Beatrice felt positively sick. She could not bear him going away because she wished him by her side. She was jealous of him. Jealous of his attention. Van Doren! How had it happened? She had long left behind any feelings she’d had for him.
She had convinced herself that the only reason she found it startling that Van Doren would dance at a ball, or be admired by other ladies, or wed someday, was because she was just used to him being about.
It was more than that, though.
Now, she began to feel just as she had all those years ago. That plaguey feeling of bubbles in her blood was back. It was not as Miss Mayton described—she did not feel as if her hair had been struck by lightning, or that she was drowning but had air, or that her heart had sped forward. She just felt sick.
This…whatever it was she felt, had been tiptoeing back ever since they’d come to Town. Ever since she’d stepped back and viewed him as others did. It had crept in so softly that she’d not perceived it until Lady Mary had threatened to steal him away.
It was a disaster. He did not love her and he would not follow her round forever. Had he ever done when she was a girl, and she thought he might have, he did not now. What had been between them had not tiptoed back for him. She was only a duty.
Oh, Conbatten and even her father had hinted that Van Doren had some regard for her, but she knew how far it went. He did not havethatsort of affection for her. There were simply not the signs of passion. And, if he did not feel anything now, he never would.
Beatrice felt something though. She would not name it, though she was very afraid she knew its name.
If her mysterious tortured gentleman were to step forward now, what use? She could not wed the man while always looking back at Van Doren.
Beatrice was terrified of what the future might hold for her. She must step aside and allow Rosalind her chance at finding true love next season. She would grow older and eventually become a Miss Mayton.
One of her sisters would have a passel of children and she would guide them as best she could and tell them of her tragedy in love. When she visited Darden, she would make herself pleasant to his new neighbor—Lady Mary, Viscountess Van Doren.
“Aunt,” she said gravely, “I have just realized I will never marry.”
“Of course you will, my dear.”
“No, I do not believe so. Just as you have been so unlucky, I have been too.”
“I have faith that your mysterious gentleman must step forward sooner or later,” Miss Mayton said.
Beatrice shook her head. It did not matter. The only gentleman who should step forward would never step forward.
The orchestra had tuned and Mr. Cahill approached for the first. Beatrice forced herself to smile. She would make herself pleasant all evening. It was her life now—pretending to be satisfied with her circumstances.
To think, of all the directions her life might have taken it had gone this way. It was not at all what she had imagined.
Beatrice thought how ironic it was that she had begun the evening as Anne Bonney but would end it as the future Miss Mayton.
She would not have a string of tragedies to reflect upon as Miss Mayton had. She would just have the one.
It felt as if that would be quite enough.
Chapter Eighteen
Matthew had noengagements for the three days leading up to Beatrice’s ball. There were invitations, to be sure, and even one for a dinner at Lady Mary’s house issued by her mother, but he had declined them as “prior engaged.” As for Lady Mary’s invitation, he had to restrain himself from writing “prior engaged forever no matter what day you pick.”
It was a relief to live quiet, or as quiet as one could be with the likes of Shrimps and Oyster in the house.
Darden’s masque had been harrowing. Aside from his misstep of approaching Conbatten who was not Conbatten, there was no longer doubt in his mind that Lady Mary wished to hear him speak of marriage. Had any lady in the history of mankind ever stomped round a subject so thoroughly?
He was to know her views on the management of servants. After hearing them, he did not think she would very much approve of his current circumstances. One howling dog and one weeping orphan continued to sow chaos below stairs.
He was to understand her views on children, which were not very like his own ideas. As far as he could gather, once a child was produced, one need not look upon them until they were sixteen and could talk sensibly at a dining table.
He was to know how much she preferred Somerset to any other county, as if he would believe she’d done extensive exploring throughout England to come to that conclusion.
Most outrageously, he was to know that it was said that there was madness in Lady Clara’s family, and one could never be sure how that would be passed down through the generations.
Lady Clara had been a deal more circumspect in their time together, though he felt there was danger there too.
