Page 6 of A Widow for the Earl
“Indeed, I prefer to think of it as extraordinarily bad luck,” Beatrice said, her throat tight.
She did not want to do this. In an instant, she could tell what manner of man Sebastian was, and she did not care for it. He was the sort of man who had no interest in who she was or what she was capable of, who saw in her only what could benefit him. He was the sort of man who would prefer her to be silent, who would not think anything she had to say was important.
I will be ignored again. Invisible in my own home.
But what choice did she have? She needed this to work, to divert public suspicion away from herself. And running from it would be as troublesome for her as having another husband die, if she wanted to have any hope of continuing her secret business endeavors to build her private fortune.Thatwould be true freedom, having enough of her own wealth to become untouchable. But she was not there yet, and her partnerships would flounder if her reputation took any further damage.
“Shall we get on with this?” Sebastian asked brusquely, directing his question at the reverend.
“Of course, my lord,” the reverend replied, as Beatrice’s heart sank all the way down into the deepest crevasse of her being.
As the reverend welcomed the congregation and began proceedings, the old man’s voice faded into a dull drone and Beatrice’s attention wandered back to her side of the chapel.
She blinked sharply as she met an unexpected gaze.
Vincent glared at her, his dark blue eyes as mercurial as the deep seas they resembled.
I suppose I do not need to ask whatyouthink of me,she mused with a flicker of contempt.You are likely waiting for me to confess so you can finally be validated in your opinion of me.
Vincent had never liked her, and the feeling was mutual. He had called her all sorts of rude things, declaring her a terrible influence, when all she had ever done was be a good friend to his sisters, especially Teresa. For her part, Beatrice found him to be no influence at all; he was too stern and serious and ill-humored to be of any merit. If he was not her best friend’s brother, she would have avoided him happily for the rest of her days.
What?she dared to mouth, causing Sebastian to frown at her for a moment.
She had forgotten she was in the middle of her wedding ceremony.
“Apologies,” she mumbled under her breath. “I thought my cousin was trying to say something to me.”
Sebastian’s frown lingered, his hold on her hands tightening as if to say,Behave yourself.
Across the chapel, Vincent shook his head, as if he was thinking the exact same thing. He did not lower his gaze, that same cold intensity glinting within his eyes.
Just then, to her surprise, he mouthed something back.
She squinted, trying to make it out.
Moving his lips more slowly, nodding his head subtly toward the altar, she realized with a jolt of panic what he was saying:Your turn.
“Miss Johnson?” the reverend rasped impatiently. “Miss Johnson, are you listening?”
Beatrice cleared her throat. “Yes, Reverend. My apologies. I felt a little faint for a moment there.” She steadied herself. “Could you repeat that?”
“No, Miss Johnson, you are supposed to repeat after me,” the reverend said, looking down his nose at her with the same measure of disapproval that she had been served four times already that morning.
Putting on a smile, Beatrice flashed the reverend a cold look of her own. “I need you to repeat what you said so I can repeat it,” she said, speaking slowly, as she might to an idiot. “If you would be so kind.”
The rest of the wedding passed by in a blur of words that she did not mean and resented saying, going through the motions until she found herself back outside the chapel, wearing the ill-fitting mantle of her fourth name: not Miss Johnson, not Lady Albany, not Lady Brinkley, but now Beatrice Hartley, Viscountess of Wycliffe.
“I wish you well,” her father said, as he passed by on his way to his carriage.
Beatrice’s heart swelled a little, only to deflate when she realized he was talking to Sebastian and not her.
“Thank you,” Sebastian replied, tipping his hat to Henry.
Her father was not the only one to leave in a hurry, for there was to be no celebration of the union.
“I did not see the point,” Sebastian explained flatly, as he shook hands with the departing guests, accepting their well wishes.
Meanwhile, Beatrice’s friends embraced her warmly, urging her to write, reassuring her that all would be well, before they too got into their carriages and pulled away from that unfamiliar estate. Only Vincent offered no word, just his steady disapproval. Until she and Sebastian were the only two who remained, standing outside the gate of the small churchyard, complete and utter strangers.
