Page 30 of A Widow for the Earl
“You must use this power carefully,” Beatrice said, laughing as she imagined the chaotic scene. “You must never let anyone know, with any certainty, that it was you. But they should have enough suspicion that they will never cross you.”
Margie jiggled happily in her seat, her cheeks rosy with glee. “I’ll be cautious, my lady. I’ve learned from the very best, after all.”
Just then, Beatrice heard footsteps thudding down the hallway outside her chambers, moving with the quick stride of someone who was either in a hurry or was not pleased about something.
“Oh dear,” she said, smiling. “Someone is in trouble.”
Perhaps, the valet had not steamed Vincent’s collars the way he liked or another vague letter had arrived from the lawyersin Oxford. Indeed, after their first correspondence informing Vincent of his inheritance, the lawyers at Philbert & Sons seemed less than interested in actually making everything official.
At least, that was Beatrice’s guess, judging by the coarse language she had heard coming from Vincent’s study… and the few letters she had managed to take a peek at.
So, it came as something of a shock when her bedchamber door flew open to reveal Vincent, in a rather hilarious state of undress; his face as red as a beetroot.
“I have a dinner party to attend!” he barked, gesturing at himself. “Allof my shirts are like this! Would you care to explain yourself?”
Beatrice stared, wide-eyed, unable to draw her gaze away. From his boots to his waist, all was as it should be, until the exposed ridges of a muscular abdomen marked the problem. The hem of his shirt stopped just below his chest, not cut but carefully sewn, so it looked as if the garment had been shrunk to fit a child.
“And all my waistcoats are too small, so they will not cover this silly trick of yours!” he ranted on, demonstrating as he fruitlessly attempted to fasten the buttons of his waistcoat. Those that did not ping back open strained instead, revealing ovals of that smooth, hard stomach.
It was a startling sight, though not the least bit unpleasant. Rather, it would not have been unpleasant to behold if shehad understood why his clothes were as they were. And why it seemed he was accusing her of meddling with those garments.
From the corner of the room, she heard Margie clear her throat.
Oh Margie, what have you done?
“May we have the room,” Beatrice said hurriedly, flashing a pointed look at her lady’s maid.
Margie set the dresses down at once, jumping to her feet. It was evident that she was responsible for the shrinking of Vincent’s clothes, but she clearly had not considered how Vincent might respond to the sabotage. It would cost Margie her employment, and Beatrice could not allow that.
“I will call you in when we are done,” Beatrice said to the maid, catching hold of her hand as she passed, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Do not worry.”
The maid gave a small, frightened nod, and rushed out of the room as fast as her legs could carry her.
“Do you want me to send you away?” Vincent snapped, as soon as the maid was gone. “Are you trying to get me to undo my decision to let you stay? Why on earth would you do this? What is wrong with you?”
Beatrice rose from her chair, taking a moment to look Vincent up and down. After all, if she was going to take the blame forthis, she at least deserved the reward of storing this vision of him in her memory forever.
Against her better judgment, laughter bubbled up the back of her throat, spilling out into the room. It was not merely the shrunken shirt but the way he was standing, as if he did not know how he had ended up like that. He stood stiffly, like a marionette waiting for someone to tug his strings, his face so aghast that it was impossiblenotto laugh.
“Do not dare!” he shouted. “This is not at all amusing! I am supposed to meet several of my associates for dinner this evening, and I have nothing to wear!”
“It could be a… new fashion,” she wheezed, unable to stop the laughter. “You should… trim the waistcoat too. Give your stomach an opportunity… to breathe! Goodness, the physicians would have to… pay you, for so many ladies would… bump their heads fainting!”
Vincent stormed toward her, breathing hard as he halted half a step away, his eyes flashing with fury. “I thought we had a truce, Beatrice!”
That name again…It had made her brain stop working when he had said it the first time, in the entrance hall after Lord Mancefield’s departure. Indeed, she had thought she had misheard for a moment, or that it had been an accident.
Yet, there it was again: her name, her actual name, spoken from his lips.
“I thought this was the beginning of some civility between us,” he continued, oblivious to her astonishment. “Why, Beatrice? Why would you do this to my clothes?”
I cannot let Margie take the punishment for this, even if ithasshattered our fragile truce.
She took a moment to gather herself, letting her laughter fade. “It was done before you said that I could stay,” she lied. “I was angry and I… took that out on your clothes. I should have told you but, in truth, I forgot.”
He grabbed the sides of his waistcoat, pulling them as far across his bare stomach as they would go, as if remembering that he was not appropriately dressed.
“And my good shoes?”
