Page 20 of A Widow for the Earl (The Gentlemen’s Club #5)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“ D id I mention how beautiful you look tonight?” Frederick said, swiping fresh drinks from a passing tray to hand to Beatrice and Prudence. “Among these wilting, pastel wallflowers, you are belladonna. You are nightshade. You are a rare rose with all her thorns.”
Beatrice chuckled into her drink. “That is a very odd thing to say to my darling Prudence.”
“He is not talking to me , Bea.” Prudence laughed. “He is talking about you: the Sorceress, the Bride of Death, the Dark Angel, the Red Widow.”
Frederick clicked his tongue. “There is nothing scarlet about you, Trixie, aside from the blush in your cheeks and the color of your lips. If anything, they should call you the Gold Widow or the Silver Widow.”
“How so?” Beatrice frowned, sipping her drink, resisting the urge to look at Vincent.
He had said nothing in the entire thirty minutes that Frederick had taken over the conversation with his lively cheer. Even Peter had relaxed, joining in here and there, while Vincent had only grown more tense.
“Well, if your husbands had been wealthy, you would be a very rich widow indeed, three times over,” Frederick explained.
Beatrice sniffed. “I received nothing, nor would I have expected anything. Indeed, I have it on good authority that my dowry was merely passed from one doomed man to the next. It must be threadbare by now. A cursed treasure that no man wants.”
“Come now, who would not want you?” Frederick insisted, sweeping his arm around. “You could take your pick. They might be frightened of you to begin with, but you are you, Trixie; how could they possibly resist?”
Beatrice dared a glance at Vincent. “Maybe, I have been introduced to the wrong gentlemen. Not one has even asked me to dance.”
“I would dance with you, if I did not think you would refuse,” Frederick offered, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes, as if he knew there was a game afoot. One to rankle Vincent.
“It is late,” Vincent said sharply, his voice a thunder crack amidst the merriment; the kind that ruined a picnic.
Beatrice smiled against the rim of her glass as she sipped. “We have been here barely two hours, Lord Grayling.”
“Two hours is ample time to decide if an evening is fruitless or not,” he replied, his tone rough.
“I have a particularly strenuous day tomorrow, and it is a lengthy journey back to Wycliffe. Prudence, you should be with your mother. Mr. Swann, I asked you to leave a fair while ago—do not make me repeat myself.”
Peter bowed his head to Prudence, leaning in to whisper something in her ear. She blushed at whatever he murmured, biting her lip in bashful delight, as the boy took off across the ballroom.
“I would rather stay with Beatrice,” the younger woman urged, weaving her arm through her friend’s. “She can be my chaperone. You can return to Wycliffe, she can come home with us, and everyone will be happy.”
Vincent cast his sister a look so fierce that she withdrew her arm from Beatrice’s at once.
“Go on, dear Pru,” Beatrice encouraged. “I imagine your mother will be the one in need of a chaperone soon, if she is gossiping with the ladies over there. They are notorious imbibers of potent liquor. Indeed, I hear that some of them distill their own, strong enough to blind a man.”
Prudence hesitated, pouting a little. “I will leave, but promise I will see you soon?”
“I swear it,” Beatrice replied.
“Very well.” The younger woman hugged her friend tightly, whispering, “Do not let him scold you. I think you and Freddie make a fine pair. My brother is just jealous that he did not ask to dance with you first.”
Chuckling awkwardly, Beatrice released Prudence back into the wild, watching her push her way through the throngs until she reached her mother, Julianna Wilds.
Then, there were three.
“Good evening to you, Lord Frederick,” Vincent said tightly, his tense expression suggesting that it was taking every shred of his willpower to be polite. “I will be taking Beatrice home now.”
Frederick smirked. “So, you have given it to its rightful owner, then?”
“Pardon?” Vincent’s tone sharpened.
“Trixie’s home. Wycliffe. You have allowed her to have it?”
Vincent’s eye twitched. “The legalities and procedures are still being discussed.” He held out the crook of his arm, reminding Beatrice a little of a chicken. A very handsome, very angry one. “Beatrice, we are leaving.”
Beatrice… Beatrice… Her stomach fluttered against her will, perplexed by the effect her own name had on her, when spoken by him. It was like a spell, softening her hard edges, thawing her opinion of him.
Frederick took hold of Beatrice’s hand, placing a kiss upon it, though his gaze flitted up to Vincent. “Goodnight, Trixie. I pray you have the sweetest dreams.” He winked. “If I should appear, do not be alarmed. I am only there to fulfil the dance I promised.”
“And I shall be there, Lord Frederick, when it turns into a nightmare,” Vincent snarled, seizing Beatrice’s hand and placing it through the loop of his arm.
Frederick mustered a tight chuckle. “Do not give up, dearest Trixie. You are owed a safe home, after all you have been through. Seize what you want and allow no one to take it from you.”
Beatrice smiled back at him. “Goodnight, Freddie.”
I shall do my very best to keep my dream. I swear I shall.
“Come, Beatrice,” Vincent growled.
He pulled her away from Frederick, carving a path through the crowd with his free arm, leading her past the crush of bodies, the astonished stares and the heat of the ball, and out into the crisp night air.
The sky above was a reflection of the gown she wore, the stars twinkling in that endless dark.
Vincent did not pause to take in the beautiful night, tugging Beatrice directly toward the waiting carriage.
Yet, he did not forget his manners, opening the door for her, offering his hand to help her up into the carriage.
