Much Ado About Dukes

Once the carriage stopped, she waited quietly for the footman to open the door.

Then it swung open, the coach step unfolded, and her cousin took the footman’s gloved hand eagerly before she bounded out with great excitement.

Beatrice marched down after her, eager to enter the fray.

Adjusting her long silk skirts, she squared her shoulders. She adored the feel of the perfect gown swaying about her legs. It was a delicious feeling. For she did like a beautiful dress. It made her feel more powerful, not less. Though hers was not as bedecked as some, she’d taken inspiration from the fiercest of Grecian goddesses in the choosing of it.

At last, she bit back a small sigh of wonder. It really was one of the most magnificent houses in England. Torches lined the walkway, casting a gold-and-red glow along the pavement. Doric columns soared into the air, supporting a portico that was embossed with the most beautiful depiction of Greek gods. The Blackheath ducal line knew art, and they supported artists and intellectuals.

She couldn’t hate the Duke of Blackheath. Not entirely. Anyone who gave as much as he did to the arts and published orations in the support of the theater couldn’t be wholly bad. But she did find him to be incredibly frustrating.

One might argue it was through her frustrations that her cousin Maggie had fallen in love with the Duke of Blackheath’s brother, Kit. A galling state of affairs.

Beatrice had attempted to meet Blackheath so many times and written him so many letters; then, finally, one night when Kit asked Maggie to dance, she had in turn asked if his brother, the duke, might meet with Beatrice.

Kit had told Maggie that his brother would simply never meet with Beatrice.

He was far too busy.

She still didn’t know how Maggie had fallen in love with Kit after he said such a thing. But the world was full of vagaries and mystery. There was no getting around it. Maggie had lost her heart.

One would have thought that after weeks of his brother courting her cousin, Beatrice would have met Blackheath by now. Their families were almost certainly going to be united soon. It was likely that Kit would propose to her this very night.

One would have thought, indeed, that this would have ensured their paths would cross. But no, Blackheath proved ever elusive. He was always taken up with affairs of state, always doing something, always at work.

And apparently, he didn’t like to attend parties, even though he had a reputation as an excellent host.

Suddenly, with furrowed brow, her uncle turned to her and said, “My dear, it’s not such a very terrible thing. You might find yourself married before you know it.”

Beatrice faced him and replied playfully, “Uncle, though doctors have called my sight in to question, I can see a church and a groom well in advance, and the moment I spot them, I shall hie myself hence.” She shook her head, which caused her dark, curled hair to tease her neck. “I shall not find myself married any time soon.”

Her uncle laughed, but it was a half groan. “Whatever you say, Beatrice. Whatever you say. I shall not argue. You would make an excellent lawyer.”

“I would. If I were but allowed to study for the profession.”

“Have done, love. Have done,” her uncle urged before taking her hand in his and giving it a loving squeeze.

And then he followed the two women up the crowded set of stairs to the house.

The huge opening of the entryway glowed gold, and the sound of laughter and joy spilled out of the house. She thought it quite irritating that a man who refused to meet with her held such wonderful parties.

Everyone agreed the Duke of Blackheath gave the best parties, even if he frequently didn’t attend them.

She allowed herself to listen for a moment and caught her heart swelling to the sounds.

The music floating toward them was sublime, for the Duke of Blackheath supported the arts. He liked all sorts of music, and he enthusiastically gave money to those who enjoyed playing. His generosity was widely known.

Surely, such a soul could be brought on side? For how could anyone so inclined toward assistance be willfully unhelpful? Surely, once he understood her, he would jump at the chance to aid her.

As they crossed over the threshold and handed aside their cloaks to a footman in emerald-and-gold livery, Maggie turned to her. Her cobalt eyes rounded with alarm, and she pressed a gloved hand to her bosom. Her fingers brushed the silver ribbons woven through the fashionably low-cut, blue silk bodice. “Oh, dear. Beatrice, you have that look in your eyes.”

“What look?” Beatrice asked innocently.

Maggie cocked her head to the side, and the diamond flower in her hair quivered. “The look of a bull about to charge.”

“You know so very much about bulls?” she quipped.

Maggie grew resolute, a condition she did not often take up. “Now, listen here, Beatrice. Please do not cause a scene tonight. I beg of you. I want this to go well.”