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T he mingling scents of roses greeted Miss Beatrice Sinclair as she stepped into the glittering ballroom, her heart thrumming beneath her silk gown.

Pausing just inside the grand entrance, she let her eyes adjust to the brilliance of crystal chandeliers.

merriment interwove with the orchestra’s melody, surrounding her.

“Breathe, Bea,” she murmured, gripping her ivory fan so tightly that the delicate spokes bit into her gloved fingers. Her gaze swept the room, searching for him.

She exhaled slowly, willing the tightness in her frame to dissipate.

Her steps were deliberate as she entered the fray, keeping her gaze lowered and allowing her dark tresses to obscure her face.

It was easier to disappear that way, to melt into the edges of society where wallflowers like her thrived.

But tonight, she was not here to fade into the background. Not entirely. She was here for him—to take the first step in her carefully plotted scheme of retribution.

The thought twisted her stomach into a roiling mix of anger and anticipation. She scanned the crowd while focusing on the familiar routine of navigating the throng. A whispered apology here, a slight curtsy there—always measured, always unremarkable.

And then she heard it.

A low, melodic laugh, rich and tinged with an almost lazy confidence, effortlessly cut through the din, freezing her mid-step.

It prickled against her skin like a cold wind, sending an unwelcome shiver down her spine.

Slowly, as though drawn by an invisible thread, Beatrice lifted her gaze.

There he was—Matthew Everhart, the Earl of Lorne.

He stood at the heart of a lively gathering, his wavy chestnut hair artfully tousled, mirroring his roguish grin.

His sapphire eyes sparkled with mischief as laughter rippled around him.

Beatrice’s breath caught. Her fingers froze mid-motion, clutching her fan tightly as a vivid flash of that fateful night burned in her mind—the glint in his eyes as he delivered the cruel wager, the hum of mocking laughter that followed.

For a moment, her composure wavered, the ballroom fading into the distant echoes of her humiliation.

That same laughter, cruel and mocking, had haunted her for years.

It lingered in the quiet of sleepless nights, its sharp edge rekindling the sting of humiliation she had fought so hard to bury.

It echoed in her mind now, as sharp and cutting as the night it had all fallen apart.

“I will wager fifty pounds I can make the Sinclair girl fall in love with me before the Season’s end.”

Her chest tightened, shame spreading like a cold weight pressing against her ribs, relentless and unyielding.

Her gloved hand trembled at her side, fingers tightening around the fold of her skirt as she fought to steady her shallow, uneven breath.

It clawed at her throat, threatening to steal her breath entirely, but she forced herself to breathe, to stay focused.

He had not changed—still charming, still adored, and still oblivious to the pain he had caused.

His effortless charm only fueled her fury, reigniting the resolve she had nurtured for three painstaking years.

As she watched him, a young debutante reached out to touch his arm, her simpering smile painfully familiar.

The matron beside Beatrice murmured something about his eligibility as a suitor, but the words blurred into background noise.

Beatrice’s lips curled into a bitter smile. If only they knew.

She stepped deeper into the room, her movements purposeful as determination etched itself into every stride.

Her goal was clear. Matthew Everhart would pay for what he had done, and tonight marked the culmination of three long years of carefully honing her resolve and crafting her plan for retribution.

As she moved toward the far side of the ballroom, where the wallflowers traditionally gathered, she allowed herself one fleeting glance in Matthew’s direction.

Her chest tightened as her gaze locked onto his, a rush of conflicting emotions tangling within her—fury, humiliation, and something disturbingly akin to longing.

She forced herself to breathe, clinging to the bitterness that kept her resolve intact.

Their eyes met across the crowded room, and for a moment, time seemed to pause.

A jolt of electricity coursed through her, unwelcome and unnerving.

His gaze lingered, curious, before she tore hers away, her cheeks flushing despite herself.

The incorrigible rogue had no shame, his oblivious charm a dagger that twisted the lingering wound he had left in her pride. She squared her shoulders, reminding herself of her purpose. He would regret trifling with her, and she would be there to see it.

“Bea!” A cheerful voice broke through her thoughts, and Beatrice turned to see Charlotte, Duchess Ravenscroft, approaching. She was as radiant as ever, her gown a confection of pale blue silk that seemed to float as she moved. “I thought I would find you hiding over here.”

Beatrice offered a polite smile. “Not hiding, merely observing.”

Charlotte arched an elegant brow, her gaze darting toward the center of the room where Matthew still held court. A knowing smile tugged at her lips, as though she could sense the storm of emotions Beatrice tried so hard to conceal. “Observing him, perhaps?”

“I observe a great many things,” Beatrice replied smoothly, refusing to rise to the bait. But Charlotte knew her too well, and the glint of mischief in her gaze suggested she would not let the matter drop easily.

Fortunately, Eleanor, Lady Rockingham, chose that moment to appear, her curls bouncing as she leaned in conspiratorially. “Did you hear? The Earl of Lorne has added another conquest to his tally. Some poor young lady is swooning over his charm as we speak.”

