Page 23 of A Widow for the Earl (The Gentlemen’s Club #5)

“I thought I might invite some friends to perform a theatrical,” she added, her confusion tinged with unease.

“You must play the villain! You would be excellent; you would not have to do a thing. Perhaps, if it is amusing, I shall make it a fortnightly endeavor: guests every two weeks, coming to perform something on my stage.”

An odd smile quirked his lips, taking the wind out of her sails. “Did you do this in the hopes of antagonizing me?”

“What?” She scoffed, swallowing uncomfortably. “Certainly not. I wanted a theater, that is all.”

He shrugged. “It is a nice addition to the manor. Your talent for decoration is… very good.”

Am I still asleep? I must be, for this is not the Vincent I know.

“So, you will perform in the theatrical?” she prodded, unwilling to be defeated so easily by whatever this trick was. “What is your preference? Shakespeare? Marlowe? Oh, I could ask Prudence or Teresa to write something!”

A faint flinch twitched his left eye, though that unnerving smile did not leave his lips. Indeed, it felt like he was ‘seeing’ her again, seeing through all the armor and pretense that she used to protect herself.

“You will not provoke me, Miss Johnson,” he said, almost softly. “I do not mind the theater at all, but I will not be involved in it. I am no thespian.”

Frustrated, she tucked herself into the corner of the chaise-longue, holding the cushion to her chest, searching his face. Had his visit to London changed him so much? Had he met a woman there, perhaps, who had mellowed his temperament?

A light pinch nipped at her heart, prompting her to hold the cushion tighter, to get rid of the feeling.

“It was not so expensive,” she muttered. “I daresay it will add more value to the manor than it cost.”

This was not going at all how she had imagined, his calm indifference almost more infuriating than if he had come in, shouting at the top of his lungs.

Vincent turned, resting against the back of the chaise-longue, his attention fixed on the bookcases that lined the wall.

He looked well in a burgundy tailcoat that must have been one of his valet’s new purchases, his warm brown hair neatly combed, his demeanor so much more relaxed than she had ever seen it.

It must be a woman. He escaped this house to meet with her in the city. He escaped me to be with her. She shook her head, turning her attention toward the fireplace. And so what if he did? I do not care.

But visions of some other woman claiming these halls as her own, as his wife, was more than she could bear.

The lady was probably fair and blue-eyed, obedient and placid, never speaking unless spoken to, without an opinion of her own: the opposite of Beatrice.

Someone better suited to being the lady of a household. His household, anyway.

Beatrice grimaced, annoyed already by the imaginary woman, who would treat Wycliffe as a second residence, rarely visited, instead of a real, beloved home.

“Why do you not want to marry again?” Vincent asked suddenly, startling Beatrice.

“Pardon?”

“I was thinking on my journey back,” he replied. “What is your reason for not wanting to marry again? Is it the fear of the same tragedy happening a fourth time? Is it something else?”

Beatrice smiled coldly. “Why do you want to know? So you can insist that whatever I say must be overcome?”

“I am genuinely curious,” he said, turning his head to glance down at her.

There was none of the usual challenge in his eyes, no anger on his face, no demand in the surprising softness of his voice. He twisted his body toward her, half-sitting on the back of the chaise-longue, his hands clasped in his lap. The demeanor of a man who was patiently waiting to understand.

“Shall I ask you first why you do not seem inclined to marry?” she replied haltingly, for there was familiarity in their conflict: this was new territory that she did not know how to traverse.

He gave a small shrug. “It is not a lack of inclination but a lack of priority. Until all of my sisters are in secure marriages, I cannot think of my own situation. Their futures are of greater importance than mine and, let us be honest, gentlemen have longer to seek a match than ladies do.” He paused. “I am in no hurry.”

“You will not wed until Prudence is wed?” Beatrice felt a small ripple of relief, so ridiculous that she wished she could pluck out the feeling.

He nodded. “Exactly. Now… you?”

“You want the truth or a more palatable version?” she replied, glaring at him to make herself feel better.

“The truth,” he said softly. “I will cast no judgment. You may speak freely.”

She sniffed. “Oh, well as long as I have your permission.”

The sharp edge of her tone was beyond her control, her hostility nothing more than a hastily donned suit of armor to try and protect her vulnerabilities. She did not want to be antagonistic, but she also did not know how to be honest with him, in case it was a ruse to use her truth against her.

“You do not have to tell me,” he said with a half-smile. “But I should like to hear it, to understand you better.”

Glancing down at her knees, her brain seemed to freeze.

She could not think of a witty or snarky retort, her entire body agitated by this unexpected change in Vincent.

Then again, he had not been quite the same on the night before he left for London, either.

Had the ball been where this odd change had begun, rather than the city?

“Very well,” she said quietly, for if he wanted to hear the truth, then that was what he would get. “I am exhausted, Vincent.”

He frowned. “Exhausted?”

“Yes. I am so tired of everything that if there were gates to this estate that could keep out the entire world, I would close them. I am weary of doing what I have been asked to do, for nothing. And, believe me, there was a time when I would not have done as I was asked, and I rather miss that girl,” she continued, struggling to keep her voice even.

“To add insult to injury, my father has forbidden me from returning to the one place where I felt safe.

He and my mother all but abandoned me a long time ago, but after my last marriage, they cut the final thread.

“So, yes, I am tired. I am exhausted. I am finished trying to be what I am not, when it has only made my situation worse,” she added, sighing. “All I want now is my freedom, which is not so much to ask, I do not think.”

Vincent said nothing, his dark blue eyes just… staring down at her as if he had never seen her before, and did not know how she had ended up in his house. Yet, the gaze was gentle. Sympathetic, almost. It unsettled Beatrice, her heart quickening, her stomach fluttering traitorously.

“Does that satisfy your curiosity?” she mumbled, a warmth creeping up her neck.

And yes, of course I am terrified that a fourth husband would die the same way.

I could not escape punishment, regardless of my innocence, if it happened again.

Indeed, she doubted that the notion of a ‘curse’ would help her at all if she were to stand in court, trying to defend herself, should a fourth man lay dead on his wedding night.

But she kept that to herself, believing that should have been obvious enough.

Vincent moved closer, until he stood above her, only the back of the chaise-longue between them.

Still, he said nothing, his brow furrowing as he gazed at her.

And when he reached down to gently brush back a lock of her hair, she found she could not breathe.

What was it about him that made her lose all sense of reason when he was close to her?

“I know, even my hair is unruly,” she said awkwardly, meeting the intensity of his gaze.

Why is he not saying anything?

His hand reached across the cushion pressed to Beatrice’s chest, as if he meant to take hold of her hand.

As he reached, he bent down, the two of them far closer than they should be.

He was not her husband, she was not his wife, and this assuredly went against every rule of society that Vincent held so dear.

To him, she should have been the same as an unmarried woman, requiring a chaperone.

His frown deepened as if he, too, did not know why he was flouting his beloved rules, yet his hand continued to move toward hers.

She felt the first hesitant brush of his fingertips… when a frantic knock attacked the drawing room door. Vincent jolted back as if he had been stung, while Beatrice held her cushion all the tighter, both of them looking toward the door at once.

“Come in,” Beatrice called, swallowing thickly, as Vincent wandered toward the bookcases, pretending to look at the spines.

Mr. Bolam entered, bowing his head. “My lord, my lady, there is a… young woman at the door, in some distress.”

“What?” Beatrice was up on her feet in an instant. “Who is it?”

The butler glanced at Vincent. “It is His Lordship’s sister, I believe. Lady Prudence Wilds.”