All the while wearing a grim mask, as if they had just attended an execution, not a ball.
“Lord Grayling, I—” she began, as he took his seat and the carriage began to move.
He put up a hand, shaking his head. “I should like to spend the journey in silence. My head is already too full of the noise of that ball.”
“Of course,” she replied, feeling a slight sting of disappointment. “I shall not say a word.”
The journey back to Wycliffe Manor might have been a silent one, but the air between Beatrice and Vincent seemed to bristle with unspoken things.
Several times, while pretending to nap, she had seen him gazing at her, his brow furrowed as though she were an acquaintance he could not place.
And she, in turn, had stolen a few glances at him when she had thought he was not looking.
Twice, he had cleared his throat as if he meant to say something. Twice, he had shaken his head and returned his attention to the window, peering out into the darkness.
I did not think you would be so incensed…
It puzzled her even now, why his mood had soured at the sight of Frederick. Why did her friend anger him so much? Why had he stepped in when Frederick had almost agreed to a dance? And why, most of all, had he seemed so… jealous?
As the carriage came to a standstill outside the porch of Wycliffe Manor, she doubted she would gain any answers to those questions. Vincent exited ahead of her, helping her down without saying a word, perpetuating the silence as they walked into the manor. Together but apart.
Weary of her racing mind, Beatrice headed for the stairs, looking forward to the peace and quiet of her bedchamber. “Goodnight, Lord Grayling.”
“Goodnight?” he replied tersely. “That is all you have to say?”
She paused on the bottom step, her hand on the newel post. “I thought your head was too full of noise for a conversation.”
“It is, but silence has done nothing to help it,” he said, clawing a stressed hand through his silky brown hair.
“Beatrice, you are not mine. I have little authority over who you speak to, but as the heir to this estate, and the man who can allow you to stay, I forbid you from flirting with that… fool again.”
You are not mine…
Her throat tightened, her chest feeling strange for a moment, as if someone had pushed all the air out.
“So, even when I am obeying, I am disobeying?” she said, rallying quickly. “You told me I had to find a suitor.”
“ Not him,” Vincent growled, moving toward her.
She shook her head slowly. “You made me go to that ball, and you placed me in front of so many disinterested men, but you protest when I speak to someone I like? Yes, as a friend, but perhaps a friend would not be a terrible suitor. Indeed, he might be my best chance, now that I think about it.”
She had never considered Frederick in a romantic or marital sense before, but it was not the most unpleasant notion.
She knew him, she knew his temperament, she knew his character.
She was not attracted to him, but what did that matter when the other options were so dire?
Indeed, the only thing that might stop her from pursuing Frederick was the fact that marrying her had a tendency to be fatal.
Vincent’s eyes blazed as he came to the bottom of the stairs, breathing so hard that it stole the air from her lungs. His hand settled upon hers, his fingers curving, holding her hand tightly.
She shivered at his touch, realizing her hand was bare.
She had taken her gloves off in the carriage and had not put them back on, his warm skin rough against the softness of hers.
And that fierce grip; it was as if he did not intend to let her go, claiming her as his despite what he had said before.
Beatrice swallowed. “Why should it not be him? He is eligible, he is dear to me, he would be a good husband to me.”
“He would not,” Vincent rasped, a half-step bringing him so close that there was barely a gap between them.
“He is a second son. He has no prospects, no fortune, nothing that could grant you security. He would use you and ruin you, before leaving you with nothing. I saw his face when you said you had gained no money from your late husbands. I know that face. It was the face of a boy when a toy is taken away.”
She blinked, her heart faltering. “You must have been mistaken. I have known him since I was fifteen; he has never shown any greed, or any desire to marry me, in truth. But I know he would agree if I asked, regardless of my wealth or the tattered state of my reputation.”
She would not allow Vincent to speak ill of her friend. If he continued, she would take herself off to bed without a word.
A moment later, he expelled a weary breath, giving a small nod of resignation.
“Maybe I was mistaken, but I do know that he would not be good to you,” he insisted, his tone softening slightly. “When I tell you that I do not want you flirting with him again, it is advice, not an order. You have been hurt thrice, Beatrice; I would not see you hurt again, if I can help it.”
Her heart began to flutter wildly. Traitorously. “I… have not been hurt. Why would you think that?”
“Because… it is in your eyes, Beatrice,” he murmured, his voice a low, enchanting rumble.
“Your armor is near-impenetrable, I do not doubt that, but I have seen glimpses of the wounds beneath. I saw it tonight, when I put you in front of all those dull lords. I saw it in the drawing room, with Lord Mancefield. I have seen it after my own words have struck you, on occasion.”
If it had not been for the newel post, she might have stumbled in shock. Where had this kindness, this perceptiveness, blossomed from? Where had this version of Vincent been, all this time?
Her hand fell upon her chest, the heel of her palm rubbing slow, soothing circles. For if she was not careful, she would break her cardinal rule, and burst into tears in front of the one man who could never see her cry.
“Keep him as your friend,” Vincent said thickly. “But keep him at a friendly distance.”
He stepped back, his gleaming eyes slowly admiring her, taking in the sight of her from head to toe. His hand curled into a tight fist as he cleared his throat, returning that glittering gaze to her eyes.
“You looked beautiful tonight,” he said, bowing his head.
Beatrice stared at him, her breath catching in her throat. But before she could say a word of reply, he was gone, striding off across the entrance hall with a demeanor that said, Do not dare to follow.