She could still be useful.
That, at least, had not been taken from her.
All around her, Dasborough Park prepared for celebration. Dash and Ambrosia had already done the scandalous portion—running off to Gretna Green less than six months after Lady Hannah’s passing.
But they’d been forgiven, it seemed, and were to celebrate their marriage with a respectable country ball.
The entire village had been invited. Several neighbors had accepted, and a surprising number of London acquaintances had made the journey too.
Not because Dasborough Park was convenient. It was not.
But Dash was a duke, Ambrosia was the woman who had nearly driven him mad, and curiosity, apparently, was stronger than bad roads.
Beatrice ought to have been happy.
No, she was happy.
Ambrosia was lovely—warm, clever, and so clearly besotted with Dash that Beatrice had no choice but to like her.
And Dash had returned to himself.
He smiled. He laughed. He teased. He looked less like a duke carrying the weight of the world and more like a man who had finally found his way home.
Whenever Mrs. Bloomington was near, he reached for her without thought.
His wife.
The word still caught Beatrice sometimes.
Lady Hannah had been Dash’s wife too, once. But there had been no ease in that marriage. No warmth. No reaching. Only duty, grief, and two good people trying to make peace with a life neither had chosen.
Beatrice hoped Lady Hannah had found peace now.
Beatrice paused beside a table piled with ribbons and half-finished masks.
Dash crossed the far end of the hall just then, Ambrosia at his side. He bent to murmur something near her ear, and Ambrosia’s cheeks warmed before she swatted lightly at his arm with her fan.
Disgusting.
Truly.
Beatrice was delighted for them. She was also considering whether one could expire from proximity to marital bliss.
She turned away before they caught her looking.
A silver mask lay atop the table, its blank eyes staring upward. Beside it rested a wolf’s mask, dark velvet with pointed ears.
Her fingers went cold.
Only for a moment. Only because it had been unexpected.
That was all.
A masquerade ball had been Ambrosia’s idea, and Beatrice’s first instinct had been to protest.
She had not.
Because this was not Beatrice’s wedding ball. It was Ambrosia’s. Dasborough Park was her home now. She was the duchess, and if the new Duchess of Dasborough wanted masks and music and a little summer enchantment, Beatrice would not be the one to dim her pleasure.
