Wicked Becomes You(97)
For a moment, Gwen could not tell if this was a caution against further criticism, or a caution against the marriage itself. And then came another crash. Elma’s hand closed firmly over hers. “One can see why Mr. Ramsey prefers to travel abroad,” she said, her smile pleasant, her voice steely.
Silence fell. And then a voice lifted—Lord Weston’s. Gwen strained to hear, but she could not make out the words.
A sharp female reply. That would be Belinda.
The door slammed. The twins came into the hallway, Belinda stalking, Caroline slumping. Even the feather in Caro’s hat was wilting. But her smile was bright when she said, “Only give them a moment. He is very glad to see you join the family, Gwen.”
“As well he should be,” Elma said coldly. “But I daresay he has an odd manner for expressing his joy.”
The twins exchanged a look. “Oh, it isn’t you,” Caroline said. “Only . . .”
“Only he is upset with Alex,” Belinda said flatly. “Alex never does take the straight path when a spiral or zigzag will do.”
“He is yelling at Alex?” Gwen could not imagine anyone daring to do so.
“Oh, indeed,” Belinda said. “And Alex is no doubt sitting back and smiling, and thereby taunting him onward.”
“Well, you cannot wish him to apologize,” Caroline said sharply. “Gerry in a mood is thoroughly intolerable. What a pompous boor he becomes!”
“Agreed,” Belinda said with a shrug. “But he’s more like a top than a bull, so he’ll wind down soon enough. In the meantime,” she added, taking a seat on the bench next to Gwen, “we will wait.”
Caroline, meanwhile, began to pace.
After a minute, the indistinct yelling paused. Belinda gathered her skirts to rise, and Caro’s face turned toward the hall.
The shouting resumed. Belinda subsided with a sigh, but Gwen felt her patience snap. She sprang to her feet and paced toward the study, ignoring the startled remarks that followed her. It was well and good to sit about politely if one meant to charm one’s brother-in-law, but she knew that Alex had little concern for such aims, and she herself had finished with meaningless courtesies weeks ago.
She held up her hand to the footman stationed by the entrance, then opened the door without announcing herself.
It was just as the twins had predicted: Lord Weston was on his feet, thundering, while Alex sat comfortably in a chair, fingers drumming on his knee, politely listening.
“—the top of beyond,” Lord Weston said.
“Yes,” said Alex. “I thoroughly agree. Are you done yet? They’re waiting.”
“Not until you admit that this is the last straw—”
“I am the last straw?” Gwen asked politely.
Lord Weston stuttered to a stop. Alex turned in the chair. “Ah, Gwen,” he said pleasantly. He came to his feet, crossing to catch up her hands and draw them, one by one, to his mouth. “Martyr,” he accused beneath his breath. “I thought you chucked your virtues some time ago. Save yourself and run.”
She laughed despite her nerves and might have replied, had Lord Weston not stalked up and sketched a very stiff bow. “Miss Maudsley,” he said. “Welcome to the family. My apologies for the truly unforgivable circumstances of this match. I pray you pardon him. I pray you pardon all of us for supporting such a rascal.”
Such was the fervor of his tone that she felt offended for Alex’s sake. “Forgive me if I take a very different view,” she said flatly. “I have always found your brother to be thoroughly admirable in every way.” Alex’s snort, she ignored. “I cannot understand why you judge him so harshly, particularly when—”
“Why? You cannot understand why?” The earl’s eyes bulged. “Dragging you off to Paris—landing you in such a situation—why, I pity you if you cannot imagine the why of it! I fear you will be in for an unpleasant surprise before your honeymoon even concludes.” Here he paused, turning a dull red. Perhaps he suddenly recalled the circumstances in which Lady Milton had discovered Gwen and his brother, and divined that the honeymoon would not hold as many surprises as it properly should. More gruffly he continued, “It has always been thus with him. I would have expected you to know this! Certainly you know how he chose to make his . . . living.” He nearly sneered the word. “And of course, there is the small matter of your brother—”
She cut him off, in a tone far colder than she had ever used with anyone. “It was by my own desire that we contracted to marry. I must conclude, then, that you either mistake me for a fool because I wish to marry him, or you mean to twit me now by speaking so outrageously although you don’t mean a word of it. Yes, he makes a living—a very fine one. Indeed, you will forgive me if my personal experience of men with inherited privileges leads me to believe that a man who works for greatness is far more trustworthy than one who is handed it at birth.”