You want to remember that while you're judging the book, the book is also judging you.—Stephen King.

Chapter 10.

In a Name.

If Beatrice hated any place in the world, she hated Bath. Endless concerts and plays, card parties and of course the balls, end never ending balls. All she asked for was a good book and perhaps two or three persons who could converse on interesting subjects, instead it was a loud, noisy atmosphere and snobby people who could only share the latest gossip of who married who and who ran away with who and on and on. If one thing society was full of anything it was scandals, and there was always someone willing to share with one of them with you, exaggerating the facts to such an extent that you never really knew how much truth was in the story.

Beatrice and her mother were to stay with Mrs. Jones. Ff that wasn't bad enough, Beatrice learned her uncle, the Earl of Worthington was at Bath and he had taken up a house right next to Mrs. Jones.

"The whole world is just against me," Beatrice concluded at last. Only one day after their arrival Mrs. Llewelyn had Beatrice dress up and together with Mrs. Jones and the Earl they rode to a card party being hosted by someone of 'importance.'

As they entered a girl, who went by the name of Jane Stiller, ran up and grabbed Beatrice by the arm.

"Ah, Miss Morton, how wonderful that you have come here. Now I shall not be in want for company."

Beatrice groaned. Miss Stiller was always looking for someone to share their secrets with her so she could share them with someone else. She was one of those silly, annoying sort of girls Beatrice could not stand.

"Have you been in Bath long?" Miss Stiller asked, guiding Beatrice to a chair.

"One day," Beatrice curtly replied. She was in no mood for conversation. The only reason she was here at all was because her mother still had not given her back The Odyssey. She had informed Beatrice she would keep it during their stay in Bath. It was her way of making sure Beatrice did everything her mother wanted.

"Beatrice!" Her uncle called. "Come here please."

Beatrice gave an inward groan. "Excuse me, please," she said to Miss Stillar and went over to where the Earl stood with her mother and two other gentlemen.

"Beatrice," her uncle introduced. "The Duke of Denster and his son, Lord Woodworth. Your grace, my niece, Miss Morton."

Beatrice gave a tiny bow, her eyes cold and her lips pulled in a thin line. So this was the much hated Lord Woodworth. She supposed he was the sort of man a girl could call handsome, though she thought it strange to see a man with blond eyebrows. It almost looked like he had none. The old Duke smiled at Beatrice.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Morton. What a shame we have not met before. But then I have been abroad for a long time so loss is all mine. And a great loss it is indeed, for I haven't seen such a pretty face in a long time. Don't you agree, Charles?"

Charles smiled and nodded his head. He had to admit that Miss Morton was a great beauty. If only she wouldn't scowl so.

Mrs. Llewelyn nudged Beatrice and the young girl put on a fake, sardonic smile. Seriously, was she a poodle or a human being?

"Welcome to the vanity fair," Beatrice thought to herself. "A place where mother's come to show off their daughters and young men come to look at them."

"How long have you been in Bath, Miss Morton?" Charles politely asked.

"Long enough," Beatrice replied.

Mrs. Llewelyn gave her daughter a discrete pinch. "We have only just arrived," she informed Charles. "This is our first evening out in society."

"I see Miss Morton does not care for Bath," the old Duke chuckled.

"I prefer the country side to any city," Beatrice truthfully stated.

"Country life is dull to say the least," Charles couldn't help from pointing out.

"I wouldn't be surprised, your lordship," Beatrice snapped. "If everything in your life is dull."

Charles' eyebrows climbed upward and he blinked several times. Had he really just been snubbed?

Mrs. Llewelyn, quite horrified of Beatrice's words sought to save the situation. "What would you recommend we see during our visit, your lordship?"

Charles let out a wry chuckle. "That is a question you had better ask my father, for as Miss Morton so eloquently put it everything is dull as far as I am concerned and I am not the person to ask for advice on entertainment."

The Duke cleared his throat. "Young people these days," he shook his head. Mrs. Llewelyn and the Earl laughed.

