Page 66 of A Widow for the Earl
“And… she has agreed?” Beatrice managed to rasp.
Vincent nodded. “I gave her the choice of having me as her chaperone or staying with her aunt.”
“Is it the lawyers? Has your inheritance been challenged?” she asked, desperate for some explanation.
He rose to his feet. “Nothing of the sort. I will inherit properly in due course, I expect, but I no longer see a reason why you should not look after this manor. I have no further use for it, and I cannot expend any more time and effort into being here when I should be at Grayling. I should have used messengers all along.” He began walking to the door. “You will be left alone in this home of yours, just as you wished.”
“No!” she roared, finding her voice as she shot up.
He halted, turning. “Excuse me?”
“No, I will not allow this,” she replied. “Thatis all you can say to me after last night? You are just… leaving, without any explanation?”
He raised an eyebrow. “With respect, Lady Wycliffe, I have given you an explanation. You are the late Viscount’s wife; youdodeserve some security. I am giving you that. What more do you want?”
“I…” She floundered, heat rushing into her face.
For what felt like an infernal eternity, they stood there staring at one another, neither saying a word. All the while, the burn of something like humiliation scorched through Beatrice’s veins, pricking at her eyes.
You are a fool, Beatrice Johnson. A fool to think anyone could want you.
Her parents did not, the families of her deceased husbands did not, society did not. Why would he be any different? He had kissed her, the very act no doubt confirming how unsuitable she was, and now he was leaving.
“Was there something more you wanted to say?” he asked brusquely. “If not, the carriage is already waiting, and I must hurry my sister along.”
She put up her hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “No, do not let me keep you.” She forced a bitter smile. “What elsewouldI have to say to you, when you have said it all already? Although, I suppose I should say thank you.”
“For what?” he replied, a flicker of something in his eyes.
“For allowing me to win,” she said. “Thank you for allowing me to have my home. You are so very gracious. Indeed, thank you for granting me my freedom, for now I shall never have to see another gentleman if I do not want to, and I shall certainly never have to marry again.”
She could not see her own expression, but she could feel the fury in it, simmering below the surface. Yes, she had wanted the safety and familiarity of Wycliffe. Yes, she had wanted to keep her home, but he had ruined any joy she might have felt. For the very last thing she had ever wanted was to feel abandoned again, discarded like a loose thread plucked from a gown.
“You are welcome,” he replied coolly. “So, I shall bid you farewell.”
She laughed frostily. “I will not wave you off. I would not want you to get the wrong impression.” She rested her hand against the chair. “Indeed, I shall stay right here, so we do not get too close.”
“Farewell, Lady Wycliffe,” he repeated.
“Enjoy your ghosts,” she replied. “Farewell, Lord Grayling. I hope our paths do not cross again.”
For you have broken my heart, as I feared you would. You have crushed it to dust, teaching me a lesson I shall not soon forget.
The Beatrice of a year ago would have loosened a bolt in the carriage wheel or snuck into his luggage, stealing every pair of trousers, or sent letters out to every lady in England with a daughter, inviting them to a ‘private’ party at the Grayling Estate, causing utter chaos.
But the Beatrice of now was too tired for revenge, her dashed hopes stealing the last of her desire to seek justice. Instead, she just wanted him to go, so she would not have to look at his cold eyes and remember when they were filled with warmth, so she would not have to think about how passionately that grim mouth had kissed her.
“Farewell,” he said a third time, before he turned and left.
And, for once, she let him have the final word. She had nothing more to say to him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“This is a celebration of your victory, Beatrice!” Rebecca Barnet cried, raising a glass of champagne. “There is no need to look so glum.”
Beatrice had been pleasantly surprised when Lionel’s sister had shown up to the party that Valeria had insisted on throwing in her honor. It seemed like an eternity since they had spent the summer in one another’s company: Beatrice, Teresa, and Rebecca. Indeed, that charmed summer when Duncan and Valeria had fallen in love, but eventhatfelt like it belonged to another life.
Anthony Everard, a good friend of Cyrus and a more recent friend of Beatrice’s, nodded eagerly. “I shall drink to that! Goodness, when I first met you, Beatrice, I did not think you werecapableof looking glum. Quite the most ferocious, exciting young lady I had ever met.”
