Her cool voice issuing those two simple words carried with it a world of meaning.
He raised his coffee to her in mock salute. “Lady Anglesey.”
Horatio had been dead for months—long enough for it to be clear there would be no issue to carry on the title and that Zachary had officially inherited—and yet, Beatrice had never called him by his new, unwanted title. Not once. On the other hand, hepreferredto call her by hers. Each utterance was a small reminder of her betrayal.
“I did not expect you,” she said, lingering near the sideboard where breakfast had been so neatly laid, awaiting her delectation.
Rather an understatement, that.
He took his time answering, swallowing some coffee first. “Indeed.”
Her nostrils flared, the only indication she was vexed. Whether out of pride or the need to control, Beatrice scarcely showed a hint of emotion in his presence. There had been grief after she returned to London following Horatio and his other brother, Philip, being laid to rest. That had been for herself, however.
Since that day, he had taken care to make sure their paths scarcely crossed. Because Horatio had left her with the dilapidated dower house off the coast and little else, she had been making her home in London at the town house when she was not in residence in the country. Zachary had been disinclined to toss her out on her ear, despite his hatred for Beatrice. Only an ogre would throw a widow into the streets. Her own family would be of no aid, and her widow’s portion was modest. He had given her time to see about the refurbishing of the dower house, but his patience was more threadbare than the carpets at the undoubtedly spider-infested heap of stone she would call home.
Beatrice turned to the footman keeping silent vigil near the door. “That will be all, thank you, Nelson.”
The servant dutifully took his leave.
“Will you not stand in my presence, my lord?” she asked when they were alone, her jaw rigid.
The lady disapproved? Excellent.
“No,” he said. “I do not believe I shall.”
Her lips compressed. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Enjoying breakfast in my own home, do you mean?” he asked, raising a brow.
Perhaps allowing Beatrice to remain had been an error in judgment. She certainly seemed to be mistaken in who belonged here more. It had not been his choice, but she was no longer the mistress of this house. And soon, another inhabitant would be added to their disastrous mix.
“Your presence at the breakfast table,” she countered primly, her expression remaining pinched.
Small lines had formed at the corners of her eyes where there had once been none, and a crease of displeasure now marred her forehead. He could only surmise Horatio had displeased her often. The years had been kind enough to her, however. Beatrice was ten years his senior, but she was still as lovely as she had been when first they had met. It was merely that he viewed her differently now, through the dispassionate eye of a man who had been her dupe.
“This ismybreakfast table,” he reminded her calmly, taking another slow sip of his coffee just to further nettle her.
She inhaled sharply. “Of course, my lord. I did not mean to suggest you are unwelcome.”
“Excellent.” He flashed her an insincere smile. “Because you cannot. I am, by definition, of the two of us, the only one welcome here.”
She flinched. “I would be more than happy to go, should you wish it.”
Suddenly, the joy of toying with her, which he had envisioned in his mind ever since that interminable carriage ride home the night before with a snoring Lady Isolde in his arms, vanished. Beatrice appeared small and sad in her widow’s weeds. And although she deserved her misery, for the first time, the knowledge of her unhappiness did not bring him any satisfaction.
“You may remain as it pleases you,” he said grimly. “It is what Horatio would have wanted.”
As if he gave a damn about what Horatio would have wanted. His bastard of a brother had harbored no qualms about stealing Zachary’s choice of bride, but he had made damned few provisions for her in the event of his death. She had what she was owed, and that was all. A pittance compared to the life she had been accustomed.
And that life had been the very reason she had chosen Horatio over him.
The irony was not lost, but somehow, the more time that passed since he had last possessed feelings for Beatrice other than anger, the less it mattered.
She inclined her head. “Thank you for your graciousness, my lord.”
“Anglesey,” he corrected, the perverse need for her to acknowledge his change in circumstance prodding him.
Along with that strange, sudden softness toward her he did not like. Since when had he viewed her with pity? He was not even married yet, damn it, and already he was growing weak.
