Page 21 of A Widow for the Earl
“You saw me send the invitations,” Beatrice protested, snapping out of her momentary daze. “You followed me all the way to the post office.”
He turned his displeasure on her, though there was a faint flicker of something else in his eyes as he looked down at her. Not embarrassment, but something like it. The memory of their awkward walk back to Wycliffe, perhaps.
“Indeed, you watched me prepare everything,” she continued. “Did you think I was draping the drawing room in all that fabric for my own amusement?”
“It would not surprise me,” he replied curtly, before glancing toward Duncan. “Lockie, take everyone else and leave. The party is over.”
“Come now, what is the matter with you?” Duncan replied, moving to put an arm around his wife, his expression uncharacteristically severe as he stared back at his friend. “We were all having a pleasant time. You should try it, Vincent.”
“I have enough to contend with, without having to enter my residence to find everyone playing childish games,” Vincent replied, bristling with anger.
Duncan narrowed his eyes. “This attitude is beneath you, Vincent. Beatrice has had a difficult time of late and has just ended her mourning period. She wanted to be with her friends, to enjoy herself and, undoubtedly, to remember the purpose of being alive: to make merry with the people dearest to you.” He sniffed. “That is something you would do well to remember, from time to time.”
“I will not repeat myself. Take everyone else and leave,” Vincent said, turning to look at his sisters. “Tess, Prudence, I expected better from the pair of you. We shall discuss this another time.”
“She has done nothing wrong,” Cyrus interjected, wearing an expression upon his scarred face that sent a chill down Beatrice’s spine, yet warmed her heart at the same time.
Here was a man who would do anything for his beloved wife, even if it meant fighting her brother. They were evenly matched in build and height, though Beatrice would have wagered on Cyrus, purely because he was fueled by absolute, dedicated passion for his wife.
Teresa patted her husband’s chest gently. “We should go, Cyrus.” She glanced at her brother with sad eyes. “We were on our way to a ball anyway, pausing here awhile before heading to Valeria’s to ready ourselves.”
Cyrus flashed Vincent a look that said,You are lucky my wife is here.Not a man of too many words, Cyrus then curved his arm around Teresa’s waist, guiding her out of the ballroom. Prudence hastened to follow, with Valeria and Duncan bringing up the rear.
At the ballroom door, Valeria turned back, casting a pointed look at her cousin to gauge whether or not Beatrice would be all right if they left.
Beatrice gave a small nod, mouthing,Go, I will be fine.
“That means you, too,” Vincent growled, shooting a fierce look at the only one who had made no move to depart.
Frederick turned up his nose at the remark, choosing to fix his full attention on Beatrice instead. “Do you want to come back with me, Trixie? I have the carriage; I can take you to your father’s or to one of your friends’ residences. I can take you anywhere you want to go.” He paused. “You do not have to stay here.”
“It is my home,” Beatrice replied, smiling sadly. “I will not leave it, though I thank you for the offer. Go on, now. I shall write to you soon, if you are not off gallivanting somewhere.”
Frederick shook his head. “I will be where you can find me, Trixie.”
Shooting one last, cold glare at Vincent, Frederick left the ballroom, closing the door behind him. Leaving Beatrice all alone with the man who seemed determined to rob her of her every joy, beginning his campaign with her friends, now moving onto her home and her peace.
“Is he the lucky fourth?” Vincent asked, a sarcastic note to his voice.
He had not yet let go of her arm, his grip tightening for a moment.
“Freddie is my friend,” Beatrice retorted, wresting her arm free of him at last. “And there willbeno fourth, as I have already told you. How many times would you like me to repeat it before it finally gets through that dense skull of yours? Is there a specific number I should know about?”
“What is the matter? Does he not have a large enough estate? Is he too likely to survive the threat of marrying you?” Vincent replied, flexing the hand that had held her wrist, as if to rid himself of the feeling.
Beatrice stared at him in disbelief. “Whatever anger you may have toward this little gathering of mine, it does not give you the right to be cruel.” Her voice wavered, panic rising as tears prickled in her eyes.
She could not let him, of all people, see her cry. She would not let him know he had wounded her, not ever.
“Duncan was right,” she said, pouring all the venom she could into her words in the hope that it would cover the shake of her voice. “You should try enjoying yourself sometime, then you might not feel so compelled to ruin everyone else’s joy. You are like a child who has seen someone else with a toy that you cannot have. You destroy it so no one can have it.”
His expression hardened. “This manor is not your personal Assembly Rooms. Regardless of what you seem to believe, this manor is not yours at all.” He jabbed a finger toward the closed door. “Your friends are not welcome back here. That includes my sisters, who youwillstay away from, lest Prudence end up at all like you.”
“No, Vincent, the greater pity would be if she ended up at all likeyou,” Beatrice replied with deadly calm, fighting against her tears, just about holding them back. “Indeed, how could she ever hope to find a happy match if she had a heart of stone?”
He blinked as if she had struck him, though he recovered swiftly, his cold mask returning as he rasped, “Your games end here, Miss Johnson.”
With that, he walked out through the French doors, into the rain, letting the icy wind bluster in. Burning with a fury that kept any chill at bay, Beatrice glared at his departing back, wondering howthatcould be the same man who had kept her from falling and held her so very, very close.
