Page 45 of The Duke's Vice

With a breath of new life, Beatrice’s eyes flittered up his broad chest, past his perfectly tied cravat, hesitating briefly on his full lips, before finally landing on his deep green eyes.

Her body swayed under his attention.

“Your Grace.” She dipped her head.

“Your Grace, how lovely it is to see you again.” Charlotte stepped forward, offering her hand.

Without missing a beat, Graham took her hand and placed a chaste kiss upon it. “Your Grace, the honor is all mine.” His smile was charming, his speech impeccable, his body language perfect. Beatrice was in awe of his ability to be the dashing Duke when he needed to. Although, she preferred his more devilish side.

Heat rushed to her cheeks at the turn of her thoughts.

She cleared her throat and placed a wide smile on her face, hoping she didn’t seem as awkward as she suddenly felt.

“Did you enjoy Lady Joynor’s ball?” Charlotte asked. “I hope my daughter didn’t occupy too much of your time.” She quipped with a quick look to her youngest daughter.

Beatrice took a breath to steady her breathing. She crossed her fingers behind her back, hoping her mother wouldn’t say anything to embarrass her.

Her mother rose an eye brow in the Duke’s direction.

Who was she kidding? Of course her mother would embarrass her.

Beatrice looked helplessly to Sarah.

With a sigh Sarah stepped forward. “I’m sure she didn’t, Mama. You know Beatrice would much rather be alone with her books than at a ball. She most likely retreated to a corner to read one of the books she smuggled in. Isn’t that right, Beatrice?”

At the mention of books Beatrice’s mind switched from proper etiquette in a parlor setting to the opera scene in ’To Love a Traitor.’ Her heart began to beat faster and nervous laughter bubbled out of her.

“Beatrice! What has come over you?” Charlotte questioned.

Beatrice took a few gulps of air to quell the nervous laughter. “I’m sorry,” she coughed and placed a hand over her chest. “I don’t know. Um… please forgive me I need some more punch.” She stepped to the side to hopefully slip past the Duke but he raised his arm to stop her.

“Actually, Your Grace, after our dance we ended up having a lovely conversation about books.” Graham shifted his body to further impede Beatrice’s escape. She had no choice but to turn back to the conversation but not before giving a quick sneer in the Duke’s direction.

Beatrice could feel the color drain from her face when she saw the look of amusement on Sarah’s face and the look of concern on her mother’s. Surely this wasn’t happening.

Sarah tilted her head in interest. “Oh? What books did you discuss?”

Beatrice looked at the window. She wondered if it was double paned. Maybe with enough force she could break through it if she threw herself hard enough.

“She actually mentioned you in our discussion.” Graham noted.

Sarah’s eyes widened and lit with glee. “Did she now? I find that most curious since the types of books I favor differ heavily from the ones she does.”

Graham looked to Beatrice with a sly grin. She pushed out a breath and accepted her fate. She was not going to leave this conversation alive, or at least without a stern look from her mother. A stern look from her mother would turn into a long lecture, which would lead to hysterics, and more arguing. Who’s to say which was worse this point? Death or another argument about her future with her mother?

Beatrice glanced to the window again. If only if it were slightly opened…

“She did mention that you two read vastly different books, but there was one of yours in particular that she did fancy.” Graham furrowed his brows in concentration. “What was it again, Lady Beatrice. I can’t remember.”

Beatrice ground her molars. He was toying with her and he knew she had no recourse that wouldn’t lead to embarrassment.

“I honestly don’t remember, Your Grace. I spoke with several gentleman at Lady Joynor’s ball, I can’t be expected to remember every detail of every conversation.” She said smugly.

There. That a should quieten him for a moment. Her victory felt short lived when she heard a slight intake of air come from her mother.

“Beatrice.” She chided. “Your Grace, please forgive my daughter for her brash tongue.”

Beatrice dropped her shoulders. Her mother could be so perplexing. One minute she is scolding her for giving the Duke too much attention, the next she is berating her for putting him in his place.

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