The words landed softly, yet they seemed to echo through the large room, shattering what little composure Beatrice had gathered.
“Left?” she said, turning sharply. Her skirts caught the light as she moved.
“Yes, Your Grace,” the footman murmured, shrinking under the weight of Beatrice’s disbelief. “Mr. Davens said that His Grace had urgent business to attend to. He departed shortly after your arrival. The carriage was readied before anyone knew.”
For a moment, Beatrice only stared—at the footman, her maid, at the half-drawn curtains, at her faint reflection in the silverware. Her image wavered in the flickering candlelight: composed, lovely, and utterly foolish. Needing some sort of distraction, she picked up the napkin.
“Business to attend to,” she echoed, the words dry as dust. A brittle laugh nearly escaped her, but she caught it just in time. “Of course.”
The maid, one of the ones that dressed her up, hesitated again, twisting the fabric of her apron. “The butler would like to know if you wish dinner to be served now, Your Grace.”
Beatrice nodded, her fingers tightening around her napkin. “Yes. Thank you.”
The footman withdrew, but the maid lingered, her small figure hovering by the candlelight, her hands knotted in her apron. Her uncertainty was almost a physical thing, filling the space where Edward should have been.
Beatrice felt the silence pressing against her ribs. She drew a slow breath, schooling her features into composure.
“Jane — your name is Jane, right?” she said softly.
The maid started, bobbing a quick curtsey. “Yes, Your Grace?”
Beatrice kept her eyes on the table, because looking at anyone right now might undo her.
“That will be all.” She cleared her throat, steeling her voice just enough to sound human and not like hollow porcelain. “Thank you, Jane.”
The maid’s relief showed in the loosening of her shoulders.
“Of course, Your Grace.” She bobbed another curtsey, then retreated quietly after the others.
When the door closed behind her, the silence pressed in, heavy and absolute. Beatrice let out the breath she had been holding, her shoulders trembling despite her stillness.
She turned toward her reflection in the gleaming silverware. The woman staring back at her wore the expression of someone who had expected little and still managed to be disappointed. Her fingers brushed the pearls at her throat.
“Foolish,” she whispered to her reflection. “You truly thought a rake could bear to stay even one night.”
She pushed back her chair and stood abruptly, needing to move—anywhere, away from the suffocating emptiness of the grand dining table set for two.
The soft rustle of silk followed her across the room, the hem of her skirt whispering over polished floors that felt far too large beneath her feet.
Her hands curled into fists by her sides, her fingernails biting into her skin. “You fool,” she breathed again, but this time she wasn’t sure whether she meant him or herself.
A rake does not change. A rake never does.
Her throat ached, though no tears came.
He could not even pretend.Not for an evening. Not for the sake of propriety. Not for me.
Her jaw clenched. A rake did not become responsible simply because circumstances demanded it. London likely had its claws in him already, its cards and champagne and painted women more alluring than a duchess he barely knew. While she—his wife—sat beneath chandeliers and pretended not to notice the empty chair across from her, and his child slept upstairs.
She paused at the foot of the staircase, her hand gripping the banister until her knuckles ached.
A soft shuffling broke the silence. The servants had entered with quiet efficiency, lighting candles and laying out the last of the dishes—a perfectly prepared dinner she had barely noticed.
“Your Grace?” the butler called tentatively. “Dinner is served.”
Beatrice didn’t turn. Didn’t move.
Mrs. Hart, the housekeeper, swept her gaze over Beatrice’s rigid figure, and understanding flashed in her eyes. She waved a hand to the footmen. “No,” she murmured. “Clear it away.”
