Page 49 of A Widow for the Earl
Disturbed by the obvious decline in his sense and sanity, he departed the bedchamber at once, refusing to look back at the sleeping angel who kept messing with his head.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Head pounding and stomach roiling, Beatrice made her slow descent to the breakfast room, where she hoped a plate of buttery eggs and many helpings of dry toast would fix her self-induced affliction.
She did not remember whose decision it had been to break into the good port, but she now knew it had been aterribledecision. It had never been in her nature to imbibe like that, and though she could not remember who had poured first, she remembered rather more about last night than she wished to.
I cannot believe I crawled across the floor.She groaned at the memory.And why, oh why, did I squash his face like that and tell him he had a nice chin?
Then, to her dismay, there were the things she had said about marrying him, about her not being at all the sort of woman he would wed, and about him being impervious to her charms. Hewould surely mock her for it over breakfast, though part of her hoped he had already eaten and departed for the day.
Or he is deliberately waiting so that hecantease me mercilessly.
In that moment, she vowed never to drink anything more potent than a single glass of wine or champagne ever again. Evidently, her and strong, imported liquor did not mix well.
Gathering what remained of her dignity and praying the smell of breakfast did not immediately make her sick, she straightened her posture, and walked into the breakfast room with her head held high. After all, she was just being a good friend to Prudence last night, helping her forget her woes; she had nothing to be sorry about.
“Good morning,” she said, her stomach sinking at the sight of Vincent in his usual chair.
“Yes, good morning,” he replied gruffly, not bothering to look up from the papers.
The dismissal sent an unpleasant bristle down the back of her neck, reminding her of so many mornings at Fetterton when neither of her parents had bothered to acknowledge her. Was she to expect that here, too? The same insult of being ignored, repeating endlessly, regardless of where she called home?
Or is this just because of last night’s antics, letting Prudence loose with the port?
She hoped for the latter as she sat down and reached for a piece of toast to test the waters of her liquor-fueled sickness.
“It looks like it will be a lovely day, does it not?” she said, taking her first bite.
Vincent grunted in response, the newspaper hiding his face from her view. She liked to think he was secretly smirking behind that flimsy shield, but the specific tone of his grunt said otherwise. He was cross, perhaps waiting for Prudence to appear before he let them both feel the full weight of his anger.
Silence it is, then.
She was not going to argue, for at least in silence, there could be no chance of him mentioning the things she had said and done last night. Still, that did not stop the memories from swirling around in her head, traitorously taunting her. Indeed, she did notneedVincent to mock her when her own mind was doing a perfectly good job, all by itself.
The first bite of toast went down more easily than she had anticipated, and before long, she was nibbling in contented quietude. She washed it down with some heavily sugared tea, feeling the combination slowly starting to restore her.
By the time she was on her fourth triangle of toast, she had been well and truly lulled into a sense of safety. The sickness was receding, her head was not throbbing so much, and Vincentstillhad not said anything, content to drink his weak coffee and read his papers.
Just then, he folded up the morning papers and set them down beside his plate. He gazed at Beatrice with a stony expression that nearly made her choke on her mouthful of toast.
“What do you make of my chin this morning?” he asked flatly.
Her eyes widened, her stomach beginning to churn again, for a very different reason. “Still excellent,” she croaked. “I have never claimed there was anything the matter with your looks, Wilds.”
A flicker of something that might have been amusement passed across his dark blue eyes, twitching the corner of his mouth. “Last night, you did not seem to think there was anything the matter with me at all.” He paused. “Do you remember practically proposing to me?”
“Nonsense. I did no such thing,” she protested, gulping down a mouthful of sugared tea before her throat closed up entirely. “I said…”
Goodness, whatdidI say? I cannot remember exactly.
“You said that you would consider marrying again if it were with me.” He filled in the blanks. “I assumed you meant so Iwould die on our wedding night, and you could have Wycliffe all to yourself, but you insisted that was not the case. Indeed, you insisted that you didnotwant me to die.”
Beatrice’s face flooded with a heat that she had no hope of hiding from him. “You should not make up stories when someone cannot recall everything,” she said, as sternly as she could, despite knowing he told the truth. “I donotwant you to die, that is true, but I doubt I said I would consider marrying you. Even if you survived my curse, we would kill each other before the honeymoon ended.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” he asked, a cold note creeping back into his voice.
“I am saying that I cannot remember anything I said, so I cannot verify what you are saying,” she replied. “Therefore, we should not have this conversation.”
