A torn silk gown makes almost no sound in a hall packed with four hundred aristocrats. But the silence that followed Beatrice Somerset’s ruin was suffocating — and while her enemies smiled, high in the gallery, the Duke of Westmire was already rising from his chair and making his way toward her.

 PART 5

Two days later, the carriage that bore the Duke of Westmire and his betrothed to Lord Hastings’s townhouse might have carried a military review into battle.

The gown Arthur had sent was not silk, was not pastel, was not anything a debutante would have chosen. It was deep forest-green velvet: high neckline, long sleeves, a heavy structured skirt that moved with the weight of armor. Utterly devoid of lace or frills. Severe. Elegant. Intimidating. And at her throat, a single pendant — an enormous square-cut emerald surrounded by diamonds older than the Tudor dynasty.

When they entered the drawing room, the conversation died instantly.

Arthur offered his arm. Beatrice took it, her posture perfect, her face an unreadable mask. She felt the eyes of the room sliding over her, hunting for the ragged, trembling girl from three days ago. They found only a woman draped in Westmire wealth, anchored to the most dangerous man in England.

Arthur did not introduce her. He presented her. The lords and ladies who had snickered in the antechamber bowed deeply, their smiles tight and nervous. Beatrice heard a dowager whisper “the emerald — that is the Westmire parure, worn by the last duchess at her coronation appearance—” and saw, out of the corner of her eye, a quiet lord physically step backward to let her pass.

Across the room, near the fireplace, Lady Arabella Croft stood with her father. She looked terrified.

Arthur saw her too. He did not alter his pace by a hair. He guided Beatrice directly toward the hearth, and the crowd parted before them like a sea, leaving the Crofts isolated on the hearth rug.

“Lord Croft.” Arthur’s voice was pleasant. That was the most terrifying thing about it.

“Y—your grace.” Lord Croft bowed so deeply he nearly struck his head on the mantelpiece. “May I offer my profound congratulations on your impending nuptials? Miss Somerset looks — radiant.”

Arthur did not look at Arabella. He kept his eyes fixed on her father.

“Thank you, Croft. I trust your shipping ventures are weathering the season. I understand the East India Company has recently altered its tariff structures regarding indigo imports.”

Lord Croft blinked, confused by the sudden pivot to commerce. “Yes, your grace. A minor adjustment. We anticipate no significant losses.”

“Fascinating.” Arthur murmured it like a man savoring a fine wine. “Because I reviewed the maritime registry this morning. It appears the Board of Trade has suddenly decided to — aggressively inspect your entire fleet, currently docked at the London wharves. Something about suspected quarantine violations. I imagine the cargo will sit in the holds for months. The indigo will likely rot.”

Lord Croft’s jaw dropped. The blood vanished from his face, leaving him the color of old parchment. “Inspections — but my ships are perfectly — your grace, who ordered this?”

Arthur let the silence stretch two full seconds.

“I am the President of the Board of Trade, Croft.”

The silence in that corner of the room was absolute. Beatrice stood perfectly still, her hand resting on Arthur’s arm, and watched Lord Croft realize, in real time, that his entire fortune was being held hostage sixty feet down the corridor.

“Furthermore,” Arthur continued, conversational, “I have spoken with my banking associates in the City. They have decided to call in the loans on your newly constructed warehouses. They feel your collateral is suddenly — unstable.”

“Your grace. Please.” Lord Croft’s voice cracked. He was a ruined man, and it had taken Arthur less than sixty seconds to accomplish it. “If there has been an offense — if my family has given cause for displeasure —”

Arthur finally looked at Arabella.

Arabella was shaking. The smug cruelty that had defined her existence was entirely gone, replaced by raw, humiliating terror. She shrank under the Duke’s dark, empty gaze like a cat pinned under a boot.

“Your daughter has a heavy foot, Croft.” Arthur said it softly, almost kindly. “I suggest you teach her where to step — or I will dismantle your entire enterprise brick by brick and leave you begging for coppers in Covent Garden.”

He paused.

“Do we understand each other?”

Lord Croft swallowed, seizing his daughter’s arm and pulling her behind him. “Perfectly, your grace. We understand perfectly.”

Arthur held his gaze for two more seconds. Then he turned away, dismissing the man completely.

“Come, Beatrice. I believe Lord Hastings is serving the soup.”

She walked beside him, her heart hammering against her ribs — not with fear. With a strange, dark thrill. She had expected Arthur to protect her. She had not realized his brand of protection was total bureaucratic annihilation: a man destroyed in sixty seconds, in public, without ever raising his voice, for the crime of a heel on a hem.

At the table, Arthur leaned slightly toward her as the first course was laid.

“Is the velvet comfortable?”

Beatrice looked at the terrifying, capable man who had just burned an entire family to the ground for her sake — who had bought her, who would sleep in a separate wing from her for the rest of his life, who had never once pretended to want her.

“It is, your grace.” Her voice was steady. “It feels remarkably like armor.”

Arthur’s mouth twitched again — that almost-smile that was worth more than any compliment she had ever received.

“Good. You’re going to need it.”