Bound To Bea

Chapter Twenty Four

Seething, Beatrice stabbed the black fabric that sat on her knees with a needle. She had been in a foul mood since her conversation with Noah a week ago, and given her hatred for needlework and the dowager's cruel insistence that Beatrice saw to the mending of her dress, Beatrice took her frustration out on the dress.

"I'm afraid I shall have no other choice but to take the house away from you." Noah's words echoed in her ears for the umpteenth time that morning, evoking an angry groan from her lips.

The nerves! The vile man sought to use a house to control her. And for what? Would he have her sit still in his house—recluse and alone—like an obedient fool, while he went on to have a perfect life with a woman of his choosing?

The thought further creased her brows as she stabbed the black fabric once more. The dowager had mentioned this was her favorite dress, but Beatrice wasn't certain she cared. She was too emotional to care. If the Marquess moved on to another woman, she wasn't certain she would know how to react. Yet, she knew moving on was exactly what he was bound to do, for he had said it himself to his female guest the morning she fled from his home in Camden; he didn't love her, nor did he wish to be with her.

Still, the thought of losing the Marquess made Beatrice dizzy.

Lost in her thoughts, Beatrice barely heard the Duke enter the parlor until he spoke.

"There you are, my lady."

She raised her eyes to him, surprised to find him standing by the entrance clad in a black and white riding gear. He looked exceptionally handsome with his hair tousled by the wind.

"Your Grace," she gasped, rising to her feet and losing her hold on the dress. It fell to the floor, and leaning down quickly, she picked it up.

"I see Mother has finally decided to get rid of that dress." He motioned for her to sit and waited until she had resumed her position on the sofa before placing himself on an opposite sofa. "Although I would never have thought you'd be interested in it. It seems too... well, too dramatic."

"Oh, no, Your Grace. Her Grace would never get rid of her favorite dress. I'm only mending it after the unfortunate incident that saw it ripped a while ago."

"Favorite dress?!" he chuckled, and Beatrice immediately knew she had once again been tricked by the dowager. It was unfortunate, for she was in no mood for the old crone's games, and but for Noah's decision to take Oliver's house away from her, leaving her homeless, Beatrice was certain she would have lost control of her temper and marched up to the dowager's bedchamber to give her a piece of her mind.

Taking out her anger yet again on the dress, she tossed it to the seat next to her and groaned.

"It's unfortunate that I need the money, Your Grace, for I'm uncertain how much longer I can put up with your mother."

"I apologize on her behalf," he begged, a small smile claiming his lips. "You do not deserve her cruelty."

"Neither do you, but she's merciless nonetheless," she snapped, causing the Duke to shrink back slightly.

Sighing, Beatrice reined in her fury and shook her head. She had lost control of her tongue, for speaking ill of the dowager to her son was in poor taste—even if the Dowager deserved to be spoken ill of. "I apologize, Your Grace. I'm in a foul mood. I mustn't speak ill of Her Grace. Forgive me."

He nodded. "You have been in quite the mood for a few days now. Perhaps you want to talk about it? You shall feel better once you have gotten it off of your chest."

The Duke was right; she needed to vent. But how could she speak of her anger toward Noah when she risked the Duke finding out how she truly felt? She didn't wish for the flames of rumors of an affair with Noah to be further fanned.