Beatrice rolled her eyes and decided she wanted to go home. "Is it just me, or is there not enough air here?" She asked, her voice becoming weak. She fanned herself before going into a swoon, her knees buckling under her weight. She would have fallen to the ground if Charles hadn't reached over in time and caught her in his arms.

Beatrice cringed at this action, but didn't give away the fact that her faint was in fact fake.

"Dear me," the Duke was worried at this sudden swoon. "I will agree it is rather hot in here. I think it would be best to take your daughter home, Mrs. Llewelyn."

"Yes," Mrs. Llewelyn nodded her head, not quite as worried as the company expected her to be. "She is still tired from our long journey. Perhaps his lordship?" She turned to Charles.

The Duke nodded his head. "Yes, Charles will um...escort the young lady to the carriage."

Charles rolled his eyes and adjusted his hold on Beatrice. Good God she was heavy. Beatrice did not enjoy being held in his arms, but couldn't do anything about it. Any sort of movement on her part would ruin her ruse. So she let Charles carry her to the carriage and put her inside. To her great relief her mother did not get in after her, obviously deciding to stay at the party. The drivers flicked the reins and took Beatrice away from that Duke and his bothersome son.

***

The next morning Beatrice expected her mother to be upset with her, but Mrs. Llewelyn was surprisingly cool about the fainting act.

"The only reason why your book is still intact and not a pile of ashes, Beatrice," she informed her daughter. "Is because your stunt actually worked in your favor. Mind you, if you dare try to do it again, I will throw it into the fire. We have been invited for a drive with the duke and his son, so put on something to wear and be ready within the hour."

Some people say life is too short, but Beatrice was sure it was far too long. Horses at her age were put down out of kindness, too bad such a fate was not in store for her. Instead Beatrice had Amy get her dressed in an elegant but comfortable gown and fixing a matching bonnet to her head she went downstairs. Her mother was gossiping with Mrs. Jones on the matchmaking scheme and the plans of the wedding that was sure to come of it all. Beatrice had a lot to say but was terrified that one wrong word would send The Odyssey into the flames. This visit was certainly different from all the rest. Now she would have to do everything her mother's way, none of her schemes would work as they had in the past.

The driver was waiting outside in an open carriage and they drove up to the Duke's grand apartments where the Duke was waiting with his son.

"The Earl said he could not make it today," Mrs. Llewelyn apologized as George Errol and Charles climbed into the carriage. "But he sends his best compliments as well as his comfortable carriage. He also suggested we go out for into the country and view the beautiful scenery. Seeing as my Beatrice is fond of the country," she smiled at Beatrice, who rolled her eyes.

"Yes, a scenic drive is a good idea," George Errol agreed. "The weather today is perfect for it. Not a single could in the sky.

The drive was far too long for Beatrice, who refused to contribute to the conversation despite the nudges and pinches of her mother. She was cold and quiet and simply nodded her head from time to time and gave simple, two or three word answers to any question presented to her by the duke and his son. At one point George suggested they go for a walk and stretch their legs a little. Beatrice jumped at this idea and getting out of the carriage hurried along.

"I wish I was as nimble," George laughed. "I'm afraid at my age I'm more of a tortoise than a rabbit."

"I should say," Mrs. Llewelyn laughed. "We are not what we used to be. Go along, your lordship," she nodded to Charles. "You may walk with Beatrice, no point hanging around the snails."

"How insulting, Mrs. Llewleyn," the Duke exclaimed and they laughed together.

Charles also laughed out of politeness and went off to catch up with Miss Morton. Her actions puzzled him. She was the first girl he had met who did not worship the ground he walked on and constantly try to get his attention. In fact, quite the opposite, she seemed to be trying to run away from him. He had never gotten such an attitude from any young lady. Perhaps this was why he was determined to try and make her out.

It wasn't hard to catch up with her, even though it she walked at a quick pace.

"You are something of a mountain goat, Miss Morton," he said once he was beside her. "It is as though you are determined to run away from the company."

"How quickly you have guessed my intentions," Beatrice snapped. "And it impolite of you to chase me when it was obvious I wished to be alone."

