Page 36 of A Widow for the Earl
Vincent did not pause to take in the beautiful night, tugging Beatrice directly toward the waiting carriage. Yet, he did not forget his manners, opening the door for her, offering his hand to help her up into the carriage. All the while wearing a grim mask, as if they had just attended an execution, not a ball.
“Lord Grayling, I—” she began, as he took his seat and the carriage began to move.
He put up a hand, shaking his head. “I should like to spend the journey in silence. My head is already too full of the noise of that ball.”
“Of course,” she replied, feeling a slight sting of disappointment. “I shall not say a word.”
The journey back to Wycliffe Manor might have been a silent one, but the air between Beatrice and Vincent seemed to bristle with unspoken things. Several times, while pretending to nap, she had seen him gazing at her, his brow furrowed as though she were an acquaintance he could not place. And she, in turn, had stolen a few glances at him when she had thought he was not looking.
Twice, he had cleared his throat as if he meant to say something. Twice, he had shaken his head and returned his attention to the window, peering out into the darkness.
I did not think you would be so incensed…
It puzzled her even now, why his mood had soured at the sight of Frederick. Why did her friend anger him so much? Why had he stepped in when Frederick had almost agreed to a dance? And why, most of all, had he seemed so… jealous?
As the carriage came to a standstill outside the porch of Wycliffe Manor, she doubted she would gain any answers to those questions. Vincent exited ahead of her, helping her down without saying a word, perpetuating the silence as they walked into the manor. Together but apart.
Weary of her racing mind, Beatrice headed for the stairs, looking forward to the peace and quiet of her bedchamber. “Goodnight, Lord Grayling.”
“Goodnight?” he replied tersely. “That is all you have to say?”
She paused on the bottom step, her hand on the newel post. “I thought your head was too full of noise for a conversation.”
“It is, but silence has done nothing to help it,” he said, clawing a stressed hand through his silky brown hair. “Beatrice, you are not mine. I have little authority over who you speak to, but asthe heir to this estate, and the man who can allow you to stay, I forbid you from flirting with that… fool again.”
You are not mine…
Her throat tightened, her chest feeling strange for a moment, as if someone had pushed all the air out.
“So, even when I am obeying, I am disobeying?” she said, rallying quickly. “You told me I had to find a suitor.”
“Nothim,” Vincent growled, moving toward her.
She shook her head slowly. “You made me go to that ball, and you placed me in front of so many disinterested men, but you protest when I speak to someone I like? Yes, as a friend, but perhaps a friend would not be a terrible suitor. Indeed, he might be my best chance, now that I think about it.”
She had never considered Frederick in a romantic or marital sense before, but it was not the most unpleasant notion. She knew him, she knew his temperament, she knew his character. She was not attracted to him, but what did that matter when the other options were so dire? Indeed, the only thing that might stop her from pursuing Frederick was the fact that marrying her had a tendency to be fatal.
Vincent’s eyes blazed as he came to the bottom of the stairs, breathing so hard that it stole the air fromherlungs. His hand settled upon hers, his fingers curving, holding her hand tightly.
She shivered at his touch, realizing her hand was bare. She had taken her gloves off in the carriage and had not put them back on, his warm skin rough against the softness of hers. And that fierce grip; it was as if he did not intend to let her go, claiming her as his despite what he had said before.
Beatrice swallowed. “Why should it not be him? He is eligible, he is dear to me, he would be a good husband to me.”
“He would not,” Vincent rasped, a half-step bringing him so close that there was barely a gap between them. “He is a second son. He has no prospects, no fortune, nothing that could grant you security. He would use you and ruin you, before leaving you with nothing. I saw his face when you said you had gained no money from your late husbands. Iknowthat face. It was the face of a boy when a toy is taken away.”
She blinked, her heart faltering. “You must have been mistaken. I have known him since I was fifteen; he has never shown any greed, or any desire to marry me, in truth. But I know he would agree if I asked, regardless of my wealth or the tattered state of my reputation.”
She would not allow Vincent to speak ill of her friend. If he continued, she would take herself off to bed without a word.
A moment later, he expelled a weary breath, giving a small nod of resignation.
“Maybe I was mistaken, but Idoknow that he would not be good to you,” he insisted, his tone softening slightly. “When I tell youthat I do not want you flirting with him again, it is advice, not an order. You have been hurt thrice, Beatrice; I would not see you hurt again, if I can help it.”
Her heart began to flutter wildly. Traitorously. “I… have not been hurt. Why would you think that?”
“Because… it is in your eyes, Beatrice,” he murmured, his voice a low, enchanting rumble. “Your armor is near-impenetrable, I do not doubt that, but I have seen glimpses of the wounds beneath. I saw it tonight, when I put you in front of all those dull lords. I saw it in the drawing room, with Lord Mancefield. I have seen it after my own words have struck you, on occasion.”
If it had not been for the newel post, she might have stumbled in shock. Where had this kindness, this perceptiveness, blossomed from? Where had this version of Vincent been, all this time?
