Page 12 of A Widow for the Earl
“I am Vincent Wilds, the Earl of Grayling,” he replied tersely. “And, contrary to the apparent belief of this household, I am expected. The letter came to me a week ago, from Philbert & Sons of Oxford.”
The older man’s expression changed in an instant, transforming from tense suspicion to wide-eyed shock. “My lord, please accept my apologies!” he gushed. “I am Mr. Bolam, the butler of this house. I am so very sorry that I didn’t recognize you.”
“You have never met me,” Vincent pointed out. “How could you have recognized me? Still, someonecouldhave been at the door to greet me upon my arrival.”
He noticed the shift in Beatrice too, the confidence slipping from her face, replaced with confusion. Evidently, she had some manner of rapport with the butler of the household and had expected him to do her bidding. She was floundering, and Vincent would have been lying if he had said he did not feel a little satisfaction at the sight.
“Clearly, I am missing something,” Beatrice said tightly. “Who are Philbert & Sons? Why would they have cause to summonyou, of all people? Mr. Bolam, what is the meaning of this?”
The butler smiled apologetically at Beatrice. “Forgive me, my lady. I meant to inform you, but I did not know when Lord Grayling might arrive, as I received no word.”
Vincent thought he detected a note of blame from the older man, and he could not permit that. “I sent a letter, Mr. Bolam. I do not arrive at places unannounced. If it was not received, it must have been lost.”
“Will someone tell me what is going on?” Beatrice urged, a wildness in her honeyed eyes.
The butler bowed his head. “My lady, this gentleman is the heir to Wycliffe Manor.”
Beatrice’s mouth moved, but no sound emerged. Her gaze flitted between Vincent and Mr. Bolam, unblinking, while her hand flew to her chest. She took a small step backward, the sound of her ragged breathing catching Vincent’s attention.
Is she going to faint?He had not thought it would be such a shock. He had assumed that she would have been informed, yet it was plain to see that she knew nothing about this.
“Is this a jest?” she rasped. “Some trickery? Some means to torment me?”
Vincent sighed. “I am merely here to assess the situation, and to stay until this matter is resolved.” He looked to the butler, his tone sharp as he asked, “A guest chamber, if you would be so kind?”
“Of course, my lord.” Mr. Bolam bowed his head, backing off up the hallway, to the entrance hall. “I will get you situated and then I will have the footmen bring in your luggage. Did you arrive by carriage?”
“I did,” Vincent replied, pleased that, at last, he seemed to have the right level of respect.
“Very good, my lord.” The butler gestured upward. “If you would follow me.”
Before Vincent could move a muscle, Beatrice’s hand clamped around his wrist, her face a mask of blazing, somewhat alarming fury. He had been on the receiving end of her glares and curt remarks before, but this was something rather more chilling, her expression verging on madness.
“This house is not yours,” she hissed. “You need to leave. Mr. Bolam, donotgive him a bedchamber.”
The butler faltered, evidently torn. “My lady, I… cannot argue with the law. He is the heir. I read it in the letter myself.”
“But he isnotthe Viscount,” she shot back. “The title is not yet his. An heir is just that.”
Vincent prized her fingers away from his wrist with as much care as he could muster. “I am tired, Miss Johnson. We shall speak of this in the morning. You return to your entertainment, I shall retire to my chambers, and let us see if we cannot be more civil tomorrow.” He glanced at the butler. “Mr. Bolam, my rooms.”
“Of course, my lord,” the butler replied, continuing his progress toward the foyer. “This way.”
Vincent followed at his own pace, stifling a yawn as he headed up a sweeping staircase. But as he turned right on the landing, a curious compulsion made him look down, over the elegant wooden banister. Beatrice sat on the bottom step of the staircase, her back to him, her shoulders curved, her head held in her hands.
A trick to lower my guard,he reasoned, an odd prickle catching him in the chest. A feeling of… pity, or something like it.It is manipulation, nothing more. Others may fall for it, but I will not.
Concentrating on the butler ahead of him, he did not look back again. Indeed, he would do well not to think about her either: not those honeyed eyes or that glossy, half-wild dark hair or her bitten-red lips or the radiance of her alabaster skin. It was all sorcery, and he wouldnotbe enchanted.
He had come here for one purpose and one alone: to receive his unexpected inheritance. Once he had done so,thenhe would decide what to do with the widow of the late viscount, and not a moment before.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Heavens, how I despise you.
Beatrice sipped her weak coffee, the buttery eggs cooling on her plate, for the smug man opposite had robbed her of her appetite. Just as he had robbed her of her sleep by daring to commandeer a room inherhouse. She had tossed and turned all night, for though he had been given chambers at the other end of the manor, she hadfeltthe unwelcome presence, to the point where he might as well have been snoring right beside her instead.
“Is this why you came to the wedding?” she said abruptly, a notion coming to her with her next sip of coffee.
