HUNTER, PREDATOR, PREY
Beatrice did not look at the chandeliers.
Most young ladies did, upon entering a ballroom—the glittering cascade of crystal, the candles casting ghostly shadows on the ceiling above.
Nor did she look at the musicians tuning their instruments upon the gallery or the spray of hothouse roses climbing the marble columns.
She looked at the men.
Her gaze moved steadily, deliberately, cataloguing faces as she and her party crossed the threshold.
Colonel Singleton—amiable, harmless, already flushed with drink.
Ashebourne Covington, Earl of Grimstead. Exquisite tailoring. Impeccable posture. A smile that never quite reached his eyes, and just enough of a limp that he was forced to use a cane.
Mr. Percy Hatherleigh, second son of Viscount Dorsham, positioned near the edge of the floor, watching rather than participating. Though, it was a miracle he could see anything at all with his collar so high it brushed his cheekbones.
She did not linger. She never lingered.
But she noted.
“Try not to slip away by yourself this evening, Beatrice dear,” Lady Barrington said kindly as a footman relieved her of her wrap. “No one expects you to fill your dance card, of course, but there are other unmarried ladies of a similar age in attendance. Bluestockings. I am told you can be quite entertaining.”
The marchioness smiled just warmly enough to make the chastisement difficult to resent.
“I had not realized we were considered diverting.” Beatrice did her best to look serious.
The marchioness laughed, entirely unoffended. “My dear, we must all make our amusements where we can.”
“Of course, and thank you, My Lady, I shall endeavor to appear thoroughly amused.”
“And accompanied, if you please.” Lady Barrington’s glance sharpened only slightly. “A lady may be as independent as she likes, but she ought never be unattended. Even when she is old enough to know better.”
There it was.
Softly said. Kindly meant, perhaps.
A warning and a reminder.
Beatrice was no debutante. She was nearly thirty, unmarried, and very much on the shelf, even if she did happen to be the sister of a duke.
“I shall keep that in mind,” she said.
Lady Barrington gave her an indulgent smile before returning her attention to her daughter.
It was, after all, the truth.
Which suited her very well. Society rarely troubled itself over women it had already dismissed.
Furthermore, the recent death of her sister-in-law, Lady Hannah, after a long illness, meant Beatrice was observing the proper mourning.
Add that observance to spinsterhood, and one became nearly invisible.
As a duke’s sister, she was invited everywhere. But a spinster in muted greys was not expected to flirt. A grieving sister-in-law was not pressed to dance.
Beatrice intended to use every bit of that.
Her gown was fashionable enough to avoid pity, but plain enough to discourage introductions. Dull grey silk. Short sleeves. Long gloves. A narrow strand of seed pearls at her throat.
