood: An example to young girls everywhere!

She swallowed hard, squeezing her eyes shut. The streets around the Park were not busy—anybody important wasinthe Park—and she prayed they would get to the carriage quickly while she could still maintain her composure.

A tug on her arm from Emily pulled her back to the present.

“Who is that woman? Why is she waiting by our carriage?”

Beatrice’s eyes flew open. It seemed that she already knew what she would see.

Miss Cornelia Thompson stood by the carriage. She was half-turned away from them, but Beatrice could easily recognize her fall of fair curls, her willowy frame, and the majestic sweep of her profile.

“Isn’t she that opera singer?” Daphne ventured doubtfully. “Is she waiting for us?”

At the sound of their voices, Cornelia turned. She smiled.

“She’s very pretty,” Daphne said, sounding a little begrudging.

Beatrice thought that her throat had turned to sawdust.

“Yes,” she managed. “Very pretty.”

Cornelia was wearing a deep blue silk gown, with matching gloves and embroidered white flowers on the hem. A fur cape hung down from her shoulders, an acknowledgment of the crisp, cold day. She looked beautiful, of course. Her clothes were in the latest fashion and suited her perfectly. The silk was, of course, untouched by the filth and slime that coated London’s streets.

“Your Grace,” Cornelia said, inclining her head in a bow that was not respectful enough for a duchess. “I am sorry to accost you here, but we really must talk.”

Beatrice considered telling her to leave. Surely she could ask the coachman to push Cornelia away from the carriage door, and then they could rumble away and leave the woman behind.

Whatever she wants to tell me, I do not want to hear it.

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