“Oh!” Lottie lifted her hands from her lap and balled them into fists. “Oh, it’s so very difficult to articulate.”
Beatrice placed her hand around one of Lottie’s fists. “I’m listening.”
Lottie inhaled and closed her eyes. “It’s as if I’m one of the things he owns or possesses. He has a carriage, he has a butler, he has a town house, and he has a wife. I fill a position, as it were, and he might love me, somewhere deep underneath his everyday exterior, but I could be anyone, Bea.” She opened her eyes and stared at her friend with something very like despair. “I could be Regina Rockford or Pamela Thistlewaite or that girl who married the Italian count.”
“Meredith Brightwell,” Beatrice murmured. She’d always had a better memory for names than Lottie.
“Yes,” Lottie said. “Any of them. I fulfill a… a space in his life, nothing more. If I died, he’d mourn and then go out and find another to fill that space again.”
“Surely not,” Beatrice murmured, not a little shocked. Was this truly what marriage was like? Did the love and compliments and courting really not last?
“Believe me, it’s all true.” Lottie wiped her eyes with one wrist. “I couldn’t take that anymore. I may be naive, but I want to be loved—loved for myself, not the position I hold—so I left.”
Beatrice swallowed, looking down at her hand still clasped with Lottie’s. “Where are you staying?”
“At Papa’s house,” Lottie said. “He isn’t pleased, and Mama’s worried about the scandal, but they’ll let me stay.”
“But . . .” Beatrice frowned. “What will you do?”
“I don’t know.” Lottie laughed, but the sound caught and she quieted. “Perhaps I’ll be scandalous and take a lover.”
She didn’t look particularly excited at the thought.
Beatrice glanced across the ballroom. A minuet had started, and couples were pacing gracefully on the dance floor. She could see Lord Hope making his way toward them, and her heart gave a kind of skip in her chest. And beyond him, suddenly clear, was Mr. Graham—Nate—staring rather wistfully at them.
“Perhaps you can try talking to him.” Even as she said it, she knew the suggestion was hopelessly inadequate.
Lottie smiled wearily. “I’ve tried. It hasn’t worked.”
“I’m sorry,” Beatrice said helplessly. “I am so sorry.”
She sat with Lottie, saying nothing and watching as Lord Hope approached them. She felt guilty because even knowing that Lottie’s whole life was in turmoil and that her friend was deeply hurt, she still rejoiced at the sight of him. Lord Hope looked so strong, stood so straight. He was still too thin, but his face had begun to fill out a bit, his cheeks and eyes no longer so hollow. He was handsome in a daunting sort of way, even with the grim expression he habitually wore, and she couldn’t help the gladness she felt at the sight of him.
He continued cleaving relentlessly through the crowd until he stood before them. He bowed. “Ladies.”
“My lord,” Beatrice said rather breathlessly.
He glanced at the dancers. “This dance is ending soon, I think. Might I have the honor of the next one, Miss Corning?”
“I… I’m flattered, of course.” Beatrice bit her lip. “But I really think not.”
“Go ahead, Bea.” Lottie had straightened with Lord Hope’s approach, and now she smiled widely. “Really. I do so wish to see you dance.”
Beatrice turned to look in her friend’s eyes. Sorrow still lurked there, though Lottie was determined to appear as if nothing were wrong. “You’re sure?”
Lottie nodded firmly. “Yes, certainly.”
Beatrice held out her hand, and Lord Hope took it. He glanced at Lottie and said with a crooked smile, “Thank you.”
Then he was leading Beatrice through the crowd, his shoulders wide and strong beside her. They came to the dance floor and paused as the music ended with a flourish. The dancers curtsied and bowed to their partners and then drifted from the dance floor. Beatrice and Lord Hope took their positions, waiting patiently for the music to begin again. She snuck a look at him, standing beside her. He seemed preoccupied.
She cleared her throat. “Did your discussion with Lord Vale go well?”
“Yes.” The music began and the figures of the dance took them away from each other a moment. Lord Hope was frowning fiercely when they drew near again. “Why do you ask?”
“He is your friend,” she replied, and then said, lower, “I worry about you.”
They paced away. A gentleman nearby tripped and jostled against Lord Hope. He froze and glared at the man but then seemed to recover himself.
When they came together again, she whispered, “Are you feeling well?”
“Of course,” he snapped, a little too loud.
Heads turned.
He paced about her as she stood, and even though it was part of the dance, she felt as if a great predator prowled around her.
Then something awful happened.
The same man who had jostled Lord Hope before tripped and bumped into him again, this time much harder, shoving Lord Hope a step. Lord Hope whirled on the man, drawing out his huge knife from under his coat. The dancers nearby stumbled to a halt. A woman screamed.
The man turned white, backing up with his hands raised. “I… I say, I’m dreadfully sorry!”
“What do you mean by it?” Lord Hope demanded. “You deliberately ran into me.”
Beatrice started forward. “My lord—”
But Lord Hope grabbed the other man by the neck. “Answer me!”
Dear God, had he gone mad again? Gentlemen were shoving their ladies behind them, and the crowd was backing away, leaving a wide cleared space in the middle of the dance floor.
“Reynaud,” Beatrice said softly. She touched the arm that held his raised knife. “Reynaud, let the man go.”
He’d paused at the sound of his name on her lips, and now he turned his head, his black eyes blank and frightening.
Beatrice swallowed and whispered, “Reynaud, please.”
Lord Hope let the man go so abruptly he staggered.
“We’re leaving.” With his free hand, Lord Hope grabbed Beatrice’s arm and began towing her through the crowd. He still gripped the bare knife in his other hand.
And as they went, the mass of people parted before them, some half falling in their haste to get away from Lord Hope. On every face they passed, Beatrice saw the same expression.