Page 19 of A Widow for the Earl (The Gentlemen’s Club #5)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A fter an hour of being dragged in front of every lord that Vincent had a vague acquaintance to, Beatrice was ready to dunk him in the pond if it meant she got to leave.
It had been a long while since she had witnessed his public persona, and it had served as a stark reminder of why she had not liked him in the first place.
“It is all about sugar and tobacco,” Vincent insisted to a very dull lord, whose name Beatrice had already forgotten.
“Spices are all well and good, but they do not travel well, and the distances are too unpredictable. More spice ships sink than any other. Trust me, you must speculate with sugar and tobacco.”
Beatrice hid a yawn behind her hand, gazing across the ballroom for greater entertainment.
She smiled at the dancers who leaped about in the midst of a country dance, wishing someone might ask her to dance.
The trouble was, no man wanted to be near her, and Vincent would not let her stray from his side.
Just then, she spotted a blissfully familiar face.
“Pru!” she shouted, waving wildly.
The young woman spun around, beaming from ear to ear as she set eyes on Beatrice. A moment later, she was darting through the crowd toward Beatrice, not afraid to elbow a few stubborn ladies out of the way.
And she did not come alone.
“Bea!” Prudence cried, throwing her arms around her friend. “I did not know you would be here! Oh, I am so pleased! Did you get my letters?”
Beatrice hugged Prudence in return. “I did, dearest Pru. I read them with great delight.” She paused, eyeing the gentleman who stood rather awkwardly, just behind Prudence. “And who might this young gentleman be? A friend of yours?”
“Yes!” Prudence pulled back. “Goodness, I would lose my head if it were not attached to my neck. This is my dear friend, Peter.”
“Peter?” Beatrice repeated, her eyebrow raised. “Does Peter have a surname? A title, perhaps? I should hate to be considered rude, speaking to him so informally.”
Prudence giggled behind her hand. “Peter Swann, youngest son of the Baron of Waterford.”
“Quite a line of heirs ahead of you, Mr. Swann,” Beatrice teased mildly, extending her hand to the gentleman. “Six brothers, if I am not mistaken?”
Peter cleared his throat, taking Beatrice’s hand. “Five. I am the sixth.”
“Yes, of course.” She shook his hand firmly, peering intently into his eyes to make her first impression of the man.
Searching her mind for information, she found the shelf in her mental library that pertained to the Baron of Waterford.
He was a loud, brash sort of fellow, with a rather distinguished military career behind him.
His sons had been raised in kind, all rather rowdy and a little rough around the edges, each one built like a bear.
Except this one.
Peter was tall and lean, with a nervous look about him. He certainly did not have the firm grip Beatrice had expected, his handshake rather limp. Then again, that might have had more to do with her reputation than his ability to shake a hand well.
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Swann,” she said with a forced smile.
“Likewise, Lady Wycliffe,” Peter replied, sweeping a hand through his thick, wavy blonde hair.
Prudence grabbed Beatrice by the arm, dancing a little jig beside her.
“Freddie is here. Have you seen him yet? I know he will be thrilled to discover that you are here. He asked how you were when I saw him. Of course, I told him you were perfectly well, battling my brother and his stubbornness. He laughed at that. He has a lovely laugh, does he not?”
“The very best,” Beatrice agreed, turning her gaze back to the crowd, to see if she could spot her dear friend.
“I see that my brother has forgiven us, then,” Prudence said, bringing Beatrice’s attention back. “I was worried about you, at that house all alone with him, but now I see I had no need to be.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “He cannot stop looking at you.”
Beatrice turned her head, surprised to find Vincent staring right at her. The moment their eyes met, he looked away, saying something to the boring gentleman beside him.
“I think he wants to be rescued from this dull conversation,” Beatrice whispered back to her friend. “ That is why he was looking.”
Prudence scoffed. “Or it is because you are the most beautiful woman in the room, as you always have been. This gown is the most extraordinary thing I have ever seen! Wherever did you find chainmail? Is it not terribly heavy?”
“Not so heavy,” Beatrice replied.
A moment later, Vincent had excused himself from the conversation, coming to join his sister and Beatrice. He took one look at Peter and his expression hardened, extending his hand to the young man.
“Mr. Swann. I remember your father.” Vincent smiled stiffly. “Remind him that he owes me money. Not a large sum, but large enough that I continue to notice its absence.”
Peter hurried to shake Vincent’s hand, his nervous eyes becoming a little more nervous.
“I do not know anything about that, my lord. I do know that he is eager to have another meeting with you. Perhaps, I could tell him that you would be willing?” He nudged Prudence lightly in the arm.
“Your sister and I could have tea while you talk.”
