Beatatrice felt the corset bone snap against her ribs just as her husband paraded his mistress past the punch bowl. Humiliation, she decided, smelled remarkably like cheap lavender and stale gin. She smiled, tasting blood from her chewed cheek. Surviving this marriage wasn’t about grace.
It was about blind, stubborn endurance. Wax dripped from the grand chandelier a slow, hot tear that missed Beatatric’s shoulder by a fraction of an inch. She didn’t flinch. The ballroom of Oak Haven was a stifling box of gilded mirrors and overheating aristocrats smelling intensely of roasting meats, damp wool, and the nervous sweat of ambitious men.
At the center of it all stood Gideon. Gideon, the Duke of Oak Haven, her husband of four years. He was laughing. It was a loud braaying sound that vibrated over the string quartet cutting through the polite hum of the room. He leaned down, whispering something into the ear of a woman who was decidedly not his wife.
Lydia, she wasn’t a secret. She wasn’t hidden away in a townhouse in the city or visited under the cover of darkness. Gideon had walked her through the main double doors of his own estate, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm, leaving Beatatrice to stand rigidly by the receiving line like an oversized, unwanted piece of furniture.
Lydia wore a gown of crushed peach silk that clung to her in ways Beatatric’s rigid, heavy velvet armor never could. Lydia looked soft. She looked like a woman who was touched. Beatatrice felt like a marble statue left out in the winter, cold, brittle, sharp, and entirely ornamental. A sharp pain bloomed under Beatatric’s ribs. The broken stay of her corset dug deeper with every breath, a physical reminder of her suffocating reality.
She took a sip of her wine. It was warm and tasted vaguely of vinegar, but she swallowed it down, welcoming the harsh burn in her throat. He is making a spectacular ass of himself, muttered Lady Margaret, appearing at Beatatric’s elbow like a judgmental phantom wrapped in mauve taffida. Margaret smelled of mothballs and peppermints.
Beatrice kept her eyes fixed on the middle distance. He is merely entertaining a guest Margaret. Entertaining. He has his hand resting so far down her spine. I’m surprised he isn’t checking her tailoring. Margaret sniffed her gaze, darting around the room to catalog who was watching. Everyone was watching. The whispers rustled through the crowd like mice in the walls.
Beatatrice felt the heat of a flush creeping up her neck. She hated herself for it. She wanted to be above it. She wanted to be the icy, untouchable duchess who cared nothing for the pathetic fumbling of a man she didn’t even like. But the reality was messier. It wasn’t a broken heart that achd. It was the sheer suffocating weight of the disrespect.
It was the way the footman looked away when she walked past. It was the way the other wives smiled at her with that cloying, nauseiating pity. She watched Gideon press a kiss to the crown of Lydia’s head right there in front of 300 of their peers. Beatric’s fingers tightened around the stem of her crystal glass until she feared it would shatter.
What would happen if she just threw it? What if she hurled the cheap wine right into Gideon’s smug, handsome face? The thought was a brief, sharp hit of adrenaline, but no, the scandal wouldn’t stick to him. It never stuck to the men. He would simply be the poor belleaguered duke dealing with a hysterical wife. Instead, she carefully set the glass down on a passing silver tray, the clink of glass on metal barely audible over the den.
I need some air, Beatatrice said, her voice tight, scratching her throat on the way out. Don’t you dare retreat, Margaret hissed, grabbing Beatric’s wrist with surprising strength. Her knuckles were gnarled, but her grip was like iron. If you leave this room, you hand them the victory. You stand here and you make them look at you.
Will you make them see what he is discarding? I am not a prize pig at the county fair. Margaret Beatatric snapped, pulling her arm away. The velvet of her sleeve rubbed harshly against her skin. I do not need to be displayed. She turned her back on the ballroom floor. She didn’t storm out. That would be too dramatic, too easily mocked.
She walked with agonizing slowness, forcing her shoulders back, ignoring the stabbing pain in her side. She moved toward the al cove near the terrace doors, seeking the cold draft that leaked through the poor weather stripping. As she reached the shadows of the heavy curtains, she heard Gideon’s voice call out. Beatatrice, darling, she stopped.
