Page 16 of A Widow for the Earl (The Gentlemen’s Club #5)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

V incent stood on the porch, glowering at Lord Mancefield’s retreating figure. His breaths came in short, sharp bursts, his lungs hot with rage, his entire body ablaze with a discomfort he could not explain or soothe.

“I will walk to the gates,” Edmund said, at Vincent’s side. “It is better to be certain that he has gone. Meanwhile, I think you should catch your breath. Steady yourself before you return to the drawing room.”

Leaning against one of the twin pillars, Vincent glanced at his friend. “I do not need to steady myself. I am perfectly fine. It was that man’s… dishonorable conduct that angered me, but I am calm now.”

“If you say so,” Edmund replied, frowning. “Nevertheless, I will check that Lord Mancefield is gone.”

He set off down the steps, strolling at a leisurely pace toward the distant gates. A path that would take him past the gray chapel where Beatrice had married Sebastian Hartley.

She was a beautiful bride…

He recalled his harsh judgment at the time, thinking her either mad or deliberately incendiary for wearing red to her wedding.

Yet, through the softer lens of that moment, seeing the sunlight gleam off the chapel’s slate roof, he remembered her appearance very differently.

Breathtaking in scarlet, wearing the color that, no doubt, had best reflected her mood.

Was Sebastian like that, too? Did he speak to her that way? Did he… try to touch her before they were wed?

Anger flared afresh in the pit of stomach, his hands itching to punch that weasel, Lord Mancefield, squarely in the nose.

He had noticed the voices rising too late, unable to calm the situation before it reached such tension, but he had not been too late to see Lord Mancefield’s hand falling toward Beatrice’s leg.

Instinct had taken over. Even now, he did not feel like himself, but like something had been unleashed that could not be caged again. He was a man of decorum and civility, yet he would have struck the man if he had said one more word about Beatrice.

What is the matter with me?

News would surely reach society of how he had behaved.

Lord Mancefield would not hesitate to tell anyone who would listen of how the Earl of Grayling had flown into a rage.

Moreover, how the Earl had flown into that rage because of Beatrice: the disgraced ‘Bride of Death,’ now unequivocally under Vincent’s protection.

It would not matter what he said to the contrary, the gossipmongers would take the story and twist it into the juiciest of sagas for their own delectation and delight.

Just then, he heard footsteps in the entrance hall behind him, the front door still wide open where he had thrown Lord Mancefield out.

He turned, and Beatrice halted, lifting her glittering gaze to him.

“He is gone,” Vincent said thickly, uncertain of whether her eyes were glittering with tears or anger.

She gave a small nod. “And that is the man you thought would be my perfect match?”

“I was informed that he was genteel and pleasant,” Vincent replied. “I was unaware of his true nature.”

A soft, bitter laugh escaped her lips. “Then, you should not have ambushed me with him. There is little I do not know about every lady and gentleman in society, and what I do not know, I have many means of finding out.” Her throat bobbed.

“Or does it not actually matter to you? If Edmund had not been there as a witness, would you have responded the same way?”

“What?” Vincent rasped.

“Your reputation means so much to you. What people think means so much to you,” she replied, her voice shaking a little. “If Edmund had not been there—a friend who would judge you for not intervening—would you have sent Lord Mancefield away?”

He moved toward her before he could stop himself, needing to be closer to her as he whispered the word, “Yes.” His breath caught. “Yes, Beatrice. Had Edmund not been there, I suspect I would have done far worse.”

She blinked in surprise, her hand lifting up for a moment, as though she meant to touch him. With a subtle shake of her head, she let her hand fall again, her fierce gaze locked with his.

“Do you believe me?” he urged, feeling a far greater threat to his reputation than anything the scandal sheets could write.

I would not have let any harm come to you. You must believe that.

But why should she believe that, when he had done nothing but make demands of her since his arrival?

He had not asked once how she was faring or feeling.

He had not bothered to speak to the servants and tenants about her, though his valet had.

From the start, he had decided how things would be, not pausing to think of the effect on her.

“I do not know,” she replied quietly.

It alarmed him to see her like that, all of the fire gone out of her. In that moment, he would have done anything to have her shout rudely at him, rather than witness the sputtering out of her spirit.

“He tried to touch you,” he growled. “No matter our differences, I would defend your honor in that situation, regardless of the man.”

She frowned up at him. “But you did not mind the insults? I expect you agreed with him.” A funny sound escaped her throat, half-laugh, half-cough. “I am just a thing to be given away and tamed, am I not?”

“What?” He tilted his head to one side, vexed by her flat tone. “All I heard him say was that he could make you marry him, and that he was looking forward to teaching you a lesson. I do not agree with his sentiments. That is why he is gone from this manor.”

She lowered her gaze, staring down at the floor. “Yes, well, he said far more than that.”

“Such as?” Vincent prompted.

She shook her head. “It does not matter. When you inevitably bring my next eligible suitor to the house, perhaps you will hear for yourself the oh-so courteous things these gentlemen feel obliged to say to me.”

