The entire garden was watching. Every lady in pastel muslin, every gentleman pretending to examine the hedge sculptures, every server with a tray frozen mid-step-all of them staring at the spectacle of Captain Theodore Ashford, the society's golden boy, holding the wrist of the madwoman who'd just thrown champagne in his face.
I was really building a brand for myself today.
The whispers rose like a tide:
"—he's touching her—"
"—after she assaulted him—"
"—what is he doing—"
I tugged against his grip. Not hard enough to make a scene—we'd already made that—but enough to convey my displeasure. "You can let go now, Captain. I believe I've made my point."
"Have you?" He released me, but he didn't step back.
That was worse, somehow. His proximity created an intimate bubble that felt more threatening than any public confrontation. I could see the champagne still drying on his collar, darkening the wool. I could count the gold buttons on his uniform. I could see the exact moment his eyes narrowed, as if he were trying to solve an equation that didn't quite balance.
"I think," he said, his voice carrying just far enough for the nearest observers to hear, "that we should take a walk. To avoid any further... misunderstandings."
It wasn't a request.
The tone was of someone who gave orders and expected them obeyed.
My smile felt like it was cracking at the edges. "How thoughtful. But I'm perfectly fine right here."
"Are you?" He gestured vaguely at the crowd pressing closer, their faces alight with vulture curiosity. "Because it seems to me that you're about thirty seconds away from being the only topic of conversation in every drawing room in London for the next month. I'm offering you an escape."
An escape. Right. More like a private interrogation.
But he was right about one thing—the crowd was getting bolder. A woman in yellow silk had actually taken a step closer, her ear practically tilted in our direction. A gentleman with muttonchops was whispering urgently to his companion while staring directly at us.
If I refused, it would look suspicious. If I accepted, I'd be alone with a man the System had just classified as a narrative anomaly.
Neither option was good.
I glanced at the System notification still flashing red in the corner of my vision:
(CRITICAL WARNING— INTEREST DETECTED. NARRATIVE ANOMALY. MISSION PARAMETERS COMPROMISED.)
It was still recalculating, the loading bar stuck at 47%, which couldn't be a good sign.
Great just when I need it the most it packs up.
"Fine," I said tightly, smoothing down my black skirts with hands that wanted to shake. "A brief walk. For civility's sake."
"How gracious of you."
I couldn't tell if that was sarcasm. His face remained frustratingly neutral.
He offered his arm—the proper thing to do, the expected thing—but I ignored it and started walking toward the far end of the garden where the manicured lawn gave way to a wilder section with rose trellises and stone benches.
Behind us, the whispers exploded:
"—walking together—"
"—after she threw—"
"—do you think he's going to propose—"
I nearly tripped over my own feet. Propose? These people were delusional.
Theodore fell into step beside me, hands clasped behind his back in a military parade rest that made him look both relaxed and ready to spring into action at any moment. The dichotomy was unnerving.
We walked in silence for approximately ten seconds before my mind started spiraling.
Rose did say he was arrogant. Proud. The kind of man who didn't tolerate insults to his dignity.
And I'd just thrown champagne in his face in front of half of society.
Not to mention the fact I couldn't really judge his character based on the book—he'd barely appeared in the original novel, just a few scenes as a background character who'd been friends with one of Maryann's male leads. He wasn't supposed to be important.
So what did he want? really?
Men like him were egotistical. Prideful. The kind who solved problems with violence when social niceties failed.
What if he wanted to take me somewhere far enough from witnesses and—
I gasped, the thought completing itself with alarming clarity.
Kill me.
What if he was going to kill me?
I shot him a sideways glance, trying to assess the threat level.
The sun caught his profile—strong jaw, straight nose, the kind of bone structure that belonged on Roman statues. His posture was impeccable, shoulders back, spine straight, every inch the decorated officer. Handsome didn't even begin to cover it. He was devastatingly attractive in that unfair way that made you forget he might also be homicidal.
I shook my head slightly, trying to clear the ridiculous thought.
Call me biased, but someone that hot probably wouldn't kill me.
Hopefully.
Hopefully? That was my survival instinct? Hopefully the attractive man won't commit murder?
I was doomed.
The System notification flickered again, more insistent:
(WARNING: ANOMALY BEHAVIOR DETECTED THEODORE ASHFORD DEVIANCE FROM EXPECTED PARAMETERS: 97.3% RECOMMEND IMMEDIATE—)
I couldn't read the rest without stopping and staring at empty air, which would make me look insane. I blinked hard, trying to dismiss it, but it clung to my peripheral vision like a migraine.
