Lady Beatrice shook her head, a tiny frown creasing her forehead. The edges of the paper quivered between her fingers. “No, it just can’t be her.”
Edward gave a short, mirthless laugh. “You seem remarkably familiar with her, Lady Beatrice.”
That silenced her.
He noticed it instantly—the flicker in her eyes, the hesitation that didn’t fit the perfect composure he had come to expect. Something shifted between them, subtle but sharp.
His voice softened, curiosity cutting through irritation. “Lady Beatrice… why do I get the sense that you know far more than you ought to?”
The room suddenly felt smaller. Lady Moreland pressed a hand to her forehead as if willing the day to vanish altogether.
Lady Beatrice drew in a breath that trembled, the newspaper seemed to shrink in her hands. Then she folded the paper and set it on the table between them.
When she finally met his gaze, hers was calm, almost defiant.
“Because,” she admitted quietly, “I am Miss Verity.”
CHAPTER 4
Lady Moreland made a sound that sounded like a choked gasp and raised a trembling hand to her chest.
“Beatrice,” she whispered, shock and betrayal tangled in her tone. “Please tell me I misheard. Tell me you did not… write those dreadful essays.”
Beatrice forced herself not to shrink. “I did,” she replied simply. “And I stand by every word.”
Her mother looked as though she might swoon right there beside the table. “Dear heavens… what have you done?”
Beatrice lifted her chin, even as her pulse thundered wildly.
Her breath caught when her eyes landed on the Duke. He stood in the center of the room like a barely-contained storm, tall and broad-shouldered, his coat straining against his frame as if even fabric found him difficult to restrain. A loose lock of dark brownhair had escaped its place, falling over his brow. His green eyes, bright and unflinching, fixed on her with a disbelief that sent heat to her cheeks.
For a moment, she understood why London called him charming, even dangerous. But there was no charm now. Only accusation, quiet and simmering, remained.
“You—” He took a step toward her, his expression hardening. “You’re joking.”
Her hands trembled despite her best effort to clasp them together. “I am not.”
“You’re Miss Verity?” His tone cracked like a whip. “The woman who wrote those scathing essays? The one who called me”—his mouth twisted—“the emblem of idle nobility, dressed in charm to disguise indifference? Or should I say, as you so generously put it, ‘a nobleman’s failure of restraint’?”
Color rose in her cheeks. “I did not name you directly.”
“You might as well have carved my initials in the paper,” he snapped. “Half of London guessed. My valet wagered on it.” He raked a hand through his hair, sending another dark lock tumbling over his brow, the very picture of exasperated nobility. “Good God, Lady Beatrice. And you never thought to mention it?”
“I never meant to hurt you,” she said, her heart pounding so loud it seemed to fill the silence between them. “My words were not about you alone, but about theton’shypocrisy. I only wanted to point out wrongs, not create enemies.”
He gave a short, bitter laugh. “Ah, the righteous Lady Beatrice Moreland, champion of justice in the safety of anonymity. Tell me, does your quill sleep soundly, knowing how easily it ruins?”
“That is unfair,” she protested, her voice trembling with barely contained fury. “I could use a fake man’s name in this case because a woman’s opinion is too often dismissed before it’s even read. But I did not hid the fact that I am a woman. Besides, why hide behind a man’s name when the truth is better spoken by a woman brave enough to speak it. ”
“And yet you wrote about honor and integrity while hiding behind a mask.” He looked at her with quiet disdain. “That, Lady Beatrice, is hypocrisy in its finest form.”
Her breath caught. “You think I enjoyed hiding?” she asked, anger rising like heat beneath her skin. “Do you have the faintest idea what it costs a noblewoman to speak her mind in public? One wrong word, and she’s branded insolent—or worse.”
“Spare me the lecture on oppression,” he bit out. “You had a choice, and you chose deceit.”
“I chose survival!” she burst out, the words tearing free before she could stop them. “I chose to speak without being laughed outof a drawing room. You, with all your charm and privilege, could never understand that.”
He stilled, his jaw working. “Do not presume to know me.”
