“Why? The damage is done,” she said thickly. “The papers have already made their judgment. Shall I lie to make you comfortable?”
“Lie?” His composure slipped. “You’ve made a career of it, have you not?”
That did it. She flinched as though struck.
For the first time, his expression faltered. Just slightly, as if he regretted the blow the moment it left his tongue.
Before either could speak again, Lady Moreland’s voice sliced through the air. “That is quite enough, both of you.”
Beatrice’s head snapped up. Her mother hadn’t moved an inch from her place by the hearth. She had been there all along, silent and apparently willing to let them argue themselves into disgrace.
Beatrice’s stomach twisted.
How could I have forgotten she was there?
“Mother—” she began, her voice small.
Lady Moreland didn’t look at her. “Not another word,” she hissed. “The two of you have shouted yourselves into ruin.”
The Duke drew a breath, attempting formality. “My lady, if I may?—”
She turned her gaze on him, cool and immovable. “No, Your Grace, you may not. I’ve heard enough to know that neither of you has any notion of prudence or survival.” Her voice softened only slightly, but it carried more power than their quarrel. “None of this matters now. The paper claims the child belongs to you both. The damage has been done.”
“My lady—” the Duke tried again.
She lifted a hand, silencing him with the kind of authority only a dowager could wield. “You may shout about innocence until the walls echo, but gossip does not yield to truth; it feeds on it. TheMayfair Gazettehas already decided the story for you. Therest of thetonwill follow before luncheon. There is only one way to stop this scandal from consuming what is left of your reputation.”
Beatrice’s throat tightened. “Mother… what do you mean?”
“I mean,” Lady Moreland said, fixing them both with a look that brooked no argument, “I can only think of one solution for all this mess.”
Beatrice’s heart stuttered. “What are you saying?”
Lady Moreland’s gaze darted between them.
“I am saying that you must marry.”
The words landed like a blow.
Beatrice stared at her mother. “Marry? You cannot possibly mean—” She turned to the Duke, her voice trembling. “We cannot.”
“Absolutely not,” he snapped, stepping back as though the very idea were poisonous. “I refuse to drag a stranger into marriage by a scandal I did not create.”
Beatrice’s head whipped toward him. “Good, because I will not marry a rake.”
The Duke’s eyes narrowed. “And I will not marry a woman who insulted me in print.”
Beatrice flushed hotly. “Every word was well-earned.”
“So was my reputation for avoiding entanglements,” he shot back. “And look where that’s gotten us.”
Lady Moreland lifted an elegant hand, silencing them both. “You may trade barbs until the sun sets,” she said sharply, “but it changes nothing.”
The Duke exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw as though to steady himself. “Surely there is another way. A statement. A denial. Something less… permanent.”
“There must be another way,” Beatrice insisted, her voice trembling.
“There is not,” Lady Moreland said coldly. “If you do nothing, your names will be mud by morning. You may print a thousand denials, but it will change nothing. London has already chosen what it wishes to believe. By morning, your names will be dragged through every drawing room from here to Hyde Park.”