"I could just as easily say it was not polite of you to go running off," Charles replied. "Besides, it would be unfair to leave me with the old people, would it not? Come now, why do you behave as though I am a stranger. We have been properly introduced, have we not?

"Yes, we were introduce to each other at a party." Beatrice agreed. "You stared at me as though I were something for you amusement, you discussed me with your father as though looking at a product in a store! Now you and I must walk together and pretend that we have been friends for so long! If you really think I am going to walk here and make small talk with you just because you happen to be the stuck up, snobbish, boorish son of a duke then you are severely mistaken. I suggested you turn right around and find some silly filly to worship who you are. I know what sort of person you are and nothing about you attracts me. The only reason I came here is because my mother gave me no other option."

Charles could not understand her angry attitude. "How have I offended you, Miss Morton?"

"By existing!" Beatrice snapped. "And certainly by following me around when I made it clear I wanted to be alone."

She hated him just because he existed? Charles could not get her logic, no matter how hard he tried. Women were generally a great mystery to him."Are you really so repulsed by my presence?"

"Your presence not only repulses me," Beatrice retorted. "Your very name makes me sick to my stomach. Indeed, I find it offensive to have breathe the same air with you."

Silence hung in the air for some time after this. Charles was tempted to get offended; he was insulted to be sure. And yet, at the same time he was intrigued. He'd never had a woman treat him like this, and the novelty of it all made him want to find out just what was it about him that so bothered the lovely shrew.

"Do you even know my name?" He asked at last.

Beatrice tossed her head. "Everyone knows your name, Lord Woodworth."

"Well then, what is it?"

"I just said it. Must I repeat it again?"

"You never said my name, Miss Morton."

Beatrice at last turned over and glared at the man. "Only seconds ago I said Lord Woodworth."

Charles let out a little chuckle. He turned from the path and stood observing the nature around him. Beatrice didn't get his reaction and allowed herself to pause as well.

"Shakespeare once asked what was in a name," Charles said at last. "In society, apparently everything is in a name. I envy you, Miss Morton," Charles turned to gaze at her. The words caught Beatrice off guard.

"You, envy me?" She sneered.

"Yes," he nodded his head, seemingly oblivious to her contempt towards him. "I envy you because you are always addressed by your name. You hear it spoken every day so often you no longer realize the significance of what it means to be called Miss Morton."

Beatrice lifted her eyebrow, wondering what on earth the man was leading too.

"Lord Woodworth is not my name, Miss Morton," Charles stated after a small pause. "It is a title I inherited when I was born first son to my father. Now, you said my name makes you sick to your stomach, and I ask you, Miss Morton, do you even know my name?"

Beatrice shifted a little. Her mother had mentioned his name several times but she had never bothered to remember it. It had gone in one ear and flown clean out the other. "I do not," she confessed at last.

Charles smiled and glanced over at her. "Moments ago you made it clear how you hated how you were admired as a product in the store, that you were judged simply by your connections and your appearance. You want people to look at you as the person you really are, do you not?"

"I should say!" Beatrice smugly retorted. "I am not just a woman and a potential bride, I am a human being and I want to be viewed as one."

Charles nodded his head. "But then," he pointed out. "You turn right around and tell me that you despise my kind and that you hate me just because I exist. Miss Morton, has this not made you the object of your own argument? You do not want others to judge you, yet you hand out the same judgment freely. Has it ever occurred to you that I might be more than my title, just as you might be more than your beauty?"

Charles slowly turned back towards the path. He could see his father and Mrs. Llewelyn catching up and he didn't want to be in their company. Beatrice also noticed them and turning, walked with Charles. She hated to admit it, but he did have a point. She had put him in a box and judged him according to it. She hated him because he was the reason she had been dragged off to Bath, the reason her favorite book had been marred and was on the verge of being destroyed. But Charles did not know that. It was not his fault that her mother determined to marry her off to him. Maybe he was like her; maybe he was tired of society. He had admitted that she had been correct at the party last night when she had stated how nothing interested him.

