Hidden away for a scarred hand, Beatrice Holley spent her season in dark rooms counting trade routes — until the most ruthless duke in England found her reading maps, and refused to leave her hidden. “I owe your stepmother a call,” he said. He kept his word.

 PART 3

The answer to that question began, at that moment, in the darkness of the library.

Pinned against the cold plaster wall, Beatrice stopped breathing. The alcove was deep, the space incredibly tight: Henry’s chest pressed against hers, his hands braced on the wall on either side of her head, caging her in while keeping his weight from crushing her. Through his white linen shirt she could feel the steady, heavy thud of his heart.

“She ain’t here, my lady,” the footman mumbled, squinting into the gloom. “Perhaps she went to the kitchens for water.”

“She was told to stay exactly where I put her.” Agatha’s skirts rustled aggressively as she paced past the desk — past the map, with its faint pencil marks. Beatrice closed her eyes.

In the dark, Henry shifted his weight. His thigh brushed against her skirts. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from making a sound.

She slowly tilted her head up. His face was inches from hers, heavily shadowed. He was watching Agatha through a narrow gap in the drapes, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. He was furious — not at her, but at the woman currently berating empty air.

“Insolent, wretched creature.” Agatha swatted at a mote of dust. “I knew bringing her was a mistake. The moment Cesily secures a proposal, I am shipping that girl to a rectory in Yorkshire. Let her frighten the sheep with that hideous hand.”

Beatrice flinched. The words weren’t new — Agatha used her scar as a weapon daily. But hearing them spoken aloud in front of a stranger felt like being stripped bare in the freezing cold.

She felt Henry’s body tense completely. He dropped his chin, his gaze cutting from Agatha to her — and saw the way she squeezed her eyes shut, the way her breathing turned shallow and jagged.

Very slowly, he lifted his right hand from the wall. He reached down and found her gloved hand in the folds of her skirt. He didn’t squeeze it in pity. He simply wrapped his large, warm fingers around hers and held on.

A silent, grounding anchor in the suffocating dark.

Her eyes flew open. She stared up at him, shocked by the gesture. He didn’t look away.

“Come along.” Agatha spun on her heel. “We will have to find one of Lady Harrington’s maids to pin the hem. If I see Beatrice before we leave, I will make her walk back to Mayfair.”

The door slammed shut, plunging the room back into near-total darkness.

Beatrice exhaled a long, shaky breath. Her knees suddenly felt like water; she slumped against the wall. Henry stepped back immediately, giving her the space she desperately needed. He released her hand — and the sudden absence of his warmth left her fingers strangely cold.

He walked to the desk, picked up his discarded evening coat, and shrugged it on, adjusting his collar with sharp, precise movements.

“Yorkshire,” he said quietly, staring at the closed door.

“It’s a threat she likes to use when she is particularly displeased.” Beatrice pushed herself away from the wall, smoothing her dark skirts with trembling hands. “She cannot actually afford to send me anywhere. I am too useful as an unpaid seamstress and a chaperone.”

“She spoke of you as if you were a diseased dog.”

“I am an unmarried woman with a physical defect and no dowry.” Her voice returned to its usual flat, clinical tone. “In the mathematics of this society, a diseased dog holds slightly more market value. At least a dog can hunt.”

Henry turned to face her. The anger in his eyes hadn’t dissipated. It had merely cooled into something solid and dangerous.

“I am leaving now,” he stated.

“Thank you,” she said — genuinely relieved. The adrenaline was draining out of her, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion. She just wanted to sit in the quiet again.

“Do not thank me yet, Miss Holley.”

He walked toward the door, pausing with his hand on the brass knob. He looked back at her — his dark eyes sweeping over her plain dress, her rigid posture, the leather glove she held so defensively against her side.

“Why?” she asked, a sudden spike of apprehension hitting her chest.

“Because,” he said — and a grim, ruthless smile touched the corners of his mouth — “I have just realized that I owe your stepmother a call tomorrow morning. It would be incredibly rude of me to ignore a new acquaintance.”

Before she could process the sheer lunacy of that statement, he opened the door and strode out into the corridor, disappearing into the shadows.

Beatrice stood frozen in the middle of the library, staring at the empty doorway, a horrifying realization dawning on her.

The Duke of Calverton wasn’t leaving her alone.

He was declaring war.