Page 28 of A Widow for the Earl (The Gentlemen’s Club #5)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
H ead pounding and stomach roiling, Beatrice made her slow descent to the breakfast room, where she hoped a plate of buttery eggs and many helpings of dry toast would fix her self-induced affliction.
She did not remember whose decision it had been to break into the good port, but she now knew it had been a terrible decision. It had never been in her nature to imbibe like that, and though she could not remember who had poured first, she remembered rather more about last night than she wished to.
I cannot believe I crawled across the floor. She groaned at the memory. And why, oh why, did I squash his face like that and tell him he had a nice chin?
Then, to her dismay, there were the things she had said about marrying him, about her not being at all the sort of woman he would wed, and about him being impervious to her charms. He would surely mock her for it over breakfast, though part of her hoped he had already eaten and departed for the day.
Or he is deliberately waiting so that he can tease me mercilessly.
In that moment, she vowed never to drink anything more potent than a single glass of wine or champagne ever again. Evidently, her and strong, imported liquor did not mix well.
Gathering what remained of her dignity and praying the smell of breakfast did not immediately make her sick, she straightened her posture, and walked into the breakfast room with her head held high.
After all, she was just being a good friend to Prudence last night, helping her forget her woes; she had nothing to be sorry about.
“Good morning,” she said, her stomach sinking at the sight of Vincent in his usual chair.
“Yes, good morning,” he replied gruffly, not bothering to look up from the papers.
The dismissal sent an unpleasant bristle down the back of her neck, reminding her of so many mornings at Fetterton when neither of her parents had bothered to acknowledge her.
Was she to expect that here, too? The same insult of being ignored, repeating endlessly, regardless of where she called home?
Or is this just because of last night’s antics, letting Prudence loose with the port?
She hoped for the latter as she sat down and reached for a piece of toast to test the waters of her liquor-fueled sickness.
“It looks like it will be a lovely day, does it not?” she said, taking her first bite.
Vincent grunted in response, the newspaper hiding his face from her view.
She liked to think he was secretly smirking behind that flimsy shield, but the specific tone of his grunt said otherwise.
He was cross, perhaps waiting for Prudence to appear before he let them both feel the full weight of his anger.
Silence it is, then.
She was not going to argue, for at least in silence, there could be no chance of him mentioning the things she had said and done last night.
Still, that did not stop the memories from swirling around in her head, traitorously taunting her.
Indeed, she did not need Vincent to mock her when her own mind was doing a perfectly good job, all by itself.
The first bite of toast went down more easily than she had anticipated, and before long, she was nibbling in contented quietude. She washed it down with some heavily sugared tea, feeling the combination slowly starting to restore her.
By the time she was on her fourth triangle of toast, she had been well and truly lulled into a sense of safety. The sickness was receding, her head was not throbbing so much, and Vincent still had not said anything, content to drink his weak coffee and read his papers.
Just then, he folded up the morning papers and set them down beside his plate. He gazed at Beatrice with a stony expression that nearly made her choke on her mouthful of toast.
“What do you make of my chin this morning?” he asked flatly.
Her eyes widened, her stomach beginning to churn again, for a very different reason. “Still excellent,” she croaked. “I have never claimed there was anything the matter with your looks, Wilds.”
A flicker of something that might have been amusement passed across his dark blue eyes, twitching the corner of his mouth. “Last night, you did not seem to think there was anything the matter with me at all.” He paused. “Do you remember practically proposing to me?”
“Nonsense. I did no such thing,” she protested, gulping down a mouthful of sugared tea before her throat closed up entirely. “I said…”
Goodness, what did I say? I cannot remember exactly.
“You said that you would consider marrying again if it were with me.” He filled in the blanks. “I assumed you meant so I would die on our wedding night, and you could have Wycliffe all to yourself, but you insisted that was not the case. Indeed, you insisted that you did not want me to die.”
Beatrice’s face flooded with a heat that she had no hope of hiding from him.
“You should not make up stories when someone cannot recall everything,” she said, as sternly as she could, despite knowing he told the truth.