Beatrice pressed her lips together. "Do tell," she said, feigning indifference as her gaze flickered toward Matthew once more.

“It hardly matters,” Eleanor continued with a wave of her hand. “His roguish ways will catch up with him eventually.”

“Indeed,” Beatrice said, her voice low and measured. “Sooner than he expects.”

Her words drew curious glances from both Charlotte and Eleanor, but she offered no further explanation.

Instead, she moved closer to a secluded column near the edge of the ballroom, grateful for its cool solidity against her flushed skin.

She needed a moment to gather herself, to suppress the storm of emotions threatening to unravel her composure.

As she leaned against the column, memories of that fateful night surged once more.

The laughter, the whispers, the burning shame—it all came rushing back in a torrent of pain and humiliation.

Beatrice closed her eyes, clenching her fists at her sides.

She had spent years rebuilding herself after that night, years channeling her anger into the plan that would see Matthew brought to his knees.

But now, standing in the same room as him, doubt crept in like a thief. Was she truly prepared to risk her reputation, her friendships, even her future for revenge? Would it even bring her the satisfaction she craved?

“Bea?” Charlotte’s voice pulled her from her reverie. “Are you quite well?”

Beatrice forced a smile. “Perfectly well, thank you. I just need a bit of air.”

Charlotte nodded, though her expression remained concerned. “If you are sure. Do let me know if you need anything.”

As Charlotte and Eleanor moved on, Beatrice’s resolve hardened once more. There was no room for doubt, no time for hesitation. She had come too far to falter now. Matthew Everhart would pay for what he had done, and she would see it through to the end.

The orchestra swelled, and Beatrice pushed away from the column, smoothing her features into a mask of calm indifference. She approached her dear friends Miss Lydia Thornton and Lady Frances Rowley, who stood near the punch bowl, their heads bent in quiet conversation.

“Good evening,” she greeted them, her voice low but steady. “I trust you are enjoying the ball?”

Frances arched a brow, her gaze flickering toward Matthew. “Immensely. Though I daresay not as much as he is. It must be quite exhausting, charming the entire room.”

Lydia grinned, her gaze sparkling with curiosity. “Bea, you have been watching him all evening. Dare I ask why?”

After a fleeting pause, Beatrice steadied herself, her course of action crystallizing. “I have decided on the perfect revenge. I intend to see the rogue exiled—to the far reaches of America, where the distance alone would serve as a fitting reminder of his transgressions.”

Frances gasped softly, while Lydia’s eyes widened with delight. “Oh, how deliciously wicked!” Lydia exclaimed. “But how do you plan to accomplish such a feat?”

Beatrice revealed bits of her scheme in hushed tones, her words measured and deliberate.

“I am meeting with a mercenary later who will see it done—for a price,” she whispered, a glint of mischief in her eyes.

“He will believe he is setting off for Brighton as planned, only to find himself marooned across the Atlantic.” As she spoke, the ballroom swirled around them, the flickering candlelight casting dancing shadows on the walls.

Beneath the veneer of elegance and gaiety, anticipation coiled tightly within her, an almost tangible weight pressing against her resolve.

“He deserves nothing less,” Frances declared fiercely. “After what he did to you, I would see him shipped to America myself if I could.”

Lydia nodded emphatically. “Count us in, dear friend. We will help however we can.”

Beatrice felt a surge of warmth for her companions, even as her mind raced with possibilities. “Thank you,” she murmured, her gaze once again drawn to Matthew. “We will discuss it in more detail after the ball. I believe I can finally see justice served.”

As the orchestra played its final notes of the evening, Beatrice’s gaze flicked to Matthew one last time.

For a heartbeat, their gazes locked across the dwindling crowd, his expression faltering as curiosity seemed to shift into something more unreadable.

Matthew’s smile faltered, his gaze sharpening with what seemed to be recognition—or perhaps intrigue.

Beatrice’s pulse quickened as she imagined the memories stirring behind his eyes, memories he had likely dismissed but that she could never forget.

She saw something flicker in his expression—was it curiosity?

Regret? She steeled herself against the unwelcome flutter in her stomach, as he started toward her.

“Good evening, Miss Sinclair,” Matthew called, his rich voice carrying easily to her ears. “I trust you found the ball... diverting?”

Beatrice lifted her chin, her response crisp and cold. “Exceedingly so, Lord Lorne. Though I daresay some find diversion more easily than others.”

“Come now. Surely you are not still cross with me."

She swept past him without another glance, the deliberate click of her heels on the marble staircase echoing her resolve, her skirts trailing like a whisper of defiance.

In her mind, the outline of her next move sharpened—a calculated step closer to his reckoning.

The cool night air kissed her flushed cheeks as she stepped into the waiting carriage.

Her path was clear, her resolve unshakable.

Revenge, long-awaited, was finally within her grasp.