"You're quiet," Theodore observed. "That seems out of character."
I forced a laugh. "Enjoying the scenery. Lovely roses. Very... thorny."
"Indeed." We'd reached a more secluded section of the garden now, where a stone bench sat beneath a rose trellis heavy with white blooms. Theodore stopped, but didn't turn to face me immediately. He looked at the roses instead, jaw tight. "Lady Cruelton."
Oh no.
"Why did you do it?"
The question was simple. Direct. And somehow more unsettling than any elaborate accusation would have been.
"Do what?" I asked haughtily. "Be more specific. I've done several objectionable things today."
"The champagne." He finally looked at me, and there was something in his eyes I couldn't quite read. "You walked across an entire garden to throw a drink in my face. In front of witnesses. Knowing it would ruin you socially."
"Perhaps I'm just that impulsive."
"No." The word came out flat. Certain. Then he hesitated, and I saw a flicker of doubt cross his face. "Or... maybe. I don't—" He stopped. Pressed his lips together. "You don't seem impulsive."
"You don't know me, Captain."
"That's true." He was quiet for a long moment, studying me with an intensity that made me want to squirm. "But some things don't add up."
My heart picked up speed. "Such as?"
He gestured vaguely at my dress. "The champagne splashed back. Some landed on your gown. You didn't react."
I glanced down at the dark spots near my hem. Damn. I hadn't noticed. Too focused on the System notification, on the hatred points tally, on—
"Huh ...okay?" I don't understand where this was going.
"Most women would have been upset," Theodore continued slowly, as if working through the logic aloud. "An expensive dress, ruined. But you didn't even look down." He paused. "So either you're wealthy enough not to care, or you were expecting it."
"Or I hate you so much pouring that drink was enough satisfaction," I offered.
Come on. Get angry. I hadn’t even earned any hatred points from him personally.
"Perhaps." But he didn't sound convinced. His brow furrowed. "And your insults. They were..."
"Brilliantly cutting?" I supplied. "Devastatingly accurate?"
"Specific." He said it like an accusation. Or maybe a question. "You mentioned my medals. My conversation. As if you'd—" He stopped again, shaking his head. "No, that doesn't make sense either."
"What doesn't make sense?"
"You." The word came out sharp, almost frustrated. "None of this makes sense. Why would you deliberately sabotage yourself? —" His eyes narrowed. "Unless someone's forcing you. Is it your father? The Duke?"
I blinked. What?
"I've heard rumors," Theodore continued, his voice dropping lower. "About the Cruelton household. Are you acting out because of that? "
Oh my God. He thought my father was abusing me.
He'd seen all the right pieces but assembled them into completely the wrong picture.
Part of me wanted to laugh. Part of me started feeling something uncomfortably close to guilt that he was standing there, genuinely concerned, trying to solve a mystery that didn't exist.
"Oh who would have known,perhaps I should call miss Chatterton right there,it'd interest her to know a decorated hero like you had a penchant for gossip. "
"What?" His eyes grew cold
"My father," I jabbed at his chest , "is not forcing me to do anything."
"Then why—"
"Maybe I just don't like you," I said, letting irritation bleed into my voice. "Has that occurred to you? That I simply found you insufferable and decided to act on it?"
Something flickered across his face. Hurt, maybe, quickly suppressed. "I don't think I believe that."
"Why not?"
“Because—” He stopped. Looked away for a second, then back at me. “People don’t look scared when they’re acting on genuine dislike.”
My breath caught.
"You looked scared," he said quietly. "Just for a moment, before you threw the glass. Like you were bracing for something."
The System notification flashed urgently:
(WARNING: SUBJECT DEMONSTRATING ADVANCED OBSERVATIONAL SKILLS EMOTIONAL INTELLIGENCE: HIGH RECOMMEND EVASIVE—)
"So no I don't think you're cruel just For cruelty's sake." The word landed between us like a stone.
Oh.
He wasn't trying to solve me like a puzzle because he was arrogant or controlling. He was trying to solve me because the alternative—that I was genuinely, pointlessly vicious—was something he didn't want to believe.
It should have made me feel victorious. Instead, it made me feel like the absolute worst person alive.
"Captain Ashford," I said, forcing ice into my voice, "I appreciate your concern, misplaced as it is. But I assure you, I am exactly as terrible as I appear. There's no hidden tragedy. No secret abuse. I'm simply—"
"Beatrice!"