“I do not want you to die, that is true, but I doubt I said I would consider marrying you. Even if you survived my curse, we would kill each other before the honeymoon ended.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” he asked, a cold note creeping back into his voice.
“I am saying that I cannot remember anything I said, so I cannot verify what you are saying,” she replied. “Therefore, we should not have this conversation.”
He nodded slowly. “Yet, you evidently remember saying I have a nice chin. How curious, then, that you can remember one thing but not the other, when they were said around the same time.”
She took a deep breath, preparing to defend herself until he either gave up on the conversation or pretended to forget everything she had said, when the breakfast room door opened.
Prudence lumbered in, pale and clutching her stomach, groaning with each step. “Goodness, I feel awful.” She flashed a nonchalant smile at her brother. “You ought to check that port of yours, Brother; I believe it must be rotten.”
“Liquor does not rot,” he replied stiffly. “However, drinking as much as you did will rot your stomach for a while.”
Prudence flopped down in the nearest chair and stole the last three pieces of toast from the silver rack.
“I needed its assistance, Brother, so please do not be angry with Bea about the entire thing. I was the one who coaxed her from her room. I was the one who opened the bottle. It was all me, so if you have already scolded her, apologize.”
“She could have stopped you,” he pointed out.
“And I would have continued regardless,” Prudence argued. “If anything, she prevented me from getting myself into a worse mess by keeping me company. Bea, has he chided you?”
Beatrice shook her head. “No.”
“Good, I am glad.” Prudence tore a piece of toast off with her teeth, chewing gingerly. “The moment I woke up, that was all I could think about, worrying over how Vincent would treat you this morning. That is why, as much as I wish I was still in my bed, I am down here.”
Vincent took a last sip of his coffee. “I have said nothing to Miss Johnson that is not fair and true. In truth, with so much to discuss, I did not get around to scolding her.”
Do not dare! Beatrice’s heart lurched along with her stomach, fearing he was about to reveal her merry ramblings to Prudence.
“What do you mean?” Prudence frowned as she continued to chew. “What else could you possibly have to discuss? Were you talking about where on earth you snuck out to last night, Brother?”
There was a pointed look in the younger woman’s eyes, as if to say: You did not behave too well, either, abandoning the house as you did.
Or, perhaps, that was just Beatrice projecting her own thoughts about the situation. If he had not ridden out to who-knew-where, they would have had no opportunity to make the most of an empty drawing room and a stocked liquor table.
“It is none of your concern,” Vincent said, glancing at Beatrice, a sly look in his eyes. “Just be glad that I have not scolded her—or you, for that matter—and let it lie.”
Prudence seemed to consider her options. “So, you are not going to shout at me?”
“Not this morning, for I shall let you have the relief of knowing there is no story about you in the scandal sheets instead,” Vincent replied, rising to his feet. “Later, perhaps, though that shall depend upon how you behave today. The servants will be observing, Pru, so do try to be good.”
Oh, thank goodness Prudence is not ruined.
Beatrice cleared her throat of toast. “Where are you going?”
“I have a meeting with Duncan,” he said, heading for the door.
Beatrice jumped up. “May I accompany you? I should like to see Valeria and Charlotte, and if you are going there anyway, you can have no argument.”
“Oh, I should like to come too!” Prudence chirped. “Now that I am not a scandalous wench, I can be seen in society again. Should be, in truth.”
Vincent put up his hand. “Duncan is coming here . We shall be in my study for most of the morning, I expect.” He walked out, tossing back over his shoulder. “If you want to visit Valeria and the girl, you will have to prove to me that you can be trusted to do so.”
Beatrice glowered at the empty space where he had been, simmering with irritation.
It felt, yet again, as if she were back at her childhood home on the rare occasions that her parents were also there.
Perhaps feeling a need to make up for lost time, they had always made a conscientious effort to make her feel as small and stupid as possible: banning her from doing things, judging everything from her appearance to her rapport with the staff, deciding on a whim that she would be prohibited from attending society events for a month or so, among so many other slights.
They, too, had often insisted that she should not be permitted to see her friends until she could ‘prove she could be trusted.’