She Kissed a Stranger Before the Entire Ballroom to Stop a Bullet—Three Days Later, England’s Richest Duke Appeared at Her Door Holding Her Last Three Shillings and a Marriage Contract She Could Not Refuse

 PART 5

The first time Beatrice walked through Hyde Park on the Duke’s arm, the whispers followed them like dry leaves dragging across gravel.

The ruined Holling girl. A secret marriage. He must be mad.

She kept her chin high. She focused on the path ahead. The forest green walking dress Henry had ordered for her fit like a second skin, the velvet heavy and expensive against her shoulders. Clara walked beside her in soft cream wool, looking radiant for the first time in years. Henry moved on her right, his silver-handled cane tapping rhythmically against the path, commanding every inch of space around him.

“Breathe,” he murmured, his voice pitched so low only she could hear.

“I am breathing.”

“You are marching to an execution. Relax your shoulders.”

Before she could form a sharp reply, a carriage pulled to a halt alongside the path. Lord and Lady Harrington descended. Agatha Harrington was a notorious gossip with a smile like a drawn razor. Her eyes locked onto Beatrice with unmistakable predatory glee.

“Your Grace,” Agatha said, ignoring Beatrice entirely to curtsy deeply to Henry. “We were stunned by the news. Truly stunned. Returning from the continent and finding a bride so abruptly.”

Henry stopped. Beatrice stopped beside him.

“Lady Harrington. My wife, the Duchess of Keilder.”

Agatha finally turned to Beatrice. She swept her eyes over the expensive green velvet, looking for a flaw. She found none.

“Indeed. The late Lord Holling’s daughter. A man of such passionate pursuits at the card tables. How delightful that you have found a way to secure your future, Beatrice. Some girls must rely on beauty, and others must rely on sheer opportunism.”

Clara gasped. Several passing couples slowed, turning their heads to watch the bloodletting. Beatrice felt the familiar cold rage settle in her stomach. She had spent five years swallowing insults from women like Agatha Harrington. She had learned exactly how much a barbed smile costs a woman with no fortune behind her, and exactly how little it costs the woman delivering it. She opened her mouth to deliver a cutting reply — and Henry moved first.

He did not step in front of her. He simply shifted his weight, turning his full terrifying attention onto Lord Harrington.

“Harrington.”

Lord Harrington flinched.

“I was reviewing my ledgers this morning,” Henry said, his voice carrying clearly in the sudden quiet of the promenade. “I noticed my bank holds the primary notes on your new railway expansion in the north. The ones due for renewal next month.”

Harrington turned the color of old porridge. “Yes, your Grace. A sound investment, I assure you.”

“I am reconsidering. I find I prefer to do business with men whose households possess basic manners. It speaks to good management.”

Agatha Harrington’s smug smile vanished. The color drained from her face. To have Keilder pull his backing meant total financial ruin. Bankruptcy within the week.

“Surely —” Harrington stammered, sweating despite the chill air.

“Your wife was just apologizing to the Duchess,” Henry interrupted. His dark eyes flicked to Agatha. “Weren’t you, Lady Harrington?”

Agatha swallowed hard. She turned to Beatrice, trembling. “I beg your pardon, your Grace. I spoke entirely out of turn. Forgive me.”

Beatrice looked at the older woman for a long moment. The power dynamic had not just shifted. It had inverted entirely. She did not feel victorious. She felt a sudden, profound understanding of the weapon she had married.

“Think nothing of it, Lady Harrington. Grief over one’s own circumstances often causes one to lash out at others. Good day.”

She took Henry’s arm and began walking. The whispers around them had changed. They were no longer mocking. They were fearful. Clara hurried to catch up, her cream skirts fluttering, and for the rest of the walk she said nothing at all, only glancing sideways at Beatrice with an expression somewhere between awe and disbelief.

When they were safely back in the carriage, Beatrice let out a shaky breath. Her hands were trembling. She clasped them together in her lap.

“You did not need to do that,” she said, staring out the window. “I could have handled her.”

“I know you could have.”

“Then why did you?”

Henry leaned forward. The carriage swayed, throwing them closer in the dim interior. “Because you are my wife. You have spent five years fighting every battle alone. You do not have to anymore.”

He reached out. His warm, calloused fingers covered her tightly clasped hands, gently prying them apart. He did not say anything else. He just held her hands, grounding her, the heat of his touch seeping through her kid leather gloves.

Beatrice looked down at his hands. Then up at his face. For the first time since the night on the terrace, she realized she had no idea what was actually going on behind his dark, calculating eyes. She had married him for money. She had married him for survival.

But as the carriage rattled toward the marble fortress, Beatrice realized with a jolt of pure panic that she was in terrible danger of feeling something else entirely.