Beatrice allowed her aggressive attitude to relax a little. "What is your name?" She asked in a gentler tone.

"I was Christened Charles," Charles replied. "Charles Errol. Sometimes I wish that was what people would call me."

"Everyone call me Miss Morton of course," Beatrice said with a slight smile. "But I was Christened Beatrice."

The name Beatrice caught Charles attention.

"Your uncle mentioned that you live in Wales?" He spoke out hesitantly.

"Yes, on the manor of my stepfather. Why do you ask?"

"This may sound a little presumptuous of me to ask, Miss Morton, but were you at the ball my father hosted for my birthday?"

Beatrice had thought this question might come up and was prepared for it. "Yes I was," she nodded her head. "Mamma would have never forgiven me if I had not accepted the invitation."

Charles slowly nodded his head. He hid his disappointment very well. Of course he shouldn't have allowed himself to entertain such silly hopes. His Cinderella had mentioned a Beatrice, but the Cinderella's Beatrice never attended balls, and so this was not the correct one.

"I don't remember standing up with you," he said.

"That is probably because I got stuck in the library," Beatrice replied. "I have to admit the only reason I bother with private balls is because I have access to private libraries. I am something of a bookworm."

"Oh?" Charles let out a little chuckle. "I am sure your mother would not be impressed if she were to find that out."

"No," Beatrice agreed. "But I hope you will not mentioned it to her."

"I don't discuss such things with mothers," Charles reassured. "So, which of my father's books did you enjoy?"

Beatrice tried to hide her nervousness. "I got stuck with Pope." She lied, hoping against hope the Duke had Pope in his library.

"Ah, yes, my father is very fond of him. He's very proud that he has the entire collection."

The inward sigh of relief was heavily mixed with jealousy. How she envied the Duke of Denster; envied the fact that he did not have a mother who could burn his collection of Alexander Pope.

"Are you really so hateful of Bath?" Charles was glad they had gotten the conversation going.

"I am," Beatrice confessed. "I fear I am not much of a party person. I don't like large crowds of people all gossiping together. I prefer a good book, perhaps some music and one or two persons who can talk of sensible things."

"And what are sensible things?"

Beatrice laughed. "Oh I don't know. Anything that is not the weather and fashion. I would love to hear politics discussed from time to time, but that is a subject women must steer clear from it would seem. And how about science? Or philosophy? Or religion? Why is it that you men can talk about it between yourself but won't discuss it with the opposite sex?"

"I must confess, Miss Morton, none of those subjects interest me. Perhaps because I have heard them discussed so often, but I'll admit I've never spoken of politics with a woman. I somehow assumed they did not care for such topics."

"Some of us do," Beatrice pointed out. "Just for some reason the men don't give us room in it. We're not all little dollies who sing and draw to entertain you. I have a heart and a mind, I just wish there would be someone who could...well...bother to try and discover it."

Charles slowly nodded his head. Her logic was interesting. Strange, but interesting. He found himself curious as to what her views on politics and religion were.

"Lady Gibster is hosting a party tomorrow," he said. "We have been invited and I assume you have been as well."

"Most likely," Beatrice groaned.

"Do you play chess, Miss Morton?"

Beatrice let out a small laugh. "I do, but it has been a long time since I won a game."

"That is comforting," Charles grinned. "Maybe I have a sporting chance then. The reason I asked is because unlike cards, chess is a game for two. If you wish to share your views on science and politics with a man, perhaps we could have a game tomorrow? Let's see how much your views differ from mine."

Beatrice tilted her head a little to the side. Somehow Lord Woodworth was not quite what she had convinced herself he would be.

"Very well, your lordship," she said at last. "I take it you are good at losing at chess as well?"

Charles thought of all the games he played with Elwyn. "Let's just say that much like you it has been a long time since I have won."

"Then let us see who is the best loser."

Charles laughed and offered Beatrice his arm. Beatrice hesitated for a moment and took it. It was a pleasant walk from then on. And it would have been even pleasanter if she had not been keenly aware of the approving look her mother was giving her. It was horrible to think her mother had actually scored some sort of victory.