Page 35 of A Widow for the Earl
“Well, if your husbands had been wealthy, you would be a very rich widow indeed, three times over,” Frederick explained.
Beatrice sniffed. “I received nothing, nor would I have expected anything. Indeed, I have it on good authority that my dowry was merely passed from one doomed man to the next. It must be threadbare by now. A cursed treasure that no man wants.”
“Come now, who would not want you?” Frederick insisted, sweeping his arm around. “You could take your pick. They might be frightened of you to begin with, but you are you, Trixie; how could they possibly resist?”
Beatrice dared a glance at Vincent. “Maybe, I have been introduced to the wrong gentlemen. Not one has even asked me to dance.”
“I would dance with you, if I did not think you would refuse,” Frederick offered, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes, as if he knew there was a game afoot. One to rankle Vincent.
“It is late,” Vincent said sharply, his voice a thunder crack amidst the merriment; the kind that ruined a picnic.
Beatrice smiled against the rim of her glass as she sipped. “We have been here barely two hours, Lord Grayling.”
“Two hours is ample time to decide if an evening is fruitless or not,” he replied, his tone rough. “I have a particularly strenuous day tomorrow, and it is a lengthy journey back to Wycliffe. Prudence, you should be with your mother. Mr. Swann, I asked you to leave a fair while ago—do not make me repeat myself.”
Peter bowed his head to Prudence, leaning in to whisper something in her ear. She blushed at whatever he murmured, biting her lip in bashful delight, as the boy took off across the ballroom.
“I would rather stay with Beatrice,” the younger woman urged, weaving her arm through her friend’s. “She can be my chaperone. You can return to Wycliffe, she can come home with us, and everyone will be happy.”
Vincent cast his sister a look so fierce that she withdrew her arm from Beatrice’s at once.
“Go on, dear Pru,” Beatrice encouraged. “I imagine your mother will be the one in need of a chaperone soon, if she is gossiping with the ladies over there. They are notorious imbibers of potent liquor. Indeed, I hear that some of them distill their own, strong enough to blind a man.”
Prudence hesitated, pouting a little. “I will leave, but promise I will see you soon?”
“I swear it,” Beatrice replied.
“Very well.” The younger woman hugged her friend tightly, whispering, “Do not let him scold you. I think you and Freddie make a fine pair. My brother is just jealous that he did not ask to dance with you first.”
Chuckling awkwardly, Beatrice released Prudence back into the wild, watching her push her way through the throngs until she reached her mother, Julianna Wilds.
Then, there were three.
“Good evening to you, Lord Frederick,” Vincent said tightly, his tense expression suggesting that it was taking every shred of his willpower to be polite. “I will be taking Beatrice home now.”
Frederick smirked. “So, you have given it to its rightful owner, then?”
“Pardon?” Vincent’s tone sharpened.
“Trixie’s home. Wycliffe. You have allowed her to have it?”
Vincent’s eye twitched. “The legalities and procedures are still being discussed.” He held out the crook of his arm, remindingBeatrice a little of a chicken. A very handsome, very angry one. “Beatrice, we are leaving.”
Beatrice… Beatrice…Her stomach fluttered against her will, perplexed by the effect her own name had on her, when spoken by him. It was like a spell, softening her hard edges, thawing her opinion of him.
Frederick took hold of Beatrice’s hand, placing a kiss upon it, though his gaze flitted up to Vincent. “Goodnight, Trixie. I pray you have the sweetest dreams.” He winked. “If I should appear, do not be alarmed. I am only there to fulfil the dance I promised.”
“And I shall be there, Lord Frederick, when it turns into a nightmare,” Vincent snarled, seizing Beatrice’s hand and placing it through the loop of his arm.
Frederick mustered a tight chuckle. “Do not give up, dearest Trixie. You are owed a safe home, after all you have been through. Seize what you want and allow no one to take it from you.”
Beatrice smiled back at him. “Goodnight, Freddie.”
I shall do my very best to keep my dream. I swear I shall.
“Come, Beatrice,” Vincent growled.
He pulled her away from Frederick, carving a path through the crowd with his free arm, leading her past the crush of bodies, the astonished stares and the heat of the ball, and out into the crisp night air. The sky above was a reflection of the gown she wore, the stars twinkling in that endless dark.