“What did he say?” Vincent demanded to know, his fingertips finding the soft skin beneath her chin, tilting her head up. “If I have punished him less than he deserves, I would know of it.”

Her honey eyes shone with a pain he had never expected to see, for she always seemed so impervious to everything.

“It does not matter,” she repeated. “He is gone, and another will soon take his place: a meager carousel of gentlemen, belittling me, reminding me of my worth, until I am so worn down that I finally relent. That is what you want, is it not?”

He gazed down at her, wondering why she had not yet swiped his hand away from her chin. The longer he stared, the more he forgot why he was so close to her. And the longer the silence stretched between them, the more his frustrations began to prickle.

She is trying to bewitch me again.

Yet, his thoughts were not as certain as they had been before. There seemed to be true sadness in her eyes, and it was that glimpse through her armor that kept him where he was.

“It is what is right,” he said at last.

“Says who?” Beatrice replied bluntly. “In which of your beloved rule books does it say that I must marry a fourth time? Have I not suffered enough for your satisfaction? Must I endure more, simply because you do not like me? Am I to face further embarrassment, further scorn, further pain, because I dared to befriend your sisters and have, perhaps, said a thing or two to you that you considered rude?”

He sniffed, his anger sparking. “It is not personal, Miss Johnson.”

“Is it not? It certainly feels it.” She sniffed back. “If I were someone else, would you be in such haste to get rid of me? Goodness, if I were some quiet, meek, obedient woman, I would not be surprised if you suggested marriage. Combining your assets in one fell swoop.”

He blinked, drawing his hand back from her chin.

Just when he had been feeling a jot of remorse for her situation, she went and said something as foolish as that.

It was almost as if she wanted him to be angry with her at all times, so that she might be angry in return.

An excuse to challenge and antagonize, getting under his skin.

“That is nonsense!” he remarked. “If you were someone else, I imagine I would have a far easier transition into my viscountcy. A meek, obedient woman would not hesitate to find another husband and be out of my way without delay. A meek, obedient woman would know her place.”

“This is my place, Wilds!” she shot back, some of that fire returning.

“It was my home until you blustered in, throwing your authority around! Indeed, if you cannot stand me, as you clearly cannot, why on earth are you still here? Go home. Go back to Prudence and pester her to marry instead. All I want is to be left alone.”

He took a step closer, the gap between them barely existent, his irritation shallowing his breaths. He did not know whether to shake some sense into her or cradle her face in his hands, his mind a tangle of confusion.

“Why must you do this?” he rasped. “Why must you incite an argument, every time?”

She did not back down or step away, her hand accidentally brushing his.

“Because you will not listen.” Her throat bobbed.

“Because you do not see me as anything but an obstacle to remove. Because you do not care that you will take everything if you take this house from me. It is just a building to you, but it is… paradise to me.”

There was a plea somewhere in her voice, her eyes shining so brightly that he could not look away, much less move to a more appropriate distance. She was so close he could not breathe properly, every accidental brush sending a tingle through his veins.

“Very well,” he said thickly.

“What does that mean?” she replied with suspicion, the sound of her harsh breaths robbing him of his ability to think clearly.

He cleared his throat. “This was a catastrophe,” he said. “As such, I will not bring another suitor to this house for you.”

“I can stay?” Her eyes widened, drawing him deeper into the strange magic of her.

“For now,” he replied stiffly, willing himself to step away.

“And you should be thankful that I am allowing you to remain. I could just give you no choice and send you back to your father, or to your cousin. I likely should, considering you have infected my reputation with your own, which will have an effect upon my business endeavors. And I do not let anyone trifle with my business.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I have done nothing of the sort.”

“You have,” he insisted, cursing Lord Mancefield, cursing himself for ever inviting that man here. “Whether you are aware of it or not, you have.”

No… I have done it to myself. If I had listened, if I had made her steward of this manor, nothing would have changed. I might even have been applauded for my generosity.

That thought closed the gap between them, his arms longing to slide around her waist and pull her close, as he had done in the ballroom. Yet, he held onto his discipline, his arms at his sides, as he searched her face with narrowed eyes. Looking for what, exactly, he did not know.

His gaze flitted to her lips, slightly parted.

Beatrice scoffed, stepping back. “If it is gratitude you want, then I shall show you just how grateful I am for this generosity of yours.” She backed away, a worrisome smile on her lips. “Oh yes, you will be so overwhelmed with my thanks that you will not know what to do with it.”

She turned, striding straight out of the front door, though she was not at all attired for the cooler weather.

Vincent watched her depart, resisting the urge to run after her with a cloak, for he had a feeling that her scoff had had less to do with the terms of her remaining, and more to do with where his errant gaze had wandered.

I was not going to kiss you, Beatrice, he thought furiously, struggling to drown out the voice in the back of his head that whispered, But you wanted to. For a moment, you wanted to.