Page 49 of A Wife for the Beast (Scandals and Second Chances #6)
“Ah! Our guests of honour,” he said brightly. “Miss Huxford, you are even lovelier than rumour suggests. And Miss Huxford—the other Miss Huxford, I should say—your reputation for wit precedes you.”
“A reputation I did not know I possessed,” Imogen replied, arching a brow.
“A pleasure to discover it now, then,” Nathaniel said with an easy grin, sliding into the chair opposite.
“Pray, call me Imogen,” she replied. “Otherwise, I fear the evening may grow quite complicated — unless, of course, you intend to address us as Miss Huxford One and Miss Huxford Two.”
Nathaniel laughed a little too loudly at Imogen’s witticism, but he had always been rather good at lightening the formality of such occasions.
Phineas said nothing. He simply watched them all—watched Vera.
The soup course arrived, and Agatha’s voice, as always, cut like a silver blade through the clinking of spoons against porcelain.
“Such a modest gown, Miss Huxford,” she remarked, looking at Vera with disdain, her tone dripping with condescension dressed up as poorly feigned admiration.
“It is refreshing to see a young woman unencumbered by the vanity of silks and satins. So many brides are more concerned with frippery than fitness.”
Phineas had known it would only be a matter of time before Agatha felt the need to assert her authority with snide comments. While Nathaniel seemed happier to relieve the tension, Agatha couldn’t help inciting it, but it was a good opportunity to see if Vera could hold her own.
Vera looked up from her spoon, her voice mild but steady. “I find that comfort in lengthy travel is more useful than opulence, Lady Renwick, and I am nothing if not practical.”
“How sensible,” Agatha said, with the faintest curl of her lips. “One hopes it will serve you well here.”
Nathaniel chuckled, lifting his glass. “Indeed, Vera—may I call you Vera? —you have already proven yourself a lady of great substance. I can see why my cousin chose you.”
Phineas shifted. “The match was arranged, not chosen.”
“Ah, but even arranged matches may prove fortuitous,” Nathaniel said, with that infuriating gleam in his eye. “Particularly when the bride is young, capable, and—”
“We are not here to catalogue Miss Huxford’s virtues,” Phineas interrupted coldly.
A pause followed. Then Imogen leaned slightly forward. “I, for one, am greatly enjoying the hospitality. Thornborough Abbey is... remarkable.”
Agatha smiled thinly. “It has weathered its share of storms. Not unlike its master.”
The words hung in the air.
Phineas said nothing. Let them speak in riddles. Let them attempt their veiled barbs. He was more interested in Vera’s reactions. Her posture had stiffened just slightly, and yet she never looked away from Agatha. Never allowed herself to shrink under her scathing eye.
Interesting.
“I trust you have some experience with managing a household, Miss Huxford?” Agatha continued. “Thornborough is not a place that runs itself. One must be firm with the staff—particularly when they are accustomed to a certain standard.”
Vera inclined her head. “I have managed my father’s estate these past five years. Though modest, it demanded discipline and care. I am not without experience, Lady Renwick.”
“Ah, yes. Modest holdings,” Agatha murmured, taking a delicate sip of her wine. “How quaint. A little different to an abbey, though perhaps a suitable stepping stone.”
Any more condescending, and she might as well have patted her on the head.
Phineas’s gaze sharpened. The old woman was testing her, needling her, prodding for cracks. But Vera only folded her hands gently in her lap, allowing Agatha to have her moment holding court, and said nothing more.
The fish course came and went. Nathaniel entertained the table with a tale from their boyhood—Phineas riding headlong into the duck pond during a thunderstorm—and was rewarded with polite laughter.
Imogen’s was genuine; Vera’s, Phineas noted, was not.
Her eyes flicked to him, assessing—perhaps wondering how such a boy had become this man.
As the next course was served, a young footman—barely more than a boy—lost his grip on the decanter and spilled a generous splash of claret near Vera’s plate. The liquid spread quickly across the linen, seeping toward her sleeve.
The footman froze.
“I oh, I am so sorry. I—”
Before Phineas could speak, Vera acted. She rose calmly, took her napkin, and helped the boy steady the tray.
“It is quite all right,” she said gently to the boy who had turned a rather impressive shade of puce. “An accident, nothing more.”
The boy stammered, continuing to apologise profusely.
Agatha tutted softly. “One hopes such mishaps will not become a habit, young man. We are unused to... fragile nerves in this house.”
“Nerves are not exclusive to servants, Lady Renwick,” Imogen replied with a sweet, steely smile. “Even mistresses may falter when provoked.”
Phineas nearly smiled. Agatha looked incensed.
“Put this little mishap out of your head, and bear it no further thought,” Vera said to the young man. “No harm done at all.”
The footman bowed in gratitude and scuttled out of the dining room as fast as he could without breaking into a run.
That was decent of her. Kind.
Agatha rolled her eyes.
Dessert was brought, but Phineas scarcely noticed what it was. He watched Vera’s hands, the way she sipped her wine, the flicker of her lashes when Nathaniel spoke too familiarly.
He cleared his throat, drawing their attention before the cheese and biscuits were served.
“We shall be wed in two days in the abbey chapel,” he said. “A simple ceremony.”
Vera met his gaze directly. “Of course, my lord.”
And she held it—did not blink, did not flinch, did not feign a smile.
He inclined his head. “You are excused whenever you are ready. Both of you. Kingsley will see to your comfort.”
He turned and left the room, the weight in his chest heavier than before—not from dread, but from something infinitely more dangerous. Something like hope.