The air in her lungs turned to ash. She slowly turned. Gideon was walking toward her, pulling Lydia along by the hand. The crowd parted for them a sea of silk and broadcloth, making way for the spectacle. Gideon’s eyes were bright with malice. It wasn’t enough for him to simply have Lydia here. He needed to force Beatatrice to acknowledge it.
He needed her to bow her head. My dear Gideon, said, stopping a few feet away. The smell of his cologne, heavy sandalwood and stale brandy washed over her. I realized I haven’t formally introduced you to Miss Lydia Belmont. She has been telling me the most fascinating stories about her travels in the south.
Lydia offered a curtsy that was entirely too shallow. She looked up at Beatatrice through dark, thick lashes. There was a challenge there, a cruel, youthful arrogance. Your grace, Lydia, murmured her voice like honey poured over gravel. It is an honor. Beatatrice looked at the girl. She noted the slight tremor in Lydia’s hands. The nervous swallowing.
The girl was playing a dangerous game puffed up by the false security of Gideon’s favor. Miss Belmont, Beatatrice said smoothly. Her voice sounded detached, echoing in her own ears. I trust you are finding the accommodations to your liking. The draft in the East Wing can be quite unforgiving to those unaccustomed to such grand spaces.
Lydia’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. Gideon’s jaw tightened. Lydia is quite comfortable. Gideon snapped, stepping slightly in front of his mistress, a protective gesture that felt like a physical slap to Beatatrice. I’ve seen to it myself. How thorough of you, Beatatrice replied. She didn’t blink.
She let the silence stretch heavy and thick, letting the surrounding guests absorb the blatant admission. She felt sick. Her stomach royiled a sour mix of undigested dinner and pure adrenaline. But she held his gaze. She would not cry. She would not let him see her bleed. The tension in the al cove was a living thing pulsing with the erratic rhythm of Beatatric’s trapped heart.
Gideon’s eyes narrowed the affable mask slipping to reveal the petulent cruelty beneath. He opened his mouth to deliver what would surely be a cutting final word, something to remind her of her barren womb or her fading youth. Before he could draw breath, the heavy oak doors at the far end of the ballroom slammed open.
The sound was like a gunshot. The string quartet dissolved into a discordant screech of cat gut and horsehair. The sudden silence was absolute. It was a suffocating quiet broken only by the crackle of the hearthfires and the heavy collective intake of breath from 300 aristocrats. His majesty King Frederick the Herald’s voice cracked raw and loud in the cavernous space.
Beatatrice felt the floorboards vibrate. A cold gust of wind rushed into the room, smelling of rain on cobblestones and wet leather. The king was not scheduled to attend. He despised these provincial gatherings. The crowd dropped like a field of wheat caught in a sudden gale. Silks rustled knees popped and heads bowed deeply. Beatatrice sank into a curtsy, her broken corset stay, driving agonizingly into her side.
She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted the familiar metallic tang. Gideon had dropped to one knee, yanking Lydia down beside him. The mistress looked suddenly terrified, her peach silk pooling around her like a muddy puddle. Footsteps echoed against the marble floor, slow, deliberate, the heavy click of boot heels interspersed with the dull thud of a silver tipped walking cane.
King Frederick was not an old man, but he carried the weight of the crown like a physical burden. Beatatrice kept her eyes glued to the floor, watching the scuff marks on the polished wood. She could hear his breathing. It was quiet measured. He was walking past the prominent lords, bypassing the wealthy merchants, trying to buy their way into favor.
The boots stopped. Beatatrice saw them. Black leather polished to a mirror shine splattered with a few drops of mud from the road. They were standing directly in front of Gideon. Your majesty. Gideon’s voice was smooth, though Beatatrice could hear the slight tremor of panic beneath the unctuous tone. We are profoundly honored by your unexpected presence. Oak Haven is yours.
Silence, the seconds stretched, agonizing and thick. Beatatrice could smell the wet wool of the king’s riding cloak mingling with the heavy perfumes of the room. “Duke,” the king said. His voice was a low rumble, devoid of warmth. “You seem to have dropped something.” Beatatrice risked a glance upward through her eyelashes.
The king was looking down at Gideon, but his gaze flicked momentarily to Lydia, who was trembling visibly now. The king’s expression was one of mild disgust, like a man who had found a roach in his soup. Gideon flushed deeply, a modeled red creeping up his neck. Sire eye. The king didn’t wait for an explanation. He stepped around Gideon, leaving the Duke kneeling on the hard floor. He continued his slow pace.
