Page 48 of A Widow for the Earl
She was easier to wield up the stairs than Prudence had been, his hold on her secure. As such, they reached the landing in one piece, and despite what she had said, Beatrice had not said another word.
Has she fallen asleep in my arms?
He looked down to check, surprised to find her staring up at him with a curious expression on her face. And when she reached up to touch his face, lightly brushing his jaw with her fingertips, he did not have a hand spare to swat her away.
“Such a nice chin,” she said quietly.
He groaned, trying to turn his head away from her touch. “I thought I could trust the two of you in the manor alone, but I evidently forgot what a terrible influence you are. Tell me, was it your decision to drink port in the drawing room? Did you sneak out the second I departed, or did you at least wait a short while?”
“That is a secret,” she replied, grinning as she tapped his nose.
He moved his head this way and that to try and shake off her touch. “How am I ever supposed to marry you off when you behave this way, hmm? Who would endure having such a wild thing in their house?”
All of a sudden, she grabbed his face between her palms, squashing his cheeks. “I might consider marrying again… if you and your nice chin was the one asking.” She giggled. “You could endure having this wild thing in their house. You already are.”
He stopped dead on the landing, shock radiating through the middle of him, squashing his lungs the way she proceeded to squash his face. “What did you say?”
Surely, he had misheard her. Even inebriated, she wouldneversay such a thing to him, of all people. She hated him, she resented him for being the heir to her home, she would not dream of speaking so sweetly to him.
Does she mean because it might kill me? Yes, that has to be it.Yet, he waited for her reply, curious to discover if she would repeat the sentiment.
“Oh, it does not matter,” she replied, grinning as she touched his lips tenderly. “You would not marry me anyway, so I am perfectly safe. And so are you. I would not want you to die. No, I would not want that at all.”
His frown deepened, as he adjusted her in his arms. “Why do you say that?”
“You annoy me, but I do not want you dead,” she said, curling into him, her eyelids growing heavy.
“No, not that part. Why do you think I would not marry you?”
He had no notion of why he was asking such a question, but it was out of his mouth before he could stop it. A silly curiosity that he prayed she would not remember in the morning.
She withdrew her touch, hugging her cushion again. “Because, dear Vincent, whose name does not rhyme with anything, you desire a perfect wife, just like you.” She stifled a yawn. “You want a lady who is prim and proper, even when she is alone. A lady thetonwill not gossip about or point fingers at or accuse of murder. A lady you will want to… kiss, who makes you burn for her instead… of burning with anger all the time.”
He should have scolded her for speaking so… intimately, but the shock stayed his tongue. Instead, he found himself holding her a little closer, as he resumed his walk to her bedchamber.
As he walked, he thought, trying to wrap his head around the things she had said. Her words spoke of insecurities that he had not glimpsed before, always assuming that she was quite happy to be the wild-woman of theton. Certainly, he understood that she was not happy to be called a murderess, but the response to her antics prior to that had never seemed to bother her. Rather, to him, it had seemed like she relished the infamy, and the ‘getting away with it’.
“Beatrice?” he said quietly, booting open the door to her rooms.
“Hmm?” she mumbled back.
He carried her across the threshold, trying very hard not to think of weddings and wedding nights, and the utter indecency of holding her in his arms as he entered her bedchamber—of being in her bedchamber at all, in truth.
“Any man would give his sword arm to gain just a glance from you,” he told her, the compliment slipping from his lips before he could prevent it.
She smiled as she half-dozed. “And you, Vincent, are just the exception.”
“Yes,” he replied, furrowing his brow. “Yes, I am.”
“It is better that way,” she murmured. “I would not see you tarnished… or dead. No… no, indeed. You should stay far, far away from me. Leave me here, and stay… far, far…”
Soft, slow breaths ended the sentence, her eyelids fluttering shut, her grip relaxing on the cushion she seemed so attached to. A lump formed in his throat, realizing she must have felt safe enough in his arms to fall asleep.
He trod carefully across the bedchamber, conscious of not disturbing her, and slowly peeled back the coverlets while he kept her close to his chest. Holding his breath, he lay her down upon the bed, pausing when it seemed like she might wake up. But as he carefully drew the coverlets over her, she twisted in hersleep, turning to face him, her dark hair spilling out across the pillow. That enviable cushion still grasped in her arms.
He reached out, his fingertips caressing the rosy apple of her cheek. He told himself that it was to brush the hair out of her face, but even after it was safely behind her ear, he caressed her cheek again. Her skin was as soft as silk, and she looked so perfect, sound asleep: serene, beautiful,quiet.
What are you doing, man?He drew his hand back sharply, wondering if the effects of the brandy had not worn off entirely after all. Hefeltsober, hefeltlike his mind was clear, but if that was the case, then he had no explanation for why he had touched her cheek like that.
