Page 34 of A Widow for the Earl
“What nonsense, Brother. Beatrice is friends with Freddie, and he has not tried to eat her!” Prudence protested. “Things are not the same as the dark ages when you entered society, Brother. Ladies and gentlemencanbe friends these days. You are eight-and-twenty, yet you spout your beloved, archaic rules as if you were two-and-eighty.”
Beatrice smothered another laugh, forever fascinated by the Wilds family. She had often wondered how it could have produced four vastly different siblings, when they had been raised in the same house, by the same parents, in the same environment.
“You should not speak so informally,” Vincent chided. “You should refer to your ‘friend’ as Mr. Swann, and you should not be wandering the ball alone with him. Where is our mother?”
Prudence wafted a hand toward the opposite side of the ballroom, where clusters of older women crowded around the sparse number of tables and chairs. “Gossiping. I left her ages ago, and she did not notice. I cannot be blamed if my chaperone does not care to see where her ward has gone.”
“Well, you have a chaperone now,” Vincent replied sternly, flashing a cold look at Peter. “Mr. Swann, you may leave us.”
“No, Peter, do not go anywhere,” Prudence retorted. “If Beatrice can have gentlemen friends, so can I. Indeed, I think I should fetch Freddie, so he can confirm that there is nothing untoward about ladies and gentlemen being friends.”
Chuckling at the young woman’s lively nature, fully expecting to see a weary look upon Vincent’s face, Beatrice cast him an amused glance. Only to find an odd expression there instead. He visibly bristled, a muscle twitching in his jaw, though she could not fathom the cause. Surely, Prudence’s insolence would not make him that angry?
“Yes, I shall fetch Freddie,” Prudence insisted, turning. “Oh! There he is! Freddie! Freddie!”
It was like a cloud passing across the sun, Vincent’s expression darkening. His eyes narrowed, his mouth flattening into a grim line, his body tensing up as if he were bracing for a fight.
“There is no need for—” he tried to say, but Prudence would not be stopped.
“Freddie! Freddie, over here!”
Raising his hand in a cheery wave, Frederick weaved through the crush of guests, deftly balancing his glass of punch without spilling a drop. He looked handsome in the flattering light of theball, tall and athletic, his hair neat and glossy. But as Beatrice took in the sight of him, raising her own hand in a wave, she gasped.
He is wearing the same thing as Vincent.
Somehow, this would be her fault.
“I did wonder where the real festivities were,” Frederick said brightly, flashing a wink at Beatrice. “Here are my favorite ladies, all in one place. And without refreshments? What is the meaning of this? Are your escorts not tending to you properly?”
Vincent grumbled something under his breath, his posture rigid, his arms folded across his chest. Apparently, it was quite all right for him to drag her around all of his acquaintances, parading her like a barren cow for sale, expecting her to be polite and civil. But whenherfriends appeared, the same courtesy was not offered.
Indeed, Freddie is the only man here who might actually ask me to dance, and does not retreat at my mere presence.
Beatrice saw her opportunity and seized it. “I must say, Freddie, Iamparched. It has been such a dry evening.” She glanced at Vincent, letting her gaze flit to the dull man who had snared someone else into boring conversation. “If it does not become merrier, I may leave altogether.”
“Have my drink, dearest Trixie,” Frederick replied, passing her the glass. “I swear, not a drop of it has touched my lips.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “I would not mind if it had. Between friends, what is a shared drink? After all, you and I have shared far more than that.” She leaned in, grinning. “Namely, our deepest secrets.”
“Never to be revealed,” Frederick replied, chuckling.
Sipping the delicious, fruity punch, Beatrice tried not to hiss as the liberal dose of liquor hit the back of her throat. She had not expected it to be the altered kind, bolstered by a pour from someone’s hip flask. The warmth of it trickled down into her belly, the blaze nothing compared to the heat radiating from beside her.
Indeed, she did not even need to look at Vincent to know that his attention was entirely on her, and he was simmering.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Did I mention how beautiful you look tonight?” Frederick said, swiping fresh drinks from a passing tray to hand to Beatrice and Prudence. “Among these wilting, pastel wallflowers, you are belladonna. You are nightshade. You are a rare rose with all her thorns.”
Beatrice chuckled into her drink. “That is a very odd thing to say to my darling Prudence.”
“He is not talking tome, Bea.” Prudence laughed. “He is talking about you: the Sorceress, the Bride of Death, the Dark Angel, the Red Widow.”
Frederick clicked his tongue. “There is nothing scarlet about you, Trixie, aside from the blush in your cheeks and the color of your lips. If anything, they should call you the Gold Widow or the Silver Widow.”
“How so?” Beatrice frowned, sipping her drink, resisting the urge to look at Vincent.
He had said nothing in the entire thirty minutes that Frederick had taken over the conversation with his lively cheer. Even Peter had relaxed, joining in here and there, while Vincent had only grown more tense.
