“Your manner is terribly secretive,” Beatrice said. Her eyes drifted to her friend’s belly. Could it be…?
“I’ve left Nathan.”
Beatrice’s gaze snapped up. “But why?” She stared at Lottie in bewildered concern. “I thought you loved Mr. Graham.”
“I do,” Lottie said. “Of course I do. But that just makes it so much worse.”
“I don’t see how.”
Lottie sighed, and for the first time, Beatrice saw that her friend was truly weary. There were faint mauve half circles beneath her eyes, and she squeezed her hands together as if to control a tremor. “I love him, and I think he still loves me, but he no longer cares. I… I’m a thing to him, Bea.”
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean, dear. Can you explain it to me?”
“Oh!” Lottie lifted her hands from her lap and balled them into fists. “Oh, it’s so very difficult to articulate.”
Beatrice placed her hand around one of Lottie’s fists. “I’m listening.”
Lottie inhaled and closed her eyes. “It’s as if I’m one of the things he owns or possesses. He has a carriage, he has a butler, he has a town house, and he has a wife. I fill a position, as it were, and he might love me, somewhere deep underneath his everyday exterior, but I could be anyone, Bea.” She opened her eyes and stared at her friend with something very like despair. “I could be Regina Rockford or Pamela Thistlewaite or that girl who married the Italian count.”
“Meredith Brightwell,” Beatrice murmured. She’d always had a better memory for names than Lottie.
“Yes,” Lottie said. “Any of them. I fulfill a… a space in his life, nothing more. If I died, he’d mourn and then go out and find another to fill that space again.”
“Surely not,” Beatrice murmured, not a little shocked. Was this truly what marriage was like? Did the love and compliments and courting really not last?
“Believe me, it’s all true.” Lottie wiped her eyes with one wrist. “I couldn’t take that anymore. I may be naive, but I want to be loved—loved for myself, not the position I hold—so I left.”
Beatrice swallowed, looking down at her hand still clasped with Lottie’s. “Where are you staying?”
“At Papa’s house,” Lottie said. “He isn’t pleased, and Mama’s worried about the scandal, but they’ll let me stay.”
“But . . .” Beatrice frowned. “What will you do?”
“I don’t know.” Lottie laughed, but the sound caught and she quieted. “Perhaps I’ll be scandalous and take a lover.”
She didn’t look particularly excited at the thought.
Beatrice glanced across the ballroom. A minuet had started, and couples were pacing gracefully on the dance floor. She could see Lord Hope making his way toward them, and her heart gave a kind of skip in her chest. And beyond him, suddenly clear, was Mr. Graham—Nate—staring rather wistfully at them.
“Perhaps you can try talking to him.” Even as she said it, she knew the suggestion was hopelessly inadequate.
Lottie smiled wearily. “I’ve tried. It hasn’t worked.”
“I’m sorry,” Beatrice said helplessly. “I am so sorry.”
She sat with Lottie, saying nothing and watching as Lord Hope approached them. She felt guilty because even knowing that Lottie’s whole life was in turmoil and that her friend was deeply hurt, she still rejoiced at the sight of him. Lord Hope looked so strong, stood so straight. He was still too thin, but his face had begun to fill out a bit, his cheeks and eyes no longer so hollow. He was handsome in a daunting sort of way, even with the grim expression he habitually wore, and she couldn’t help the gladness she felt at the sight of him.
He continued cleaving relentlessly through the crowd until he stood before them. He bowed. “Ladies.”
“My lord,” Beatrice said rather breathlessly.
He glanced at the dancers. “This dance is ending soon, I think. Might I have the honor of the next one, Miss Corning?”
“I… I’m flattered, of course.” Beatrice bit her lip. “But I really think not.”
“Go ahead, Bea.” Lottie had straightened with Lord Hope’s approach, and now she smiled widely. “Really. I do so wish to see you dance.”
Beatrice turned to look in her friend’s eyes. Sorrow still lurked there, though Lottie was determined to appear as if nothing were wrong. “You’re sure?”