Page 42 of A Widow for the Earl
Vincent said nothing, his dark blue eyes just… staring down at her as if he had never seen her before, and did not know how she had ended up in his house. Yet, the gaze was gentle. Sympathetic, almost. It unsettled Beatrice, her heart quickening, her stomach fluttering traitorously.
“Does that satisfy your curiosity?” she mumbled, a warmth creeping up her neck.
And yes, of course I am terrified that a fourth husband would die the same way. I could not escape punishment, regardless of my innocence, if it happened again.Indeed, she doubted that the notion of a ‘curse’ would help her at all if she were to stand in court, trying to defend herself, should a fourth man lay dead on his wedding night.
But she kept that to herself, believing that should have been obvious enough.
Vincent moved closer, until he stood above her, only the back of the chaise-longue between them. Still, he said nothing, his brow furrowing as he gazed at her. And when he reached down to gently brush back a lock of her hair, she found she could not breathe. What was it about him that made her lose all sense of reason when he was close to her?
“I know, even my hair is unruly,” she said awkwardly, meeting the intensity of his gaze.
Why is he not saying anything?
His hand reached across the cushion pressed to Beatrice’s chest, as if he meant to take hold ofherhand. As he reached, he bent down, the two of them far closer than they should be. He was not her husband, she was not his wife, and this assuredly went against every rule of society that Vincent held so dear. To him, she should have been the same as an unmarried woman, requiring a chaperone.
His frown deepened as if he, too, did not know why he was flouting his beloved rules, yet his hand continued to move toward hers.
She felt the first hesitant brush of his fingertips… when a frantic knock attacked the drawing room door. Vincent jolted back as if he had been stung, while Beatrice held her cushion all the tighter, both of them looking toward the door at once.
“Come in,” Beatrice called, swallowing thickly, as Vincent wandered toward the bookcases, pretending to look at the spines.
Mr. Bolam entered, bowing his head. “My lord, my lady, there is a… young woman at the door, in some distress.”
“What?” Beatrice was up on her feet in an instant. “Who is it?”
The butler glanced at Vincent. “It is His Lordship’s sister, I believe. Lady Prudence Wilds.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Well?” Vincent said curtly, pacing the rug in front of the fireplace.
Prudence sat beside Beatrice on the chaise-longue that he could not look at, silently scolding himself for getting so close to the latter. He could not explain what had come over him, reaching for her hand like that, brushing that wavy lock of hair out of her face as if they were intimately acquainted. It was not who he was; he did not bend the rules of propriety the way she did.
She is a bad influence upon me, and she is a bad influence upon my sister.
“I asked you a question, Prudence,” he urged, leaning against the mantelpiece where a carriage clocked ticked too loudly.
The youngest Wilds sibling shifted uncomfortably on the jacquard, her foot tapping against the floor. She was pale andwindswept, as if she had made the journey with the carriage window open, needing the fresh evening air.
“I did not hear a question,” Prudence replied, fidgeting with her skirts.
Beatrice took hold of the younger woman’s hand, smiling. “I think we wish to know what brings you here at such an hour, dearest Pru. Not that your presence is at all unwelcome. You arealwayswelcome here.” She paused. “It is just that the butler said you had arrived in some distress.”
“Distress?” Prudence laughed, though it echoed hollow. “Goodness, there was no distress. He must have mistaken my excitement, for I am so thrilled to be here again with you, Bea, and, of course, with you, Brother.”
Vincent narrowed his eyes. “Whyare you here?”
“Can a sister not visit her brother on a whim? Especially when said brother is living with one of her good friends?” Prudence protested, with a smile that seemed to strain her face.
The girl was always so open with her feelings, whether they be good or bad, never suppressing anything even when she probably should. So, it was clear as day to her brother that she was hiding something. Her behavior was all wrong, her manner agitated, her eyes shifty and unable to meet his gaze.
Vincent puffed out a breath. “I know you, Prudence, and I know you well. You cannot lie to me.” He took a moment to gather himself. “Have you argued with Mother, is that it?”
“No,” Prudence replied, her knuckles whitening as she held tighter to Beatrice’s hand. “But… she does not know that I am here, and you must not tell her. Please, do not tell her.”
Vincent pushed away from the mantelpiece. “I will have to tell her, Pru, or she will worry about your whereabouts. However, I will tell her not to come here to visit you, as long asyoutell me, honestly, what has brought you here.”
Prudence chewed her lower lip, scratching at the muslin of her skirts with her forefinger. She glanced at Beatrice, who gave a small nod of encouragement, before drawing in a deep breath.
