Much Ado About Dukes

“A scene?” Beatrice gasped, blinking. “I am a well-mannered lady. I will simply blend in.”

Maggie laughed, linking arms with her cousin’s. “Oh, Beatrice, I love you. But do you think you might, well…do you need to show him your pamphlet this evening? Can it not wait?”

“I have waited for months,” Beatrice replied evenly.

Maggie nodded, resigned, even as countless guests swarmed about them like busy, excited bees doing their work for their queen—or, in this case, their duke. “I suppose I understand your tenacity, but…”

And then Beatrice leaned forward and whispered firmly, “Maggie, I should never ruin your night, and I should never make things ill for you. I promise I shall be on my best behavior in public.”

Maggie’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “In public? What does that mean?”

“I shall not cause any gossip or difficulty for you,” she vowed quite earnestly as they made their way through the crush of people. “This shall be a lovely night for you. I shall do everything that I can to support you, just as you have supported me, even if we have different ideas about love and matrimony.”

Maggie beamed, and that smile was worth a thousand promises of goodwill. “Thank you, Beatrice. That’s all I wished to hear.”

And without ado, they were swept into the crowd of people entering into the ballroom. The music poured over them, and Beatrice girded her loins. Tonight, she would not be ignored.

Chapter Two

William Leonidis Maximillian Easton, Duke of Blackheath, had a secret regarding Lady Beatrice. One he would never confess to anyone.

He admired her. Intensely. Too intensely, in his opinion.

For the one thing that Will forbade himself in any capacity was undue intensity. He already struggled mightily with a melancholic streak, and anything which caused him to feel too much? Well, it was to be avoided at all costs.

And Lady Beatrice’s letters made him feel.

At first, he had not even known about the stack of increasingly passionate calls to action. But then he’d discovered that his secretary had taken it upon himself to “protect” Will from the “hysterical” young lady’s letters. His secretary’s words, not his.

Will had come to find out that his man of business had been keeping her letters from him, which was appalling. He needed protection from no one. Not even passionate bluestockings. He’d defended himself against French cavalry—he could defend himself, without aid, if necessary, from a lady.

But his secretary had intoned that letters from young ladies were a waste of time for the duke.

Will had fired the man on the spot.

Those letters… By God, they were the stuff of philosophers and held such sincere desire for justice that he had been awed. He had savored every word. Every turn of phrase. Every resplendent, skewering argument.

Lady Beatrice Haven was a wonder. He had immediately liked her and liked her well. And so? He had avoided her at all costs.

Attachments, on his part, were simply not permissible. And he had felt the dangerous pull of her, from words scribed on the pages that he had held carefully in his hands.

Most would argue that a duke had no time to be reading little pamphlets and letters by such a person, who had no political position. He still had read them. Often late in the evening, after the rest of his work was done, over a snifter of brandy. He’d written her several assurances he would do his best for her.

This had not appeased her. In one regard, he was glad. She had kept writing.

Yes, he admired her spirit and dedication.

But passion blazed from her every sentence, and passion was not something in which he could indulge.

So, as he stood in the ballroom, knowing that he was likely going to come into contact with Lady Beatrice this evening, he drew in a deep breath and squared his shoulders.

He was a man of action.

He had seen war.

He would survive this night without turning into a besotted fool, and he certainly wouldn’t yield to the amorous whispering that had bombarded him since he had first discovered those damned letters. His parents’ marriage had taught him the importance of self-discipline and reserve.

Passion was not for him.