Beatatrice held her breath. He was moving toward the al cove. Toward her, the polished black boots stopped inches from the hem of her heavy dark velvet gown. Rise Beatatrice the king commanded quietly. He didn’t say Duchess, he used her name. Beatatrice slowly straightened, ignoring the sharp stab in her ribs.
She kept her chin level, meeting his gaze. King Frederick had eyes like flint, cold, sharp, and entirely unreadable. He looked tired. The lines around his mouth were deep trenches of exhaustion and responsibility. “Your Majesty,” she murmured. “He didn’t speak immediately. He studied her face, his gaze tracing the tight line of her jaw, the defensive posture of her shoulders, the utter lack of warmth in her eyes. He saw it all.
He saw the humiliation, the exhaustion, the bitter, jagged edges of a woman holding herself together by sheer spite. The entire ballroom was holding its collective breath. Gideon was still kneeling a few feet away, twisted awkwardly to watch. Frederick shifted his cane to his left hand. He reached out with his right.
His hand was large, unloved by manicurists, calloused from riding and swordsmanship. He didn’t offer his hand to be kissed. He reached out and took hers. Beatatric’s breath hitched. His grip was warm and firm. It wasn’t the polite limp grasp of a cordier. It was a solid grounding weight. He pulled her hand up slowly. He didn’t break eye contact.
The king of the realm, a man who bowed to no one, lowered his head. He pressed his lips to the back of her hand. It wasn’t a fleeting obligatory brush of dry lips. It was deliberate. It lingered. Beatatrice felt the rough texture of his faint stubble against her skin, the surprising warmth of his breath.
A shock wave traveled up her arm. A jolt of pure unexpected electricity that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. When he finally raised his head, the silence in the room had turned into something dangerous, something highly combustible. You look tired, Beatatrice, Frederick said softly, his voice meant only for her ears.
I find the company draining Sire, she replied, the words slipping out before her cynical brain could filter them. It was treasonous honesty. The corner of the king’s mouth twitched, a microscopic, almost invisible smile. Indeed, he murmured. “Oh,” he finally turned his head, looking back over his shoulder at Gideon. The Duke was staring his mouth slightly open, the color completely drained from his face.
The mistress Lydia looked as though she might faint. Frederick looked back at Beatatrice. He did not let go of her hand. In fact, his thumb brushed slowly over her knuckles, a small, intimate gesture that sent a fresh wave of heat through her cold veins. “Walk with me,” the king ordered. “It wasn’t a request.” He turned, tucking her hand firmly into the crook of his arm, forcing her to fall into step beside him.
He didn’t look at Gideon as they passed. He didn’t acknowledge anyone. He simply walked toward the main doors, leading the disgraced discarded duchess out of the stifling room, leaving the Duke of Oakaven kneeling on the floor with his mistress drowning in the suffocating silence of his own ruin. Beatatrice didn’t look back.
Uh, for the first time in four years, the pain in her ribs didn’t seem to matter at all. Cool drafts from the corridor kissed the flushed skin of Beatatric’s neck. The heavy oak doors clicked shut, severing the ballroom’s chaotic hum like a butcher’s cleaver. Suddenly, the world shrank to the hollow rhythmic strike of the king’s silver tipped cane against the stone floor. He walked fast.
He did not look back to see if she was following his grip on her hand shifting to loop her arm securely through his. She was practically jogging to keep up her velvet skirts, acting like wet sand dragging at her ankles. The broken corset stay ground into her floating rib with every step a hot stabbing reminder of her physical limits.
She wanted to pull away. She wanted to stop and demand exactly what game he was playing. But a deeper, darker part of her, the part that had spent four years swallowing daily indignities like ground glass, relished the absolute destruction he had just left in their wake. Gideon was still on his knees.
She held on to that image, letting it feed the bitter fire in her chest. They bypassed the main staircase, cutting through the servant corridors. The air here smelled of lie soap, damp plaster, and roasted onions. A scullery maid pressed herself flat against the rough stone wall as they swept past her eyes wide as saucers a dropped pile of linens pooling at her feet.
Frederick ignored her entirely. He pushed open a heavy mahogany door at the end of the east wing. Gideon’s private study. The room was suffocatingly masculine, wreaking of expensive cigar smoke and oiled leather. Dark, heavy drapes were drawn tight against the night. The hearth was unlit, the air inside stale and freezing.