The voice cut through the garden like a knife.
I spun around, and there she was: Maryann, running toward us with her pink skirts flying, tears streaming down her porcelain face, the picture of distressed feminine virtue.
Oh, you have got to be kidding me.
She stumbled to a halt a few feet away, one hand pressed to her chest, breathing heavily.
"I—I saw the whole horrible thing," she gasped, looking between me and Theodore with wide, shocked eyes. "Beatrice, how could you? To throw champagne at Captain Ashford, in front of everyone—" Her voice broke convincingly. "I'm so sorry about my sister, Captain. She's—she's gone too far this time."
Oh now I'm your sister.
I crossed my arms. "How touching. Your concern is noted and discarded."
Maryann flinched as if I'd struck her, fresh tears welling. "Why are you like this? What did Captain Ashford ever do to you?"
"Existed," I said flatly. "It's a character flaw I can't seem to overlook."
"Beatrice—"
"James!"
Oh, perfect. The disaster was now complete.
James Hartford came striding through the side Maryann just appeared from like an avenging angel in an unfortunately fitted waistcoat. His face was flushed with righteous anger, his eyes locked on me with an expression that could curdle milk.
So that's where they were when they seperated earlier.
"James, please—" Maryann started, but he was already pushing past her.
"I heard what happened," James announced, his voice carrying across the garden. "Beatrice, this is beyond the pale. To assault Captain Ashford in public? Have you lost your mind entirely?"
"Quite possibly," I said cheerfully. "Would you like a demonstration?"
Theodore had gone very still beside me. I could feel his attention shift, sharpening in a way that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
James ignored me, turning to Theodore with an apologetic expression that made me want to throw more champagne. "Captain Ashford, I apologize profusely on behalf of my fiancée. She's been... difficult lately. I assure you, this behavior doesn't reflect—"
"Your fiancée is standing right here," I interjected icily. "And can speak for herself."
"Then speak," James snapped, rounding on me. "Explain yourself. What possible justification—"
"I don't owe you an explanation," I said, my voice cold enough to frost glass. "Or anyone else, for that matter."
Maryann made a small, wounded sound. "Beatrice, please. Just apologize. Make this right before—"
"Before what?" I challenged.
James looked ready to explode, his face turning an unfortunate shade of red. "You ungrateful—"
"Mr. Hartford."
Theodore's voice wasn't loud. But it cut through James's building tirade like a blade through silk.
James stopped mid-breath, turning to him. "Captain?"
Theodore was looking at Maryann. Not accusingly. Not suspiciously. Just... looking. His expression was carefully neutral, but I could see the gears turning behind his eyes.
"Miss Hartley," he said slowly. "Where were you when the incident occurred?"
Maryann's tears paused, just for a fraction of a second. "I—I was near the fountain. With some of the other ladies. We all saw—"
"The fountain." Theodore's voice was thoughtful. "That's on the other side of the garden."
"Yes, I—I ran as soon as I saw—"
"That must have been quite fast." He tilted his head slightly. "You weren't even out of breath when you arrived."
The observation hung in the air.
I face palmed. Now I look like I was acting out because of my cheating fiancée.
Maryann's eyes widened. "I—what are you suggesting, Captain?"
"Nothing." Theodore's tone was mild. Almost apologetic. "Simply noting that you move remarkably quickly in those skirts. It's impressive."
It wasn't an accusation. It wasn't even suspicious, really. Just an observation delivered with careful neutrality.
But something in Maryann's expression shifted. Hardened.
Then the tears started again, even more dramatic than before. "I don't understand what you mean, Captain. I only came because I was worried about my sister. About both of you. This whole situation is just so—" A delicate sob. "So terrible."
James immediately put a protective hand on her shoulder. "Come, Maryann. You shouldn't have to endure this interrogation." He shot me a venomous look. "Beatrice, we will discuss your behavior later. At length."
Now who does this man think he is.
"Can't wait," I muttered.
They left, Maryann throwing one last tearful glance over her shoulder—one that would have won awards in a theatre production.
Theodore and I stood in silence.
He was still looking in the direction they’d gone, jaw tight, the familiar furrow back between his brows.
“I—” he began.
“Captain Ashford.”
Two military-bearing men approached briskly. Theodore straightened.
“Report.”
The men saluted.
“His Grace and Her Grace have been informed of the disturbance. They request your presence—and that of Lady Cruelton.”