“They do not serve good tea at the gentlemen’s club,” Vincent replied, “and, last I remember, your father had his membership revoked for boisterous behavior. And I do not invite those who have ignored my requests for months into my house to have tea.”
Prudence gasped. “Vincent, you are being horrid. Peter is my friend. You can make an exception for a friend of mine.”
“I could make an exception if that friend were Beatrice,” Vincent countered, “but not for a gentleman friend of yours. After all, there is no such thing. Ladies and gentlemen cannot be friends. I believe there is an old proverb that says that a man cannot keep a chicken as a pet, for he will, one day, when he is hungry enough, inevitably try to eat it.”
Beatrice clamped a hand to her mouth to try and smother a snort, both impressed by his subtle jab at Peter and surprisingly amused.
It was easy to forget that Vincent was not without wit.
Moreover, she was glad that he seemed to be of the same opinion about the Swann boy; he was vastly unworthy of an extraordinary woman like Prudence.
“What nonsense, Brother. Beatrice is friends with Freddie, and he has not tried to eat her!” Prudence protested.
“Things are not the same as the dark ages when you entered society, Brother. Ladies and gentlemen can be friends these days. You are eight-and-twenty, yet you spout your beloved, archaic rules as if you were two-and-eighty.”
Beatrice smothered another laugh, forever fascinated by the Wilds family. She had often wondered how it could have produced four vastly different siblings, when they had been raised in the same house, by the same parents, in the same environment.
“You should not speak so informally,” Vincent chided. “You should refer to your ‘friend’ as Mr. Swann, and you should not be wandering the ball alone with him. Where is our mother?”
Prudence wafted a hand toward the opposite side of the ballroom, where clusters of older women crowded around the sparse number of tables and chairs. “Gossiping. I left her ages ago, and she did not notice. I cannot be blamed if my chaperone does not care to see where her ward has gone.”
“Well, you have a chaperone now,” Vincent replied sternly, flashing a cold look at Peter. “Mr. Swann, you may leave us.”
“No, Peter, do not go anywhere,” Prudence retorted. “If Beatrice can have gentlemen friends, so can I. Indeed, I think I should fetch Freddie, so he can confirm that there is nothing untoward about ladies and gentlemen being friends.”
Chuckling at the young woman’s lively nature, fully expecting to see a weary look upon Vincent’s face, Beatrice cast him an amused glance.
Only to find an odd expression there instead.
He visibly bristled, a muscle twitching in his jaw, though she could not fathom the cause.
Surely, Prudence’s insolence would not make him that angry?
“Yes, I shall fetch Freddie,” Prudence insisted, turning. “Oh! There he is! Freddie! Freddie!”
It was like a cloud passing across the sun, Vincent’s expression darkening. His eyes narrowed, his mouth flattening into a grim line, his body tensing up as if he were bracing for a fight.
“There is no need for—” he tried to say, but Prudence would not be stopped.
“Freddie! Freddie, over here!”
Raising his hand in a cheery wave, Frederick weaved through the crush of guests, deftly balancing his glass of punch without spilling a drop.
He looked handsome in the flattering light of the ball, tall and athletic, his hair neat and glossy.
But as Beatrice took in the sight of him, raising her own hand in a wave, she gasped.
He is wearing the same thing as Vincent.
Somehow, this would be her fault.
“I did wonder where the real festivities were,” Frederick said brightly, flashing a wink at Beatrice. “Here are my favorite ladies, all in one place. And without refreshments? What is the meaning of this? Are your escorts not tending to you properly?”
Vincent grumbled something under his breath, his posture rigid, his arms folded across his chest. Apparently, it was quite all right for him to drag her around all of his acquaintances, parading her like a barren cow for sale, expecting her to be polite and civil.
But when her friends appeared, the same courtesy was not offered.
Indeed, Freddie is the only man here who might actually ask me to dance, and does not retreat at my mere presence.
Beatrice saw her opportunity and seized it. “I must say, Freddie, I am parched. It has been such a dry evening.” She glanced at Vincent, letting her gaze flit to the dull man who had snared someone else into boring conversation. “If it does not become merrier, I may leave altogether.”
“Have my drink, dearest Trixie,” Frederick replied, passing her the glass. “I swear, not a drop of it has touched my lips.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “I would not mind if it had. Between friends, what is a shared drink? After all, you and I have shared far more than that.” She leaned in, grinning. “Namely, our deepest secrets.”
“Never to be revealed,” Frederick replied, chuckling.
Sipping the delicious, fruity punch, Beatrice tried not to hiss as the liberal dose of liquor hit the back of her throat.
She had not expected it to be the altered kind, bolstered by a pour from someone’s hip flask.
The warmth of it trickled down into her belly, the blaze nothing compared to the heat radiating from beside her.
Indeed, she did not even need to look at Vincent to know that his attention was entirely on her, and he was simmering.