Page 15 of A Widow for the Earl (The Gentlemen’s Club #5)
You see, Vincent, only lunatics and degenerates are interested in me now.
She cast him a discreet glance, to see what he was doing. He watched the exchange with a rather pleased smile upon his face, entirely ignorant of the discourtesy Lord Mancefield was actually displaying.
“I would be happy to take him from you, if you are bored of him already,” she said, resuming the conversation.
If nothing else came of this meeting, she at least wanted to attempt to save that poor creature.
“A dark mount for a dark-hearted woman,” Lord Mancefield purred. “I should like to see that. I could make a gift of him, perhaps, for the right reward.”
Beatrice’s cheeks ached from forcing the polite smile on her face. “One should never give a gift if one has expectation of a reward, Lord Mancefield. That goes against the very nature of a gift.”
“A deal, then.” He shuffled his bulk closer to her, his brandy breath filling the air between them, stinging her nostrils.
“A deal?” She laughed. “Oh no, Lord Mancefield, I do not make deals with strangers. One never should, for that is how souls are stolen. You may think you are making a deal with an ordinary person when, in truth, you are making a deal with the Devil.”
Lord Mancefield smirked, his ginger whiskers twitching. “And you are rather devilish, are you not?” He chuckled to himself. “Quite the tease.”
“I am afraid I do not know what you mean,” she replied evenly, conscious of his wide thigh getting closer to her own.
Yet, from the opposite settee in the drawing room, neither Edmund nor Vincent seemed to notice Lord Mancefield’s indecorous behavior. They were discussing something in low voices, blissfully unaware of Beatrice’s discomfort.
Ordinarily, she would have dealt with the likes of Lord Mancefield with her sharp tongue and sharper tricks, perhaps ‘accidentally’ knocking his glass of brandy into his face or making a rude sound then blaming it on him.
But she was trying to show Edmund that she was not the unruly thing Vincent claimed she was, to win him over to her side.
If his friends persuade him to let me stay, then I am certain he will relent.
“You are like my stallion, Miss Johnson,” Lord Mancefield murmured, licking his already wet lips. “You just need a true man to tame you.”
She nodded slowly. “Is that so?” She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice to a harsh whisper.
“Then, you must lead me to your stablemaster, because I have every doubt that you were the one who trained that stallion. Did you not hear me say I watched you arrive from the window? You barely know how to ride the thing.”
Lord Mancefield’s pale blue eyes flashed with anger. “I beg your pardon?”
“There is no need,” she replied with a smile. “You are forgiven for your uncouth words, but do not do it again. And please, refer to me as Lady Wycliffe, for that is my title, and this is my home. I will not be insulted within these walls.”
“Insulted?” he hissed, sneering. “That is rather rich coming from you. It is an insult to me to even be here, considering the hand of a wicked girl like you. I only came as a favor to Lord Grayling. You ought to be begging me to accept you as my wife. Who else would have a murderess for a bride?”
“Who else, indeed?” she challenged, refusing to back down.
“You must be exceptionally desperate and out of options yourself, if you have deigned to come here. I would have to investigate, but I am certain I could uncover some very interesting information about you without having to search too hard.”
Lord Mancefield huffed and puffed, turning an alarming shade of red.
“And you, Madam, have your name in every scandal sheet,” he spat.
“I assure you, I am not without options, but why would a man make life difficult for himself when it can be simple instead? You have no worth in society anymore. Therefore, I do not have to deal with the nuisance of wooing you. I can make you marry me, and you cannot say no. It will be done if I say so, and I shall certainly look forward to teaching you a lesson, bringing you to heel.”
His hand moved to grab her knee, a terrifying hunger in his eyes. Beatrice was about to jump up, no longer caring about appearances, when another hand shot across the low table, seizing Lord Mancefield by the wrist.
“I think not, Lord Mancefield,” Vincent snarled.
“Come now, what does it matter?” the vile man replied, laughing. “She will be my bride soon enough anyway.”
A moment later, Vincent stood above Lord Mancefield, gripping the man’s collar in his fist. Vincent’s arms strained the seams of his tailcoat as he hauled the wretched suitor up by the scruff, shoving him unceremoniously toward the drawing room door.
“She will never be yours,” Vincent hissed, just loud enough that Beatrice heard. “If you show your face here again, you will be removed far less politely.”
Lord Mancefield glared at Vincent. “I was doing you a favor.”
“Consider the debt paid,” Vincent replied curtly, marching the man out into the hallway, disappearing from Beatrice’s shocked view.
Across the low table, on the opposite settee, Edmund rose to his feet in similar astonishment. He bowed his head briefly to Beatrice, muttering, “I should assist, Lady Wycliffe. To ensure that Lord Mancefield departs in a timely manner, and no one ends up bleeding.”
Beatrice gave a small nod, too stunned by Vincent’s sudden, intense defense of her to speak.