Page 38 of A Widow for the Earl (The Gentlemen’s Club #5)
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Y ou idiot! You prized bloody idiot!
Vincent shook with the magnitude of what he had just done as he marched through the manor and swept straight out into the evening air.
The power of Beatrice’s kiss still tingled on his lips, taunting him, and though she was gone from his arms, he could somehow still feel her there.
His chest missed the touch of her palms, his hand missed the curve of her waist and the soft skin of her cheek, his entire being howling at him to return to the theater to kiss her again.
His entire being, minus his staunch mind.
That kiss had confirmed to his heart what he had already suspected: that he was hopelessly, fruitlessly in love with her. At the same time, the realization had sent his mind into defensive maneuvers, putting up walls and mental artillery to keep her out.
If she had not pulled away, his heart might have won, but the moment he had seen her wide-eyed, worried expression, his mind had swooped in, locking up his heart for traitorous behavior.
You cannot be in love with her, you fool. You do not know how, and you will only disappoint her with your meager attempt.
He had made a vow, long ago, that he would not tend to his own future until each of his sisters was taken care of. That vow was older than any affection he felt for Beatrice. If he was to be the man he had promised to be, he could not neglect his duties now or break his vow.
I dare not risk being the fourth, when Prudence is still unwed.
It was a solid enough excuse, and one he clung onto as he veered left sharply, a decision forming with each determined step.
Crunching across the gravel, he only had one destination in mind: the coach house. The carriage would need to be ready first thing, for he and Prudence would be leaving tomorrow. And until his sister was married, he would not be coming back. The risk, he had decided, was just too great.
The following morning, bright and early, Beatrice breezed down the staircase to the breakfast room. She had slept well, dreaming of secret kisses in darkened theaters, and had awoken in good spirits. Indeed, she was more certain than ever that their kiss had been a sign, and she meant to pursue it.
I will tell him why I stopped the kiss, and I will tell him my theory.
She smiled nervously to herself, realizing that what she was about to say to Vincent was tantamount to a confession.
Absurd, really, considering how they had begun with such animosity.
But her heart no longer felt shattered, that kiss putting every tiny piece back together, and if that was not a good omen, then she did not know what was.
She was in love with him, and she had the most wonderful feeling that he loved her in return. That was something to be trusted. That was something she had never sought but realized she wanted with him. That was a divine gift, and those were not to be rejected because of fear and old beliefs.
At the door to the breakfast room, she paused to take a steadying breath. This could well be the biggest day of her life, and she did not want to begin with jitters and inelegance.
He loves me; I am sure of it.
Repeating the sentiment in her head for courage, remembering every glorious moment of their kiss, she pushed through the door.
Vincent sat in his usual spot, his face hidden by the morning papers.
His plate of eggs was untouched, his cup of weak coffee no longer steaming, as if it had been there for some time.
Peculiar for a man who let nothing go to waste, but Beatrice reasoned that he might be as nervous as she was, an anxious stomach denying him his appetite.
“Good morning,” she said brightly, settling down in the chair across from him.
With care, he folded up the papers and set them beside his untouched plate of food. But if she had expected fond smiles and bashful looks across the breakfast table, she was to be sorely disappointed.
Vincent appeared as if he had not slept, his dark blue eyes as cold as the deep ocean they took their color from. “Yes, good morning. I had hoped to catch you before we left.” He gestured to the door. “Prudence has already had her breakfast and is packing the last of her belongings.”
“Pardon?” Beatrice croaked, wondering if the glaring light through the windows behind him had somehow affected her hearing.
“She will be spending the final bit of summer and then the autumn with her aunt in the north,” Vincent continued. “It is a compromise, for I hear there is quite a social calendar up there. And I trust her aunt to watch over her far more than I trust my mother.”
Beatrice could do nothing but stare at him, her throat strangled by an invisible hand of crushing devastation.
She had been so certain that yesterday evening meant something.
He had not answered her question about whether he liked having her around or not, not with words, but he had answered with his lips. A magical kiss, now somehow cursed.
“And… she has agreed?” Beatrice managed to rasp.
Vincent nodded. “I gave her the choice of having me as her chaperone or staying with her aunt.”
“Is it the lawyers? Has your inheritance been challenged?” she asked, desperate for some explanation.
He rose to his feet. “Nothing of the sort. I will inherit properly in due course, I expect, but I no longer see a reason why you should not look after this manor. I have no further use for it, and I cannot expend any more time and effort into being here when I should be at Grayling. I should have used messengers all along.” He began walking to the door.
“You will be left alone in this home of yours, just as you wished.”
“No!” she roared, finding her voice as she shot up.
He halted, turning. “Excuse me?”
“No, I will not allow this,” she replied. “ That is all you can say to me after last night? You are just… leaving, without any explanation?”
He raised an eyebrow. “With respect, Lady Wycliffe, I have given you an explanation. You are the late Viscount’s wife; you do deserve some security. I am giving you that. What more do you want?”
“I…” She floundered, heat rushing into her face.
For what felt like an infernal eternity, they stood there staring at one another, neither saying a word. All the while, the burn of something like humiliation scorched through Beatrice’s veins, pricking at her eyes.
You are a fool, Beatrice Johnson. A fool to think anyone could want you.
Her parents did not, the families of her deceased husbands did not, society did not. Why would he be any different? He had kissed her, the very act no doubt confirming how unsuitable she was, and now he was leaving.
“Was there something more you wanted to say?” he asked brusquely. “If not, the carriage is already waiting, and I must hurry my sister along.”
She put up her hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “No, do not let me keep you.” She forced a bitter smile. “What else would I have to say to you, when you have said it all already? Although, I suppose I should say thank you.”
“For what?” he replied, a flicker of something in his eyes.
“For allowing me to win,” she said. “Thank you for allowing me to have my home. You are so very gracious. Indeed, thank you for granting me my freedom, for now I shall never have to see another gentleman if I do not want to, and I shall certainly never have to marry again.”
She could not see her own expression, but she could feel the fury in it, simmering below the surface.
Yes, she had wanted the safety and familiarity of Wycliffe.
Yes, she had wanted to keep her home, but he had ruined any joy she might have felt.
For the very last thing she had ever wanted was to feel abandoned again, discarded like a loose thread plucked from a gown.
“You are welcome,” he replied coolly. “So, I shall bid you farewell.”
She laughed frostily. “I will not wave you off. I would not want you to get the wrong impression.” She rested her hand against the chair. “Indeed, I shall stay right here, so we do not get too close.”
“Farewell, Lady Wycliffe,” he repeated.
“Enjoy your ghosts,” she replied. “Farewell, Lord Grayling. I hope our paths do not cross again.”
For you have broken my heart, as I feared you would. You have crushed it to dust, teaching me a lesson I shall not soon forget.
The Beatrice of a year ago would have loosened a bolt in the carriage wheel or snuck into his luggage, stealing every pair of trousers, or sent letters out to every lady in England with a daughter, inviting them to a ‘private’ party at the Grayling Estate, causing utter chaos.
But the Beatrice of now was too tired for revenge, her dashed hopes stealing the last of her desire to seek justice.
Instead, she just wanted him to go, so she would not have to look at his cold eyes and remember when they were filled with warmth, so she would not have to think about how passionately that grim mouth had kissed her.
“Farewell,” he said a third time, before he turned and left.
And, for once, she let him have the final word. She had nothing more to say to him.