Frederick let go of her arm. The sudden loss of his heat was jarring, leaving a cold patch on her sleeve. He walked directly to the crystal decanters on a side table, his limp more pronounced now that he wasn’t performing for a crowd. He didn’t ask her preference. He simply poured two glasses of amber liquid. the clink of crystal unnervingly loud in the quiet room. He turned and offered her a glass.
Drink it. Beatatrice didn’t move. She stared at the glass, then up at his face. Without the ballroom’s flattering candle light, the king looked older. The lines carved around his mouth were harsh. His jaw shadowed with dark stubble. He didn’t look like a savior. He looked like a man annoyed by a problem he had to fix himself.
I do not care for whiskey,” she said. Her voice sounded thin in the large room. “I don’t care what it tastes like,” Frederick replied, stepping closer and pressing the heavy glass into her hand. His fingers brushed hers rough, calloused, real. “You look like you are going to pass out, Beatatrice. Drink it or I will have my guards pour it down your throat.” She bristled.
The raw, unvarnished command in his tone, scraped against her pride. But her hand was shaking. She lifted the glass and swallowed a large mouthful. The liquor burned a fiery trail down her throat, hitting her empty stomach with a vicious kick. She coughed, eyes watering, but the icy numbness in her extremities began to recede.
“Better,” he murmured, taking a slow sip from his own glass. He leaned against the edge of Gideon’s massive mahogany desk, crossing his ankles. He looked entirely at ease in the space her husband claimed as his inner sanctum. It was a subtle territorial dominance. “Why are you here?” Beatric asked, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye with the back of her wrist.
She abandoned the polite titles. “He had already stripped away the pretense of the evening. She saw no reason to maintain it in private. “I was riding back from the northern garrisons,” Frederick said, swirling the whiskey. The roads turned to mud. Oak Haven was the closest estate with a roof that doesn’t leak. A matter of convenience.
Convenience? She repeated the word tasting sour. You humiliated the Duke of Oak Haven in front of his entire county out of convenience. Frederick’s eyes met hers. They were a muddy stormcloud gray, completely devoid of the mocking amusement Gideon always wore. I humiliated the Duke of Oak Haven because he is a fool who has forgotten his place.
His little display tonight was a symptom of a larger disease. Beatatrice frowned, the throbbing in her side momentarily forgotten. Disease? Um, he has been making quiet alliances, the king said flatly. With the Belmonts in the south buying up shipping lines, cornering the grain tariffs. He thinks because I am occupied with the border skirmishes, I am blind to the rats in my own pantry.
He gestured vaguely toward the door. That girl, Miss Belmont, she is not just a mistress. She is a political seal on a very lucrative, very treasonous contract. The floor seemed to tilt slightly beneath Beatatric’s feet. Oh, it wasn’t just cruelty. Gideon’s cruelty was always a given, but there was a strategy to it.
He was parading Lydia not just to break his wife, but to signal his new allegiance to the entire region. and [clears throat] me?” Beatatrice asked, her voice dangerously quiet. “Am I just a convenient prop in your counter move? A way to remind him who holds the leash.” “Yes,” Frederick said. The blunt honesty felt like a slap, but oddly, it didn’t hurt.
It was clean. It wasn’t wrapped in false smiles or gaslighting apologies. It was just cold, hard truth. I needed to cut him off at the knees publicly. Frederick continued setting his glass down. Showing favor to the wife he was attempting to discard undermines his authority. The lords in that room respect power Beatatrice.
Tonight they saw Gideon bleed. They won’t be so quick to sign his shipping contracts tomorrow. Beatatrice looked down at her hands. Her knuckles were white. The anger she had been suppressing all night, all four years began to morph. It wasn’t a hot, frantic panic anymore. It was solidifying into something dense and heavy.
“So,” she whispered, looking back up at him. “You kissed my hand to wage a trade war.” Frederick studied her for a long moment. The silence stretched thick with the smell of old paper and sharp liquor. He pushed himself off the desk, his cane thumping against the rug. He stopped right in front of her. He was tall enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.
