Page 33 of A Widow for the Earl
“Pru!” she shouted, waving wildly.
The young woman spun around, beaming from ear to ear as she set eyes on Beatrice. A moment later, she was darting through the crowd toward Beatrice, not afraid to elbow a few stubborn ladies out of the way.
And she did not come alone.
“Bea!” Prudence cried, throwing her arms around her friend. “I did not know you would be here! Oh, I am so pleased! Did you get my letters?”
Beatrice hugged Prudence in return. “I did, dearest Pru. I read them with great delight.” She paused, eyeing the gentleman who stood rather awkwardly, just behind Prudence. “And who might this young gentleman be? A friend of yours?”
“Yes!” Prudence pulled back. “Goodness, I would lose my head if it were not attached to my neck. This is my dear friend, Peter.”
“Peter?” Beatrice repeated, her eyebrow raised. “Does Peter have a surname? A title, perhaps? I should hate to be considered rude, speaking to him so informally.”
Prudence giggled behind her hand. “Peter Swann, youngest son of the Baron of Waterford.”
“Quite a line of heirs ahead of you, Mr. Swann,” Beatrice teased mildly, extending her hand to the gentleman. “Six brothers, if I am not mistaken?”
Peter cleared his throat, taking Beatrice’s hand. “Five. I am the sixth.”
“Yes, of course.” She shook his hand firmly, peering intently into his eyes to make her first impression of the man.
Searching her mind for information, she found the shelf in her mental library that pertained to the Baron of Waterford. He was a loud, brash sort of fellow, with a rather distinguished military career behind him. His sons had been raised in kind, all rather rowdy and a little rough around the edges, each one built like a bear.
Except this one.
Peter was tall and lean, with a nervous look about him. He certainly did not have the firm grip Beatrice had expected, his handshake rather limp. Then again, that might have had more to do with her reputation than his ability to shake a hand well.
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Swann,” she said with a forced smile.
“Likewise, Lady Wycliffe,” Peter replied, sweeping a hand through his thick, wavy blonde hair.
Prudence grabbed Beatrice by the arm, dancing a little jig beside her. “Freddie is here. Have you seen him yet? I know he will be thrilled to discover that you are here. He asked how you were when I saw him. Of course, I told him you were perfectly well, battling my brother and his stubbornness. He laughed at that. He has a lovely laugh, does he not?”
“The very best,” Beatrice agreed, turning her gaze back to the crowd, to see if she could spot her dear friend.
“I see that my brother has forgiven us, then,” Prudence said, bringing Beatrice’s attention back. “I was worried about you, at that house all alone with him, but now I see I had no need to be.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “He cannot stop looking at you.”
Beatrice turned her head, surprised to find Vincent staring right at her. The moment their eyes met, he looked away, saying something to the boring gentleman beside him.
“I think he wants to be rescued from this dull conversation,” Beatrice whispered back to her friend. “Thatis why he was looking.”
Prudence scoffed. “Or it is because you are the most beautiful woman in the room, as you always have been. This gown is the most extraordinary thing I have ever seen! Wherever did you find chainmail? Is it not terribly heavy?”
“Notsoheavy,” Beatrice replied.
A moment later, Vincent had excused himself from the conversation, coming to join his sister and Beatrice. He took one look at Peter and his expression hardened, extending his hand to the young man.
“Mr. Swann. I remember your father.” Vincent smiled stiffly. “Remind him that he owes me money. Not a large sum, but large enough that I continue to notice its absence.”
Peter hurried to shake Vincent’s hand, his nervous eyes becoming a little more nervous. “I do not know anything about that, my lord. I do know that he is eager to have another meeting with you. Perhaps, I could tell him that you would be willing?” He nudged Prudence lightly in the arm. “Your sister and I could have tea while you talk.”
“They do not serve good tea at the gentlemen’s club,” Vincent replied, “and, last I remember, your father had his membership revoked for boisterous behavior. And I do not invite those who have ignored my requests for months into my house to have tea.”
Prudence gasped. “Vincent, you are being horrid. Peter is my friend. You can make an exception for a friend of mine.”
“I could make an exception if that friend were Beatrice,” Vincent countered, “but not for a gentleman friend of yours. After all, there is no such thing. Ladies and gentlemen cannot be friends. I believe there is an old proverb that says that a man cannot keep a chicken as a pet, for he will, one day, when he is hungry enough, inevitably try to eat it.”
Beatrice clamped a hand to her mouth to try and smother a snort, both impressed by his subtle jab at Peter and surprisingly amused. It was easy to forget that Vincent was not without wit. Moreover, she was glad that he seemed to be of the same opinion about the Swann boy; he was vastly unworthy of an extraordinary woman like Prudence.
