Page 26 of A Widow for the Earl
Yet, from the opposite settee in the drawing room, neither Edmund nor Vincent seemed to notice Lord Mancefield’s indecorous behavior. They were discussing something in low voices, blissfully unaware of Beatrice’s discomfort.
Ordinarily, she would have dealt with the likes of Lord Mancefield with her sharp tongue and sharper tricks, perhaps ‘accidentally’ knocking his glass of brandy into his face or making a rude sound then blaming it on him. But she was trying to show Edmund that she was not the unruly thing Vincent claimed she was, to win him over to her side.
If his friends persuade him to let me stay, then I am certain he will relent.
“You are like my stallion, Miss Johnson,” Lord Mancefield murmured, licking his already wet lips. “You just need a true man to tame you.”
She nodded slowly. “Is that so?” She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice to a harsh whisper. “Then, you must lead me to your stablemaster, because I have every doubt that you were the one who trained that stallion. Did you not hear me say I watched you arrive from the window? You barely know how to ride the thing.”
Lord Mancefield’s pale blue eyes flashed with anger. “I beg your pardon?”
“There is no need,” she replied with a smile. “You are forgiven for your uncouth words, but do not do it again. And please, referto me as Lady Wycliffe, for that is my title, and this is my home. I will not be insulted within these walls.”
“Insulted?” he hissed, sneering. “That is rather rich coming from you. It is an insult tometo even be here, considering the hand of a wicked girl like you. I only came as a favor to Lord Grayling. You ought to be begging me to accept you as my wife. Who else would have a murderess for a bride?”
“Who else, indeed?” she challenged, refusing to back down. “You must be exceptionally desperate and out of options yourself, if you have deigned to come here. I would have to investigate, but I am certain I could uncover some very interesting information about you without having to search too hard.”
Lord Mancefield huffed and puffed, turning an alarming shade of red. “And you, Madam, have your name in every scandal sheet,” he spat. “I assure you, I am not without options, but why would a man make life difficult for himself when it can be simple instead? You have no worth in society anymore. Therefore, I do not have to deal with the nuisance of wooing you. I canmakeyou marry me, and you cannot say no. It will be done if I say so, and I shall certainly look forward to teaching you a lesson, bringing you to heel.”
His hand moved to grab her knee, a terrifying hunger in his eyes. Beatrice was about to jump up, no longer caring about appearances, when another hand shot across the low table, seizing Lord Mancefield by the wrist.
“I think not, Lord Mancefield,” Vincent snarled.
“Come now, what does it matter?” the vile man replied, laughing. “She will be my bride soon enough anyway.”
A moment later, Vincent stood above Lord Mancefield, gripping the man’s collar in his fist. Vincent’s arms strained the seams of his tailcoat as he hauled the wretched suitor up by the scruff, shoving him unceremoniously toward the drawing room door.
“She will never be yours,” Vincent hissed, just loud enough that Beatrice heard. “If you show your face here again, you will be removed far less politely.”
Lord Mancefield glared at Vincent. “I was doingyoua favor.”
“Consider the debt paid,” Vincent replied curtly, marching the man out into the hallway, disappearing from Beatrice’s shocked view.
Across the low table, on the opposite settee, Edmund rose to his feet in similar astonishment. He bowed his head briefly to Beatrice, muttering, “I should assist, Lady Wycliffe. To ensure that Lord Mancefield departs in a timely manner, and no one ends up bleeding.”
Beatrice gave a small nod, too stunned by Vincent’s sudden, intense defense of her to speak.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Vincent stood on the porch, glowering at Lord Mancefield’s retreating figure. His breaths came in short, sharp bursts, his lungs hot with rage, his entire body ablaze with a discomfort he could not explain or soothe.
“I will walk to the gates,” Edmund said, at Vincent’s side. “It is better to be certain that he has gone. Meanwhile, I think you should catch your breath. Steady yourself before you return to the drawing room.”
Leaning against one of the twin pillars, Vincent glanced at his friend. “I do not need to steady myself. I am perfectly fine. It was that man’s… dishonorable conduct that angered me, but I am calm now.”
“If you say so,” Edmund replied, frowning. “Nevertheless, I will check that Lord Mancefield is gone.”
He set off down the steps, strolling at a leisurely pace toward the distant gates. A path that would take him past the gray chapel where Beatrice had married Sebastian Hartley.
She was a beautiful bride…
He recalled his harsh judgment at the time, thinking her either mad or deliberately incendiary for wearing red to her wedding. Yet, through the softer lens of that moment, seeing the sunlight gleam off the chapel’s slate roof, he remembered her appearance very differently. Breathtaking in scarlet, wearing the color that, no doubt, had best reflected her mood.
Was Sebastian like that, too? Did he speak to her that way? Did he… try to touch her before they were wed?
Anger flared afresh in the pit of stomach, his hands itching to punch that weasel, Lord Mancefield, squarely in the nose. He had noticed the voices rising too late, unable to calm the situation before it reached such tension, but he had not been too late to see Lord Mancefield’s hand falling toward Beatrice’s leg.
Instinct had taken over. Even now, he did not feel like himself, but like something had been unleashed that could not be caged again. He was a man of decorum and civility, yet hewouldhave struck the man if he had said one more word about Beatrice.