“I kissed your hand, Beatatrice,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “Because I have watched you stand in that ballroom for 3 hours, bleeding out quietly while that arrogant swine paraded his ambition in a peach dress.” “I did it because your husband is a traitor. But mostly, I did it because I wanted to see if you still had a pulse.
” Breathing had become a luxury she could no longer afford. Beatatrice tried to inhale to formulate a biting response to the king’s audacity, but her lungs hit a wall of agonizing pressure. The corset stay already snapped and digging into her flesh shifted violently as she tensed. A sharp white hot spike of pain lanced through her ribs.
She gasped, dropping the crystal glass. It hit the thick Persian rug with a dull thud, spilling amber liquor over the intricate woven patterns. She gripped the back of a heavy leather wing back chair, her knuckles turning bone white, her vision blurring at the edges. Beatatrice. The king’s voice lost its detached draw. His hands were on her shoulders instantly, large and heavy, steadying her as her knees threatened to buckle.
“I am fine,” she gritted out through clenched teeth. She tried to pull away her fierce pride, waring with the nauseating pain. She smelled his scent again. leather rain and the faint metallic tang of cold steel. “You are lying,” Frederick snapped. He didn’t let go. He slid his hands down her arms, feeling the rigid, unnatural stiffness of her posture.
“You’ve been holding yourself like a shattered pane of glass since I walked into that ballroom.” “What is it? Did he strike you?” The raw fury in the king’s voice shocked her. It wasn’t the calculated political anger he had spoken with moments ago. It was violent and immediate. “No!” she wheezed, her head drooping forward.
Sweat beaded at her temples, ruining her painstakingly pinned hair. “No, it’s my dress. The bon it snapped an hour ago.” Frederick swore it was a coarse gutter snipe curse that belonged in a tavern, not a duke’s study. He didn’t hesitate. He spun her around, not gently, but with a firm, pragmatic efficiency, forcing her to face the wall.
“Hold on to the chair,” he ordered. “See, you cannot,” Beatatrice protested, panic flaring over the pain. The strict rules of her entire existence screamed at her. A man who was not her husband, not her maid, the king of the realm unlacing her in a dark room. It was ruinous. “Your Majesty, please, I just need to find my woman. Your woman is likely gossiping in the kitchens, and if you take another shallow breath, you are going to puncture a lung.” Frederick cut her off.
She heard the distinct metallic shang of a blade being drawn. She froze, terrified. “What are you doing? Stand still.” She felt the heavy weight of her velvet bodice being pulled taut against her back. Then the slide of cold metal against the thick silk laces. He didn’t bother untying her. He was using a dagger, likely the small, wickedl looking boot knife she hadn’t noticed he carried.
He sliced upward in one smooth, violent motion. The heavy silk cords parted with a soft rip. The immediate rush of air into her lungs was so profound it made her dizzy. The agonizing pressure vanished, leaving behind a dull, throbbing ache, and the cold rush of sweat against her skin. The heavy velvet gown loosened instantly, hanging off her shoulders like a deflated sail.
Beatatric slumped forward over the back of the chair, dragging in massive, shuddering breaths. She closed her eyes, the humiliating tears she had fought all night, finally leaking out. She didn’t sob. She just breathed, letting the silent tears track through the dusting of powder on her cheeks. Frederick stood behind her. He didn’t speak. Qui.
He didn’t offer empty comforts. He simply waited, giving her the dignity of recovering in silence. She heard the soft click of the dagger sliding back into its sheath. After a long minute, Beatatrice pushed herself upright. She kept her back to him, pulling the edges of the ruined bodice tight over her shoulders. She felt exposed, stripped raw, not just physically, but emotionally.
Thank you,” she whispered, her voice rough. “You are an idiot,” Frederick replied. She spun around, clutching the velvet to her chest, her eyes blazing. The tears were gone, replaced by a sudden defensive fury. “Excuse me? You stood there for an hour, letting a piece of whale bone burrow into your organs, just so you wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you flinch.
” Frederick crossed his arms, leaning back against the desk. He looked angry, but the anger wasn’t directed at her. It was directed at the situation. Endurance is not always a virtue, Beatatrice. Sometimes it is just a slower way to die. I am the Duchess of Oak Haven, she spat the title, tasting like ash.
If I show weakness, they circle like vultures. You know this, you play the same game. I don’t play, Frederick said quietly. I rule. There is a difference. He stepped toward her. She instinctively took a step back, her heel hitting the base of the chair. He stopped recognizing the fear, and his expression softened by a microscopic fraction.
