“Will he? As I recall, you hosted a house party rather than come to see to me after mylittle tumble.”
“Dearest,” her mother reprimanded in an imperious tone. “We couldn’t disappoint our guests. Invitations had already gone out.”
“And your excuse for not seeing to me since?” Beatrice uttered in a choked tone.
“There you are, darling.” Lord Foxwood appeared before her mother could speak, sleek and golden, a glass of wine in one elegant hand. A calculating glance was tossed at Beatrice, eyes trailing over her much the same way her mother’s had. He’d written her off, but now he was revisiting her value to him.
Lord and Lady Foxwood exchanged a look.
A wave of nausea rolled through her. It was one thing to acknowledge that ambition and standing would always be more important to her parents than Beatrice, especially when doing so from the safety of Chiddon. Quite another to see them assessing her future usefulness to them in person.
No wonder I became so bloody awful.
Blythe’s grip on her hand tightened again, becoming almost painful.
“Ah, Lord Blythe.” Her father’s lip curled. “I hadn’t expected you to be here tonight.”
“Why, Foxwood? It’s my house.”
Lord Foxwood reddened at the rebuke. “You don’t spend much time in London these days. First Rome, now the countryside. One wonders what you find to amuse yourself.”
“Duchesses and haunted mills,” came Blythe’s chilly reply.
“Apologies, my lord. But I must speak to you on a matter of some urgency.” Lady Blythe interrupted in her jarring bright yellow, fingers plucking at Blythe’s arm. “A misunderstanding has occurred, of which you must be made aware.” She nodded politely to Lord and Lady Foxwood, not sparing a glance for Beatrice.
Well, that was fine. She and Lady Blythe had never gotten on. The course of their relationship was only destined to get worse. Especially after Beatrice rid the house of pear paintings.
“Your Grace. I’ll only be a moment.” Blythe’s reluctance to leave her with the Foxwoods bled through his words.
“I shall await your return and amuse myself with Lord and Lady Foxwood.” She released his fingers, and his hand fell away from her skirts.
Lord Foxwood made a disgusted sound.
“Don’t tell me you’ve taken up with that rogue, Beatrice. As a duchess, you can do better. A stop will need to be put to any further acquaintance. If he calls, we will refuse him.” Lord Foxwood took on his usual authoritative manner.
“She’s healed well, hasn’t she?” Lady Foxwood said to her husband, studying Beatrice’s neck. “It looked so much worse when I first saw her. Ghastly, really.” Her elegant shoulders gave a shudder.
“I believe you screamed at the sight and swooned across the bed, my lady,” Beatrice snapped. “A footman had to be summoned to carry you out.”
“Beatrice, you will not speak to your mother in such a tone.” Lord Foxwood took Beatrice’s elbow. “Your injuries at the time were...substantial. We didn’t even know if you would survive.”
“Nor did you care. You allowed Castlemare to send me to Chiddon.” A wave of disgust for her parents, along with all the rage she’d held inside, rolled in her stomach. “You never even visited.”
“That dreary backwater?” Lord Foxwood rolled his eyes. “Beatrice, we haveduties. Social obligations. You embroiled us in an entire host of scandals which had to be smoothed over. First allowing Granby to jilt you, then your little tumble.”
“Stop calling it atumble. An overturned carriage,” Beatrice hissed, “is not a bloody tumble.”
“Do you know how much effort I put forth to keep things quiet?” Her father continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “No easy task. And not an ounce of gratefulness from you. The only thing you did was wed Castlemare. That was something.” He gave her a pointed look. “But you didn’t provide an heir. Imagine what we could have accomplished with a grandson who was a duke.” He shook his head.
Beatrice tried to speak, but no sound came out. A few moments was all it had taken for her parents to once more reduce her to nothing more than a disappointment to be borne on their expensively clad shoulders.
“I’ll have your rooms at home prepared, Beatrice.” Lady Foxwood bestowed a dazzling smile. “We can visit a modiste as soon as possible. I assume we cannot bare both your shoulders, so we’ll have to work around that.”
“I have a house. I am a widow,” Beatrice said in disbelief. “I’ve no need to take up residence with you.”
“Don’t be silly. You need your family now more than ever, especially if you are to remarry. Now, the Ralston ball is two days hence,” Lord Foxwood said thoughtfully. “There’s a marquess this season. A widower. Henley.”
The arrogance of Lord and Lady Foxwood, the sheer self-serving nature of the two people standing before Beatrice, astounded her. That they could possibly think she would cheerfully return to their London home and pick up as if Castlemare and her accident had never occurred. Pretending as if the last few years had never happened.
