Page 5 of A Widow for the Earl
“I was just saying how pleasant the manor is,” Beatrice explained, nodding toward the unusual structure.
Somewhat Gothic in nature, Wycliffe Manor gleamed gray in the moody light, not cheery like the sandstone of Valeria’s childhood home, or archaic like the Tudor style of Beatrice’s beloved Fetterton, nor too vast like the castle of Teresa’s marital home.
It was just the right size: three stories high, two main floors for the household, and an attic floor, presumably for the servants. A charming belvedere protruded up from the center, giving the impression of a tower that had been surrounded by the more modern manor, as if the tower had been there first and the rest had crept up around it. The roof had pretty adornments, resembling minarets, while crenellations decorated the large bay windows.
“Is it not a bit small?” Teresa asked, frowning.
Beatrice laughed, knocking her head lightly against that of her friend. “Not everyone needs to reside in an actual castle, Tessie. I would not know what to do with so much space, except to host extravagant gatherings that would see me and my husband impoverished within a matter of years. Remembered and infamous, no doubt, but utterly penniless.” She sighed. “No, this is a fine size.”
Her mood shifted as the second carriage pulled to a halt. Her father had insisted on traveling alone, which was probably wise, considering the two of them might have killed one another if they had been forced to journey together.
As for her mother, she would not be in attendance at all. Unity had departed Fetterton some weeks ago, leaving no word as towhen she planned to return. Henry claimed he knew exactly where his wife was, but Beatrice suspected otherwise. The past year was the longest the couple had ever been forced to stay in one another’s company since they married, and it seemed that Unity had finally had enough.
Perhaps, that is the sort of marriage I will have with Sebastian.Beatrice kept that promising thought at the forefront of her mind as she walked off ahead of her father, pushing through the wooden gate of the chapel’s graveyard and down the path to the front doors.
There, she waited for him, offering a wink of reassurance to Teresa and Valeria as they passed through into the chapel. By the sounds of it, there were not many guests, which was no great surprise: after two disastrous weddings, who had the strength to attend a third?
Only gossips and scandal-seekers would have begged for an invitation.
“For the final time,” Beatrice said, unable to resist a little antagonizing.
“Yes, it will be,” her father muttered in reply.
She cast him a sideways glance, noting his stony expression, cursing the weakness of her heart. For one-and-twenty years, she had craved the attention of parents who gave her none of any kind. For one-and-twenty years, she had sought kind words and compliments and hints of affection, to no avail.
In her much younger years, she had tried to be good, had tried to be the epitome of a worthy daughter, had tried to be sweet and well-behaved and studious, and it had only served to make her more invisible to her parents. So, at some point, she had decided that any attention was better than being ignored, seeking it with bad behavior and mischief and pushing boundaries. Her punishments meant, at the very least, that her parents spoke to her for a few savored minutes.
Now, with the vow that she would never see her father again, she willed him to say just one nice thing. A parting sliver of affection. A wedding gift of the impossible.
“Get it done quickly,” he said instead. “You can get to know him later. Speak your vows, leave the chapel, and let us all get on with our days. I have a race to attend at four that I will be furious to miss.”
Beatrice’s heart cracked a little. “Has it come to that, gambling to maintain the family fortune?” she said tartly, tutting under her breath. “After paying three dowries, I suppose you must be more creative with your income.”
“I shall not miss our little exchanges,” Henry remarked, his lip curled, as he pushed open the chapel doors and pulled her inside.
Moving from the strangely stinging glare of an overcast day to the somber gloom of the chapel interior, the change in light caused Beatrice to blink rapidly.
As she had suspected, there were not many guests in attendance. Her future husband’s side had one gentleman dressed in livery, making her wonder if he had just grabbed the nearest servant. Meanwhile, her side was not exactly crowded: Valeria sat on the front pew with her husband, Duncan, and their sweet daughter, Claudine. Teresa and her husband, Cyrus, sat beside them, Cyrus’ arm curved protectively around his wife’s shoulders.
Yet, it was the two unexpected guests who caught Beatrice’s dazzled eyes. Upon the second pew, Prudence Wilds—younger sister of Teresa and Isolde—perched as if she were at the theater, waiting for the curtain to rise. Beside her, sitting as rigid as a statue, was Vincent Wilds, the Earl of Grayling and only brother to the three sisters.
What on earth ishedoing here?Beatrice faltered. Had she fallen so low in public opinion that she now had to fill the pews with people who loathed her?
“Bea!” Prudence called excitedly. “I made it!”
Beatrice’s face cracked into a smile. “And how glad I am that you did.”
The same could not be said for her other dear acquaintances. Isolde had written to apologize profusely for her absence, claiming there was a nasty cough going around Davenport Towers; Amelia was in Ireland with her husband, Lionel Barnet, on some business endeavor; and Rebecca Barnet and her magnificent grandmother, Caroline Barnet, were sequestered at Westyork due to an unknown ailment afflicting Caroline.
“What did I tell you, a minute ago?” Beatrice’s father hissed out of the corner of his mouth, pulling impatiently on her arm.
Flashing an apologetic smile at Prudence, still wondering why Vincent had deigned to make an appearance, Beatrice finally turned her attention toward her future husband.
Sebastian Hartley, Viscount of Wycliffe, seemed just as impatient as Beatrice’s father. He stood tall and stern at the end of the aisle, tapping his foot on the flagstones, fidgeting with his cravat. He was not unpleasant to behold, with a slightly thinning mane of light brown hair, and somewhat pretty blue eyes. Had he been smiling, Beatrice might have considered him handsome.
“A pleasure to finally make the acquaintance of the man brave enough to marry me,” Beatrice teased stiffly as she reached him, allowing her father to put her hand into Sebastian’s.
Sebastian sniffed. “Nothing brave about it. There is no use wasting a perfectly good opportunity because of superstitions. I do not believe in them; they are for bored women and children.”