“Gideon is finished here,” Frederick said, changing the subject with deliberate speed. “By tomorrow morning, every lord in this county will know the crown has turned its back on him. His creditors will call in his debts. The Belmonts will likely withdraw their daughter rather than risk associating with a sinking ship.” Beatrice swallowed hard.
The reality of what had happened was finally settling over her. And what happens to me? It was the only question that mattered. A disgraced Duke was still a duke. A duke’s wife caught in the crossfire was collateral damage. Gideon would blame her. He would lock her away in the country, cut off her funds, make her life a living hell in retaliation.
Frederick looked at her, his eyes tracing the frantic pulse beating at the base of her throat. You are not staying here, he said. It was a statement of fact, immovable as stone. I have nowhere to go. Beatatrice said, the cynical armor cracking just a little. My family is gone. My dowy belongs to him.
Your dowy was tied to a man loyal to the crown. Frederick countered smoothly. Since I intend to have Gideon investigated for treason, his assets will be frozen. And as for where you will go, he reached out slowly this time, telegraphing his movement so she wouldn’t flinch. He touched the edge of the velvet she was clutching his knuckles, brushing against her collarbone.
The Queen Daajager is in need of a new first lady of the bed chamber. Frederick murmured his gaze, dropping to where his hand rested against her skin before rising to meet her eyes. It requires a woman of iron constitution, someone who understands the vipers in the court, and someone who refuses to bid for their amusement. Beatatric stared at him, or first lady of the bed chamber.
It was one of the highest ranking positions a woman could hold. It came with an independent income apartments in the royal palace and absolute social protection. It was a lifeline. Why? She asked, her voice trembling. Why do this for me? I Frederick’s thumb stroked the velvet fabric. The air between them shifted the political coldness, melting into something far more dangerous.
Because, say, the king whispered, stepping into her space. I have use for a woman who knows how to survive, and I have absolutely no use for Gideon. He paused, his gaze dropping to her lips for a fraction of a second. Pack your trunks, Beatrice. We leave at dawn. Dawn seeped into the bed chamber, a bruised anemic gray that offered absolutely no warmth.
Beatatrice stood in the center of the chaos, the taste of stale wine and copper still coating her tongue. Her maid, a terrified young woman named Mary, folded linen shifts with shaking frantic hands. Dust moes danced in the pale light, disturbed by the hasty dragging of heavy leather trunks across the obuson rug. The dull ache in Beatatric’s ribs had settled into a deep rhythmic thro.
She wore a simple traveling dress of dark charcoal wool, completely uncorseted. The heavy fabric brushed against her bruised skin like a rough apology. She didn’t feel victorious. She felt like a survivor dragging herself from a freezing shoreline, exhausted, waterlogged, and violently shivering. A loud crash echoed from the corridor.
The heavy oak door to her chambers shuddered, then violently flew open, rebounding off the plaster wall with a sickening crack. Gideon stood in the doorway. He looked terrible. The pristine, arrogant Duke of Oak Haven was gone, replaced by a man coming apart at the seams. His crevat was missing his linen shirt, unbuttoned and stained with dark splashes of spilled port.
His hair hung in greasy, disordered clumps over his forehead. He smelled strongly of cold fear, sour sweat, and the sharp bite of digested liquor. “Get out!” Gideon snarled at the maid. Mary dropped a stack of pett coats and bolted past him, practically climbing the doorframe to escape the room. Beatatrice didn’t flinch.
She methodically walked over, picked up the dropped pett coats, and folded them with deliberate maddening slowness. “You are not leaving,” Gideon said. His voice was raspy, stripped of its usual booming authority. He stepped into the room, kicking a discarded velvet slipper out of his path. I forbid it. You will unpack these trunks.
You will wash your face, and you will come down to the breakfast room. Beatatrice placed the folded linens into the trunk and pushed the heavy brass lid down. The latch engaged with a sharp final click. There is no breakfast room. Gideon, she said finally, turning to face him. Her voice was devoid of emotion, flat and dry like old parchment.
Cook handed in her notice at midnight along with half the downstairs staff. The Belmont’s carriage left an hour ago. I watched it from the window. Gideon’s face spasmed, a muscle feathered wildly in his jaw. He took another step toward her, raising a hand. Four years ago, she would have cowered. Last night she would have braced herself.
