Microscopes and Canvases - Chapter 40

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Chapter 40
That afternoon, Beatrice returned to Annex Room 101 and settled before the Easel.
Literally speaking, she was simply sitting there, doing nothing. Her brush-holding hand had gone thirty minutes without touching pigment once.
At the lunch table, she’d managed to appear composed enough. She had justification aplenty, after all—the Single Women’s Alliance would see to the rest.
But why was this different now?
When Patrick’s long fingers had brushed across her cheek, Beatrice had worried about only one thing: whether he could hear the wild, frantic pounding of her heart.
She pressed her palm gently to her chest. Even without the intensity of Patrick’s touch, the mere memory of it sent her heart tumbling and racing of its own accord.
I must be losing my mind. Truly, why am I like this?
It was obvious enough that Patrick possessed a handsome face, but Beatrice had never felt her heart stir merely at a man’s appearance.
Yet her connection with Patrick was somehow different. Recently, his laughter had increased, and they’d fallen into the habit of exchanging frivolous jokes all day long. Was that the reason?
At some point, she’d begun catching herself staring at his mouth. When this man smiled, his lips curved so softly, and whenever he turned that gentle smile toward Beatrice, there it was—a faint dimple appearing at the corner of his mouth.
Yes, that dimple.
As if she herself didn’t have one…
But each time Patrick’s lips quirked into that crooked smile, Beatrice found her gaze drawn to him without fail, and now her heart would race reflexively.
It was utterly absurd.
Beatrice set down her brush and cradled her burning cheeks in both hands. This was simply the instinctive reaction any art student experienced when confronted with genuine beauty.
It couldn’t be anything else.
After all, everyone harbored the desire to hold onto something beautiful and admirable.
Having reached this conclusion, Beatrice lifted her head to refocus on her painting—though she found herself occasionally stealing glimpses of Patrick’s back beyond the Easel.
* * *
Thursday evening. The entrance to the Grand Ballroom of the magnificent Devonshire Mansion was more crowded than usual. Before the Entrance Hall, a considerable number of young men paced anxiously beside the marble columns, and Patrick Bennett found himself among them tonight.
He checked the time impatiently. She should be arriving soon. The reason he’d ventured outside rather than waiting within was that an unusual number of men seemed to be loitering about the Entrance Hall this evening.
How long had he gazed expectantly down the drive? At last, the Somerset Family’s crest-emblazoned carriage drew to a halt before the Entrance Hall.
As the footman opened the door, the Marquess of Somerset extended his hand to his wife first, and then their daughter Beatrice emerged.
Beatrice.
Patrick forgot how to breathe. In her Empire Waist Dress with bare arms encased in long gloves and wearing a Diamond Tiara atop her head, Beatrice Somerset appeared as noble as a princess herself. The cream-colored silk dress, cinched at the waist with a silver ribbon, rippled like water with each graceful step she ascended.
Patrick noticed the men around him beginning to stir. Just as Dominic had predicted, the jackals were waiting for their opportunity to ask the Marquess and Marchioness if they might escort their daughter this evening.
The moment he realized that all these men stationed beside the column harbored identical intentions, a flash of irritation surged through Patrick. Acting on a sudden impulse, he descended the steps ahead of them by two or three paces. With the eyes of countless men upon him, he approached the Marquess and Marchioness first and offered a proper bow.
“Good evening, my lord, my lady.”
The Marquess and Marchioness recognized the young man making such a respectful gesture and brightened.
“Good evening to you. Lord Bennett? I trust you’ve been well?”
“Yes, I—that is…”
Patrick caught a glimpse of Beatrice, who was following the Marquess and Marchioness. At the sight of her gentle smile, courage bloomed within him. Squaring his shoulders, he bowed respectfully to them.
“If it would not be presumptuous, I should very much like to dance with your daughter this evening. Might I have the honor of serving as Lady Somerset’s Escort?”
“My goodness, my goodness!”
The Marchioness laughed behind her fan, while the Marquess of Somerset set his jaw and arranged his features into an expression of stern gravity. Yet for all his attempts at restraint, his eyes betrayed unmistakable warmth at the sight of this charming young man.
“Well then, so be it.”
“Beatrice, do come and greet Lord Bennett properly.”
As if she’d been waiting for exactly this moment, Beatrice emerged from behind her parents’ backs, gathered her skirts, and executed a graceful curtsy.
“Good evening, Lord Bennett.”
“I am honored to escort you.”
Patrick smiled warmly, bent his left arm, and extended it. Beatrice placed her hand upon it with delicate care.
The two ascended the staircase toward the Grand Ballroom at an unhurried pace. As the disappointed gazes of the men behind them struck like daggers, Patrick allowed himself a quiet smile. It was shallow, perhaps—this small taste of victory—but he couldn’t deny the honest satisfaction it brought.
Together they stepped into the Grand Ballroom, where the Crystal Chandelier cascaded light like a waterfall. The Thursday evening Ball stirred to life the very moment they entered.
“That’s Lord Bennett, isn’t it?”
Someone’s whisper reached his ears with startling clarity. Dominic Harrington, who had been conversing with some ladies, turned around without thinking—and fell silent mid-sentence. The Champagne glass in his hand froze suspended in the air.
“That mad bastard. This is cheating. He even had new clothes tailored.”
A laugh escaped Dominic’s lips. Every time this man attended a Ball, he looked as though he were being dragged to an execution.
Yet among all the preening peacocks assembled this evening, Patrick Bennett stood distinctly apart. He was precisely the sort of figure any parent would mark as an exemplary first choice for a son-in-law.
From his crown to his toes, he was immaculately attired in a tailored black evening tailcoat, with a crisply starched white piqué shirt gleaming beneath. Gone were the rumpled tweed jackets he usually wore; properly dressed, even his already handsome face seemed to shine with new radiance. And the person responsible for this brilliant transformation was none other than…
“My.”
Even the lady beside Dominic couldn’t tear her eyes away from Patrick and his companion. The woman on Patrick Bennett’s arm, smiling brightly as she gathered the folds of her cream dress with elegant grace, was Beatrice Somerset.
“She’s made quite the effort too.”
Dominic muttered to himself with a rueful smile. What’s more, the Marquess and Marchioness of Somerset watched the pair from a distance with obvious satisfaction. A formal Escort, initiated right before their parents’ eyes. No matter how one looked at it, the picture was far from ordinary.
So that’s it—afraid of losing her to someone else, he finally acknowledged his own feelings…
Dominic observed the pair with keen interest, took a sip of Champagne from his glass, and turned back to his companions. Though everyone’s eyes kept wandering to Patrick and Beatrice, it took considerable effort to restore the conversation to its normal flow.
Rumors spread like wildfire. Patrick Bennett and Beatrice Somerset’s return to society at the start of this season had already drawn attention; the fact that the two appeared together this very evening set everyone’s curiosity ablaze.
Matrons with unmarried children peered incessantly over their fans at the pair. Could it truly be that the two had become serious with each other?

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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