“Oh, Marcus! You must do something about it! There are babies lying dead in the ditch near Fleet!”
“Beatrice! I am in the middle of a very important meeting right now with the–” Marcus chided as he flashed the Duke an apologetic glance.
“—I am very pleased to meet you, sir,” Beatrice interrupted as she dropped a hurried curtsy without taking her eyes off Lord Duval or truly acknowledging the Duke, “but whatever you are discussing is not as important as the fact that poor infants are being abandoned and dying from exposure. In fact,” she suddenly turned on the Duke as if she expected something of him, “if you are one of my brother-in-law’s cohorts in Parliament, it is imperative that you also are made aware of this tragedy so you, too, can aid him in resolving it, sir.”
Dante Francis Seymour Sackville, the Duke of Dorset, almost choked on his tea when the firebrand used “sir” for a second time. Never in his twenty-six years had he been so passed over and slighted. Had he previously mused that such a cut might occur in his lifetime, never would he have imagined that the insult would come from such a captivating agitator. He, after all, was the one noted as being a “good catch” on the marriage mart and an “eternal bachelor.”
Dismayingly, when her gaze had shifted to him as she concluded her tirade, he found himself stifling a foolish grin. There was something about her intelligent eyes that drew him to her. Most young women were quite insipid–their interests lay solely in dresses and balls. This woman apparently cared more for His Majesty’s subjects. Perhaps that is why she did not fret over titles or stray hairs. He found it intriguing and repulsing at the same time.
“Are you listening to me, sir?” The question pulled Dante’s attention away from thoughts of Beatrice’s flaming eyes and what they held, but before he could respond in his more carefully thought-out manner, she had dismissed him with an impertinent sigh and returned to Marcus with her tirade.
Again, the Duke found himself in a new position. He could not remember a single person ever completely dismissing him so easily. The loss of title was a faux pas, but the embarrassment would be on her when she discovered it. However, being ignored pricked his pride deeply. He had been pampered from childhood into believing he was a deft cull even without the title. Most women tended to reinforce this view. He found it disconcerting that this young woman, who had dared to address him without a proper introduction, did not give him a second glance.
“… And I insist Parliament do something about it!”
“Well, my dear,” Dante said, entering the conversation ready to do battle before Marcus could reply, “Parliament has already done something about it. We have plenty of workhouses scattered throughout the city. If these women truly cared for their infants and had no other recourse, they could easily apply to one and receive health care, gainful employment, care and schooling for the child, and three balanced meals each day.” Dante leaned back in his chair to study his opponent, crossing his arms.
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