Beatrice bit back a smile. “Some would say to use it wisely.”
“Some would be boring.” Cecily fluttered her fan, the feathers brushing Beatrice’s wrist. “Besides, you’re smiling. Youlikeher, whoever she is.”
“I do not.”
“You do. You’re thinking about what you’d write if you could. I see it in your eyes.”
“I only observe,” Beatrice replied, her eyes on the dance floor.
“Observe, yes, but with far too much interest.” Cecily’s fan fluttered lazily. “Don’t pretend you’re not curious. You’ve also spoken with him, haven’t you?”
Beatrice looked uncomfortable. “Hardly a conversation. I spoke to him at Sebastian and Margaret’s wedding, and again when their son was born.”
Cecily wiggled her eyebrows. “You must have formed an opinion.”
“Hardly.” Beatrice adjusted her gloves. “He was… courteous.”
Cecily gave a soft laugh. “Courteous? You make it sound dreadful.”
Before Beatrice could respond, a murmur swept through the ballroom. The orchestra did not stop, but even the violins seemed to soften as heads turned toward the entrance. Even their mother’s voice faltered.
Cecily’s fan stilled. “Oh. Well, there he is.”
Beatrice followed her gaze despite herself.
Edward Pembroke, the Duke of Wrexford, stood just inside the doorway, tall among the throng, the perfect picture of nonchalance. His cravat was a little undone, his expression faintly amused, as though every whisper about him were a private joke.
“He looks unbothered,” Cecily noted, studying him. “You’d never think he’s been torn apart in print.”
Beatrice lowered her eyes to her fan, willing her pulse to steady. “Perhaps he doesn’t read the papers.”
“Or perhaps he does,” Cecily said slyly. “And enjoys the attention.”
Beatrice looked at him again, just for a heartbeat.
The shift in the air was unmistakable now. Conversations had softened, laughter dimmed, and every curious eye, it seemed, swiveled to him.
The debutantes near the punch table straightened their postures, their fans fluttering like nervous birds. Even Lady Penworth, who claimed indifference to gossip, leaned slightly forward.
Beatrice studied him, the confident tilt of his head, the careless ease of his stance. Everyone else seemed to find it irresistible. To her, it wasinfuriating.
Her mouth curved before she could stop it.
“Do you ever tire of being adored, Your Grace?” she muttered under her breath.
Cecily glanced at her. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” Beatrice said quickly, turning her gaze away.
The orchestra struck up a waltz the moment Edward stepped into the ballroom, and he could feel the air shift. He could always tell—that faint ripple of awareness, the hum of curiosity that trailed behind his name.
Or perhaps it wasn’t his name at all. Perhaps it was simply because he was late. He usually was.
He paused to hand off his coat, scanning the glittering chaos before him. The chandeliers threw light across the sea of jewels and powdered faces. Violins sang, while someone’s laugh cut too loud and then faded into the music.
He offered a few nods, a practiced smile here and there. Polite. Effortless. He had perfected the expression long ago, the one that said,Yes, I’m the man you’ve read about, and no, you may not ask for details.
Spotting a passing matron blatantly nudging her daughter forward, Edward couldn’t resist.
