Page 57 of His Stolen Duchess

“Twins marrying twins,” Beatrice muttered, rolling her eyes.

“I saw you dancing earlier,” Isabella added suddenly, her voice lowering conspiratorially. “You looked happy. Is your marriage all you hoped for?”

“It’s been… an adventure,” Georgina said, sweeping her gaze around the ballroom. The chandeliers glimmered, casting the crowd in a warm haze of gold. “I’m still adjusting.”

“You’re a duchess now,” Isabella breathed. “Can you believe it?”

Georgina’s smile faltered for a second. She was keenly aware of the eyes that drifted her way, not with admiration, but calculation.

“I’m adjusting to that too,” she admitted. “Some days I feel like an imposter. But it’s also thrilling. Do you know, His Grace is teaching me to swim? In his own lake.”

Both sisters sighed at once. “How romantic,” they crooned.

Before Georgina could reply, a pair of young men approached—well-dressed, freshly combed, and far too eager.

“Lady Isabella,” said the first, bowing.

“Lady Beatrice,” said the second.

They introduced themselves as Lord Richfield and Lord Marlowe and quickly invited the young ladies to take refreshments with them.

“I must circulate,” Georgina said, already stepping away. “Treat the young ladies well—or you’ll answer to me.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Lord Richfield said with a respectful nod.

She watched the twins follow the young men, giggling as they disappeared into the throng.

It was a bittersweet feeling—seeing her friends flush with excitement, dancing on the edge of new possibilities. She onlyhoped they would take her words to heart. Marriage, she had learned, could fall upon a woman like a sudden storm.

She turned to find a drink and made her way toward the refreshment table. The punch bowl shimmered with condensation, but it wasn’t her thirst that drew her. It was something to do with her hands, something to stave off the restlessness in her chest.

Two women stood nearby with their backs turned and their voices sharp and gleeful.

“I still can’t believe she managed it,” one said. “First Lord Abbington, and now the Duke? She’s been rather industrious, hasn’t she?”

“Oh, it’s obvious what happened,” the second replied. “She and the Duke plotted the whole thing to humiliate Lord Abbington. Did you see the timing? I wouldn’t be surprised if it was all revenge.”

“She was practically glued to the Duke the whole night,” the first added. “It was as if she’dplannedto be caught with him. The scandal made her interesting. And now look at her.”

Georgina reached for a glass, her fingers trembling with fury.

She could feel the heat rising in her throat, and an indignant flush prickling her ears. Her mouth opened, ready to throw back a cutting retort, but she swiftly closed it.

What would unleashing my wrath accomplish? If I cause a scene, they will say I am unhinged. Hysterical. A dramatic duchess who cannot handle whispers.

She left the glass on the table, untouched.

The smirking women suddenly turned, unaware of Georgina’s eyes burning into them, and froze when they saw her standing behind them.

The moment held.

Their smugness faltered, just for a breath. Georgina said nothing. She met their eyes, let them squirm under her silence, then lifted her chin and turned on her heel.

She did not flee. She walked straight-backed and with her chin held high toward a side door she’d spotted earlier. It led to a narrow balcony, quiet and cool in the evening air.

Stepping out, she gripped the stone railing and exhaled slowly. The cool air stung, but she welcomed it.

She would not cry. She would not bend.