If he was honest, he didn’t think his father would have liked or approved of Beatrice. But deep down, Will knew his father’s one fault was in his view of women.
And he would never be the same.
The sound of footsteps thundered toward the door. He knew at once, that step. Lady Beatrice.
She threw the doors open and crossed the threshold. As always, she was a force to be reckoned with. He found himself eager to begin to set things to rights. She seemed most upset, no doubt with him and the position he’d put her in, and he was eager to put her mind at ease.
But bloody hell, standing before her, he couldn’t deny that she made him feel vital as no one else could.
Not many ladies gave themselves the permission to live so fully. He loved that she did, but her countenance did not reflect the joviality or passion of the day before.
Even her typical mischievous wit seemed absent from her visage.
Was she so out of sorts with him?
There was genuine distress on her features, and he found himself alarmed.
“Lady Beatrice, are you unwell?” he asked, preparing himself for her rightful recriminations.
“I am most well,” she said, though the flatness of her voice belied the claim. “I am as healthy as a horse.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he ventured, studying her warily.
Her glasses were pushed up high on her nose, and she looked pale.
“But I am most busy today. Please forgive me, but I would prefer if you departed and came back at another time.”
He stilled. “Forgive me. I’ve behaved abominably, but surely we can—”
Her eyes sparked with passion. “You are a duke, and so your comment is perfectly natural, but not everything is about you, Will.”
He blinked, reconciling the abrupt entry to her townhome. Her displeasure was not about him at all. He felt an initial wave of relief, and foolishness for making the assumption that their kiss was so profound, but then a growing tide of concern swept over him. Beatrice was no silly miss to be upset easily.
It had to be something significant. She was so completely at odds with her usual self.
“I will of course go,” he assured, hoping to offer her a rock in her storm, “if you’d like me to, but you seem distressed, and I would far prefer to offer my aid to you. As your friend.”
She stared at him, the battle inside her evident in the stormy darkening of her gaze. She bit her lower lip as if she was holding back a surge of words.
“Truly,” he urged, “let me assist you. What else is a duke for?”
“I cannot,” she insisted, wiping a hand over her strained face. “It is not right that I should share my difficulty with you.”
“Who, if not your friend?” he replied, his heart hammering at her genuine state of emotion.
They were friends. They had to be. It was the only thing that explained his sudden desire to lay waste to whomever had hurt her.
What could shake his Beatrice?
“It is… It is a matter of practicality, and yet so much more.”
He nodded, hoping his silence would induce her to fill it.
“Oh, William,” she rushed, leading them into the small parlor they had kissed in, as if she could not hold back the tide of misfortune. “I am a pauper.”
“But you have a fortune,” he protested, crossing over the Aubusson to her.
She let out a horrified laugh. “I was a woman of fortune, but this morning I find that I awake penniless.”