He held out his hands to silence them. “But this is a different announcement. If you will all make way for the Duchess of Blackheath.”
The crowd turned in waves and spotted her.
Just as the duke commanded—something he was entirely used to, no doubt—they parted to allow her to walk easily to the stage.
“Beatrice,” he called, holding out his black gloved hand to her. “Duchess, will you join me?”
Under the watchful eye of so many, for a moment, she couldn’t move. How she longed to go to him. To take his outstretched hand and feel his arms about her again.
But she couldn’t betray herself. And so, she took a step back into the thick crowd and then another.
If he couldn’t love her, she would have to love herself, and she wouldn’t be made a fool of simply so that he could have his duchess returned to him.
She was more than that. She desired more than that. Even if it hurt more than she could ever say.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The plan was failing before his very eyes.
William stood atop the platform, his brain stuttering as Beatrice stepped in the wrong direction. Away from him.
Failure loomed, and the darkest part of him whispered that he should simply accept it. Beatrice had made her decision.
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t let her go without giving it every last bit he had.
He dropped to his knee before the vast crowd, stretched out his gloved hand, and called, “My dear Lady Disdain, do not give up just yet. I beg of you to stay and listen to my case. Join me.”
She stilled, her shoulders tense beneath her green spencer, as if she feared the worst from him. “I don’t have a speech prepared, Your Grace.”
“You don’t need one,” he said honestly, keeping his hand aloft, willing her to take it. Willing her to give him one last chance. For how would he be able to do anything but merely survive without his Beatrice? “I’m the one giving a speech today.”
The world seemed to pause on its axis as he waited to see if she would take up his hand and at least listen.
She did not let her gaze swing from his, and though there were shadows of pain in her eyes, she boldly crossed through the parted crowd and climbed the roughly hewn wooden stairs to stand before him.
He lowered his hand and cleared his throat, desperate to begin. “Will you put the box of pamphlets down?”
“Oh!” She looked down, clearly having forgotten she was carrying the box of her precious papers. He loved that she had not ceased in her endeavors these weeks. Nothing would daunt her. Not even a damned disappointing duke.
She nodded, then placed the box carefully on the stage. “I will be passing them out later,” she informed him.
Gently, he took the box, and their gloved fingertips brushed for a single instant—and in that instant, he could not speak as a flash of longing went through him. Carefully, he placed her box down and slipped his own paper from his pocket.
Beatrice folded her hands before her. She shifted on her boots, and he realized that, for the first time ever in the time he had known her, she appeared nervous.
“I would expect nothing less,” he replied, full of admiration for her. Full of hope and fear at once. “Now, if you will but listen?”
“As you wish,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the gathered people.
There was something about that voice of hers that did the most powerful things to his soul, and he knew he couldn’t lose it. For if he did, it would be no one’s fault but his own.
The crowd went oddly silent as he took a step forward.
Even the bustling carriages and coaches on the road by them did not seem to penetrate the reverie that took them all up.
Will drew in a long breath, trying to shake the apprehension in his body that she would not be won by his words. He unfolded the thick paper, scanned his scrawled hand, and then he folded it again and held it to his heart.
He closed his eyes, willing himself to have the strength he needed to be honest.