“You made an assumption,” she began, then stopped. They were bickering like children, and it was pointless. She sighed. “Regardless, I am sorry you felt deceived.”
“You mean you are sorry you were caught,” he said with vehemence that surprised her. “I want you thrown out of here at once.” The viscount looked at his friend St. George and then at Greer, as if one of them would help toss her out.
Lady Emily appeared shocked at his words. Beatrice accepted she might find herself momentarily standing in the foggy night air of Pall Mall, walking back to Amity’s house. However, Greer was not so easygoing.
“This is absurd. Miss Rare-Foure—”
“Of Rare Confectionery, asweetshop,” the viscount hissed, reminding everyone of her middle-class origins.
“Yes, and she is the most magnificent toffee-maker you can imagine,” Greer said, which Beatrice didn’t think really helped the situation, but he was not to be stopped now that he was in high dudgeon. “As I was saying, Miss Rare-Foure has every right to be here—”
“Who says she hasn’t?” asked the Duke of Pelham, unexpectedly in their midst, with Amity and Charlotte. He took in everything, pausing and raising a single eyebrow as his glance landed on Greer’s costume. Then he demanded, “What’s going on here?”
The viscount, as well as Lord St. George, Lady Emily, and everyone else in the vicinity gave a low bow or curtsey. It wasn’t every day someone was in close company with a duke and duchess.
“This woman is impersonating an heiress,” Lord Melton said after he’d straightened.
Lord St. George grabbed his friend’s elbow to stop him saying more. Beatrice wondered at the viscount’s ignorance of the marital connection between herself and the duke. However, as Greer had said once, hardly anyone knew of the Duchess of Pelham’s origins. Nor did they care, not once she had become one of them.
“You are plainly an ass impersonating a man,” Greer said, taking a step toward the viscount, but her brother-in-law put a hand up. The duke was made even more impressive by being clad in his King Louis XVI costume. Instantly, silence fell around them.
“No one gives a fig for your righteous indignation, Melton,” His Grace said. “Everyone knows your estate has fallen on hard times and you are barely keeping your head above water. Mysister-in-lawis here as my guest, and she certainly doesn’t need to deal with the likes of you, a sordid fortune hunter!”
Lord Melton’s face was scarlet, but he didn’t gainsay a word the duke had uttered, so Beatrice assumed he had been paying her suit while thinking her wealthy. With a great show of turning on his heel, his Persian silks swirling, the viscount walked away with St. George trailing along. The rest of the onlookers dispersed shortly after to watch the real entertainment, the quadrilles.
“To think,” Beatrice said with mock indignation, “he was after me for my money!”
Charlotte and Amity began to laugh, but Greer still looked offended. “What a buffoon, causing a scene. If only I had a tomahawk on me.”
Beatrice was simply glad no longer to be the focus of any attention. “I guess I will spend the rest of the Season as the Duke of Pelham’s penniless sister-in-law rather than as a toffee heiress.”
“Atreacletoffee heiress,” Charlotte murmured.
Beatrice glanced at Greer, expecting him to laugh, but he was distracted. Lady Emily hadn’t walked away with the viscount and her cousin. Instead, she remained standing uncertainly, staring at the American.
If the ugly scene that had just transpired didn’t scare off the lady, and if she still fancied Greer despite him standing up for a false toffee heiress, then she must truly care for him. Beatrice felt more disturbed by that fact than anything else which had happened.
“Did you get to see any of the cards’ quadrille?” Charlotte asked.
“What does that mean?” Beatrice asked, preoccupied as Greer approached Lady Emily, put his head close to hers to say something, and then placed her hand on his arm. As the claws of jealousy encircled Beatrice’s heart, Greer walked away with Lady Emily now the one next to his half-bare, muscular chest.
Drat!She keenly felt the loss of him already. She loved the way he’d stood up for her, loved the way he made her happy and made her laugh. Plainly, she loved him.
The realization had crept upon her over the course of days and weeks, and now it hit her with such force, she wanted to sit before she fell.
“Henry!” Amity exclaimed as Beatrice closed her eyes and started to sway. She felt lightheaded, probably from lack of nourishment during the day, and the way Delia had laced her corset too tightly.
The duke grabbed her arm to support her, and Beatrice was glad Greer was too far away to notice her weakness.
“You don’t want to go home, do you?” Charlotte asked, plainly dreading such a circumstance when the evening had barely begun.
Taking a fortifying breath, Beatrice shook her head. “Of course not. I missed dancing cards. I don’t intend to miss another moment.”
Relieved, Charlotte nearly whistled, and Beatrice saw the instant she caught herself. Then her sister explained, “The dining room doors opened and the royal procession of dancers appeared. A polonaise was played, did you hear it?”
“Yes,” Beatrice said. “I saw the Venetians dance.”
“There was a grand marshal,” Charlotte continued as if Beatrice hadn’t spoken, “a man with a white wand dressed like an Elizabethan chamberlain.”
