Location: The Ashford Estate Garden Party
"If I may?"
James's voice floated outside the carriage as we arrived at the Ashford estate. And yes, he wasn't gesturing at me—his supposed fiancée—but at Maryann.
Also, yes. She'd decided to show her face after days of avoiding me.
Maryann didn't sport her usual resistance or broken-puppy look. Instead, she threw me a subtle, smug grin, extending her gloved hand to meet his and stepping out of the carriage with practiced grace.
I gasped.
Did she... did she just step me?
The evil grin she threw over her shoulder was confirmation enough.
Oh, she's fully showing me she's not scared anymore.
James blushed—actually blushed—as she took his hand, and it felt like I was being force-fed dog food. The sickly-sweet kind that makes you question every life choice that led to this moment.
Okay, I know he's downright terrible, but making the person he's engaged to third-wheel this hard in a public setting? With half of society's eyes probably already on our carriage?
Heck, I get you, original Beatrice.
"JAMES CORNELIUS HARTFORD!"
James jumped like a startled rabbit, finally remembering I existed. He frowned with the audacity of the wrongfully accused. "Pardon? My middle name is Stewart."
"Who cares?" I snapped, stretching out my gloved hand imperiously. "Drop that peasant's hands and hold mine. Now."
A lady nearby made a choking sound. Someone's fan snapped shut with an audible click.
"Hey, don't call her—" James started, all righteous indignation blooming across his face.
But Maryann squeezed his hand—I saw her fingers tighten—and smiled that gentle, understanding smile that made grown men weep poetry. James melted like butter on hot toast, nodding obediently before unwillingly extending his hand toward mine.
"If I may?" he repeated, voice tight.
I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly saw my own brain, ignoring his offered hand entirely and stepping out on my own with a pointed flick of my black silk skirts.
"You may not."
{SYSTEM NOTIFICATION:
+200 Hatred Points (James Hartford: Publicly Humiliated)
+350 Hatred Points (Maryann: Seething Satisfaction)
Current Balance: £7,200}
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing, pointedly avoiding their expressions as a pristinely uniformed footman ushered us toward the estate entrance.
Behind me, I heard James hiss, "Beatrice, that was completely uncalled for—"
"Was it?" I called over my shoulder without turning. "I thought it was rather restrained, actually. I could have mentioned your unfortunate tendency to spit when you talk about stock portfolios."
More gasps. A nervous giggle from somewhere in the gathered crowd.
James fell silent.
Victory tasted sweet.
---
Theodore Ashford was heir to the Duke and Duchess Ashford's title and estate, and the estate itself was a monument to old money and older power—at least twice the size of Cruelton Manor, which was already obscenely huge. The kind of place where even the topiary looked judgmental.
The garden party sprawled across manicured lawns like a pastel invasion force. Elegant tables draped in cream linen hosted elaborate floral centerpieces. A string quartet played something tasteful and forgettable near the fountain. And ladies. So many ladies. They swarmed the space like well-dressed locusts in muslins and silks, all vying for a glimpse—or better yet, a word—from Captain Theodore Ashford.
The men, by contrast, were sparse enough to count on one hand. Maybe two if you included the servers.
Rose had been right—this wasn't just a party. It was a matchmaking arena, and Theodore was the prize buck everyone was hunting.
I smoothed down the black silk of my gown and ignored the fresh wave of gasps that rippled through the crowd as I entered the garden proper.
"Is that—"
"—black? At a garden party?"
"Widows wear black, not—"
"—scandalous—"
"—what is she thinking?"
Perfect.
I plucked two champagne flutes from a passing server's tray and took a leisurely sip, scanning the garden with deliberate slowness. Let them stare. Let them whisper. Every scandalized gasp was currency in the bank.
I spotted him almost immediately.
Theodore Ashford stood near the champagne fountain like a statue commissioned to represent Masculine Competence. Tall, composed, annoyingly handsome in his dress uniform with its neat rows of medals catching the afternoon light. He was trapped in conversation with a portly man whose face had gone red with enthusiasm.
The man gestured wildly. Theodore's expression remained polite, detached—the look of someone mentally calculating artillery trajectories to pass the time.
Time to bring him back to earth.
I began making my way across the lawn with purpose, my trajectory carefully calculated to intersect with his. But before I could close half the distance, a woman with a hat shaped like an elaborate dead bird stepped directly into my path.
Her smile could have stripped paint.
"Lady Cruelton," she said, voice dripping false delight. "How... unexpected to see you here."
I tilted my head, matching her smile with one equally venomous. "Is it? I received an invitation. Perhaps you're unfamiliar with how those work?"
A young woman behind her—presumably her daughter—made a small squeaking noise.
The woman's smile tightened. "Oh, of course you were invited. It's just that this party is attended primarily by young, uncourted ladies." Her eyes flicked meaningfully to my left hand. "And you're... well. Engaged, aren't you? To Marquee. Hartford? And not exactly..." She paused, savoring the moment. "Young."
Is she trying to call me old?
I was twenty-five. Twenty-five! That's not old, that's barely started.
I took a delicate sip of champagne, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make her uncomfortable.
"You're absolutely right," I said finally, my voice sweet as arsenic. "I am engaged. Which means I've already accomplished what every woman here is desperately failing to do. Including, if I'm not mistaken, your daughter?"
I glanced at the girl—mousy brown hair, pale face, dress that screamed "trying too hard." She looked ready to sink into the ground.
"Tell me," I continued conversationally, "how many seasons has little Charlotte endured now? Three? Four?"
"Two," the woman bit out, her face turning an unflattering shade of puce.
"Ah. Only two. Well, there's still hope, I suppose. Though that dress isn't helping. Puce really isn't anyone's color, is it?" I tilted my head, considering the woman's hat. "And speaking of colors—that hat. Did the bird die on impact, or was it already dead when you pinned it there?"
The daughter made a strangled sound. The mother's mouth opened and closed like a suffocating fish.
{SYSTEM NOTIFICATION:
+300 Hatred Points (Mrs. Chatterton : Humiliated)
+150 Hatred Points (Charlotte Chatterton : Collateral Damage)
Current Balance: £7,650}
"If you'll excuse me," I said brightly, stepping around them. "I have more important people to insult."
I heard Mrs. Chatterton gasp behind me, followed by her daughter's mortified whisper: "Mother, can we please just go—"
Their voices faded as I continued across the lawn, champagne flute in hand, eyes locked on my target.
Theodore was closer now. The portly man was still talking—something about factories and wartime contracts and opportunities—but Theodore's attention had shifted.
His eyes locked onto mine.
Dark green. Steady. Uncomfortably perceptive, like he could see through fabric and skin straight to the calculations underneath.
Damn it. He'd already noticed me.
But the stage was set. The audience was watching. No turning back now.
I closed the distance, positioning myself just behind the portly man, who remained blissfully oblivious to my presence.
"—truly a remarkable opportunity, Captain," the man wheezed, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief. "My factories could triple production with military contracts, and with your endorsement, the Minister would surely—"
"Excuse me," I said brightly, stepping around him like he was a particularly inconvenient shrub. "I need to borrow the Captain for a moment."