This morning she simply stared at the raised hand, calculating the angle of his strike and feeling absolutely nothing. “He is bluffing,” Gideon hissed, leaning in close. His breath was hot and fetted. “The king, he is playing a political game, Beatatrice, and you are stupid enough to believe you are the prize.
He will use you to shame me, and then he will toss you aside to the wolves.” “Perhaps!” Beatatrice agreed softly. She didn’t back away. She let him loom over her. But his carriage is waiting in the courtyard. Yours is currently being repossessed by the baoof. The truths hit him like a physical blow. He staggered back half a step, his eyes darting frantically around the room as if searching for an escape route from his own ruined life.
“You are my wife,” he said the words desperate clawing. “Before God and the law, you owe me your obedience. I owed you my loyalty. She corrected her voice, dropping to a harsh whisper. She stepped into his space now, letting him see the utter void where her fear used to live. “And I gave it.
I stood in your drafty halls. I smiled at your condescending friends. I bled into my own clothes while you paraded your horse through my home. I paid my debt, Gideon. Every last coin.” She reached for her woolen traveling cloak draped over the shayes. If you walk out that door, Gideon yelled the sound breaking humiliatingly on the last syllable. You are nothing.
A discarded duchess playing ladies made to a daager. You will have no power, no name. I will have quiet, Beatatrice interrupted, swinging the cloak over her shoulders. The heavy wool settled around her, acting as a thick protective armor. “And I will never have to smell your cheap brandy again.
” She didn’t wait for his response. She walked past him, her boots clicking sharply against the floorboards. She didn’t look at his face. He was already a ghost to her. The stone stairs were freezing. The morning air hit her like a physical shock as she stepped out into the courtyard. The sky was a pale icy blue.
Frost coated the cobblestones crunching under the iron shaw hooves of the king’s massive black destriars. Frederick stood by the open door of a lacquered black carriage, completely unbothered by the biting cold. He wore a heavy riding coat of dark navy, the collar turned up against the wind. He was watching the entrance. He didn’t smile when he saw her emerge, but the rigid set of his shoulders relaxed marginally.
Oi, a footman, hurried forward to take her small satchel, but Frederick waved the man away. The king stepped forward himself. He didn’t offer empty pleasantries. He looked at her pale face, noted the dark circles under her eyes, and saw the slight stiffness in her walk. “The carriage has brazures,” he said quietly, his voice a low rumble over the snorting of the horses. “And the seats are deep.
” “Thank you, sire,” she murmured, stopping before him. He extended his hand, the same hand that had set her world on fire the night before. This time he didn’t kiss her knuckles. He simply offered his palm a steady solid anchor. In the freezing morning, Beatatrice reached out. Her gloved fingers met his bare ones.
His grip closed around hers, warm, calloused, undeniably real. He helped her up the steep carriage step, his hand lingering on her waist for a fraction of a second to steady her. She settled into the plush velvet seat. the heat from the brass foot brazers immediately seeping through the soles of her boots. Frederick climbed in after her, taking [clears throat] the seat opposite, he wrapped his knuckles sharply against the roof.
The carriage lurched forward, the wheels rumbled over the cobblestones, picking up speed as they cleared the iron gates of Oak Haven. Beatatrice looked out the window. She didn’t look back at the sprawling stone manor. She watched the frostcovered trees blur past the skeletal branches, reaching toward a pale, indifferent sun.
The ache in her side was still there. The fear of the treacherous court was still there. But as the king shifted his long legs in the cramped space, his boot lightly brushing hers, Beatatrice realized something profound. She was breathing deep, full, unhindered breaths. And for the first time in years, the air tasted entirely her own.
Beatric’s escape is only the beginning of her dangerous new life at court, where the king’s favor makes her a target, and her own trauma makes her lethal. Will she survive the Queen Daager’s vipers? Or will Frederick’s protection demand a price she cannot pay? If you loved this deeply grounded historical drama, hit that like button, share this video with your fellow romance readers, and don’t forget to subscribe for the thrilling next chapter of Beatatric’s journey.
Disclaimer : This content may be created by AI for entertainment purposes. Any resemblance to real persons, events, or places is coincidental.
