Clara Beaumont rushed through her bedroom, frantically patting her cheeks to bring color to them while smoothing down her blonde curls. The news of Duke Alaric's unexpected visit had sent her into a flurry of excitement. This was her chance—finally!—to make an impression on him without Isabella's interfering presence.
"How do I look?" she demanded of her maid, spinning around in her hastily donned dress. "Is this black too severe? Should I change into the gray with the lace trim? That one shows more décolletage."
Before the maid could respond, Lady Beatrix swept into the room, her face a careful mask of composure despite the urgency in her movements.
"Leave the black on," she instructed sharply. "We're in mourning, remember? The Duke will appreciate propriety." She looked Clara over with critical eyes. "Though perhaps loosen a curl by your face—men like to think a woman has rushed to greet them."