Page 32 of A Widow for the Earl
“Miss Johnson, I?—”
The carriage ground to a halt on the gravel, the grand archway of Huxtable House somehow appearing outside the window. They had arrived without him realizing, his time for brokering a new truce cut short.
“Yes, Lord Grayling?” she prompted, the sound of that formality almost like an insult from her mouth.
He shook his head. “Nothing. Come, we are already twenty minutes late.”
“It is a ball,” she replied, raising an eyebrow. “There is no such thing as late.”
Ignoring her, he opened the carriage door and stepped out, ready to proceed into the house. But courtesy made him pivot, his throat tight as he held out his hand to receive Beatrice.
In the doorway of the carriage, she stared at his proffered hand for a moment. Then, with a shrug, she placed her own hand delicately in his, the brush of her silk glove tingling his skin.
“Stay by my side,” he said thickly, suddenly hit with a punch of sweet lavender that made his head spin.
She peered up at him, the ghost of a smile upon her lips. “If you insist.”
“I… um… have many eligible lords in mind, to introduce to you,” he explained, unable to rid his senses of that intoxicating scent. “They have all been investigated thoroughly, this time. Of course, there will be plenty of gossip about you this evening, but just ignore it and stay close to me.”
She nodded slowly. “What if the gossip is about us?”
“Pardon?”
“The Bride of Death and her bewitched protector,” Beatrice replied, rolling her eyes. “Society relishes a juicy tale, and you know Lord Mancefield will have wrung every drop from our meeting the other day.”
Vincent’s lip curled. “I will simply tell the truth—that Lord Mancefield is a mannerless beast, andIdo not tolerate such behavior in my residence. I daresay society respects me more than him, so they will soon find there is nothing to gossip about.”
“Spoken like someone who has never been on the receiving end of society’s lashing tongue,” Beatrice said with a weary sigh, as she began to move toward the entrance, and he walked at her side.
The moment the pair set foot inside the entrance hall, the chatter of loitering guests came to a whispering halt. Eyes widened and jaws dropped, a few of the ladies nudging one another, while the gentlemen took a noticeable step back, as if Beatrice’s curse could infect them simply by being in her presence.
A footman approached. “May I take your cloak, Madame?”
“Thank you,” Beatrice replied.
She flashed a smile at a gentleman who looked particularly terrified, as the footman carefully removed her cloak… revealinga gown of such haunting beauty that Vincent felt his own face transform into an expression of shock.
The gown was of the darkest blue, appearing almost black until the light hit it. In place of lace to hem the capped sleeves and neckline, there was a woven design that resembled chainmail. Meanwhile, an actual band of chainmail served as a ribbon beneath her bust, embellished with glass teardrops that hung down in varying lengths. And all across the midnight blue silk were the tiniest spangles, glittering like stars across a clear summer night.
“I hope that was not expensive,” Vincent murmured, finding his voice.
Beatrice smiled at him. “A small fortune, but do not worry; I will pay it back when I find myself a willing sacrifice.”
“That is not funny,” he chided.
“No, it is not,” she replied. “So, who will you introduce me to first? Which Lord do you like the least?”
He held out his hand for her to take, wondering if everyone else had been right after all. Perhaps, getting Beatrice married reallywasan impossible task.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
After an hour of being dragged in front of every lord that Vincent had a vague acquaintance to, Beatrice was ready to dunk him in the pond if it meant she got to leave. It had been a long while since she had witnessed his public persona, and it had served as a stark reminder of why she had not liked him in the first place.
“It is all about sugar and tobacco,” Vincent insisted to a very dull lord, whose name Beatrice had already forgotten. “Spices are all well and good, but they do not travel well, and the distances are too unpredictable. More spice ships sink than any other. Trust me, youmustspeculate with sugar and tobacco.”
Beatrice hid a yawn behind her hand, gazing across the ballroom for greater entertainment. She smiled at the dancers who leaped about in the midst of a country dance, wishing someone might askherto dance. The trouble was, no man wanted to be near her, and Vincent would not let her stray from his side.
Just then, she spotted a blissfully familiar face.
