Page 4 of For a Scandalous Wager (Breaking the Rules of the Beau Monde #3)

CHAPTER 3

S o, the imbecile didn’t care for her dress? Wait until he saw the gown she’d purchased for the theater, a whisper of pale peach with a scalloped hem embroidered with poppies and trimmed along the neckline with spring-green leaves. She planned to get close enough for Dalton Rochester to glimpse the frippery that matched her eyes. But first, she must make certain he would be in attendance, and for that, she visited Lady Clover Dunhurst.

Lady Clover was in London for the Season with her brother, the Duke of Kingsley. Since the duke rarely went out, Lady Clover’s entertainments were limited to places where no one waltzed or wandered into moonlit gardens. The theater anteroom and gallery were considered safe for mingling as long as unsuspecting young women stayed clear of visiting a gentleman’s private box. Then the on-dits would report that a Miss X and a Lord Y had been witnessed in the balcony conducting themselves in a most compromising activity.

“I’m so happy you decided to join the Season,” Clover said as she poured tea for them both as they sat in the quaint parlor that graced the front of the Duke of Kingsley’s London home. “I’ve missed you and Adeline. Were you able to spend much time with your brother and sister-in-law at their new home?”

“I’ve made it a point to visit often enough. It’s lovely there. A little manor house close enough to visit but far enough for a retreat. Father wishes they’d stayed at Rosewood Manor, but Winn wanted a place more private for Adeline’s comfort. It has been a labor of love, so she says, but she appears at ease with it and happy.” Seated beside Clover on a beautiful beige-striped sofa, Evelyn sipped her tea. The parlor walls were not pretentiously decorated to flaunt wealth. They were clean and sported paintings supporting local artists. The theme of the green parlor beckoned bird lovers. She didn’t know all the birds’ names but easily identified a pair of peach-faced lovebirds.

“Have you managed to stay in contact with Mr. Darrington since the Christmas party we all attended at Kingsley Manor?” Evelyn dared to ask. Clover was a pretty thing with blonde hair and bright blue eyes. At the now infamous Christmas house party where Clover had played hostess, she had toyed with the idea of flirting with Hugo Darrington. But Clover was shy, as a rule, until one got to know her. And as Evelyn and Adeline found out, Clover had a knack for chess, which she amusingly played against herself.

“Since Mr. Darrington is acquainted with Kingsley, I’ve had some minor contact.” Clover’s scarlet cheeks said it all.

“Would it be too improper for you to message Mr. Darrington and inquire whether Mr. Rochester will attend the theater on Tuesday? I thought perhaps because they’re friends, Darrington might be privy to his plans.”

Clover regarded her with a skeptical tilt of her head. “I’m afraid Darrington and I are not that close. What are you planning? Something fun? Or something scandalous?”

“Something clever.” Despite her disappointment, Evelyn smiled and mentally prepared to attend the theater with the hope of running into Rochester.

“Do you seek out company?”

Evelyn sputtered and coughed as she sucked tea into her lungs instead of her stomach. “Not exactly.”

“I see. You thought by company I meant Mr. Rochester,” Clover said with a knowing smile just before it disappeared behind the rim of her teacup.

“Am I truly that obvious?”

Clover nodded.

“I would love for you to join me. I have something to prove to Rochester, and I’m hoping he’ll be there.”

“What a lovely, humble invitation. You have such a way.” Clover laughed. “I’ll have to ask Kingsley, but I imagine he won’t mind.” She sighed after that announcement.

“The duke is overprotective because he doesn’t want to see you hurt. It’s commendable, really.”

“It’s a nuisance. How will I ever meet a prospective husband if I’m only allowed to accept invitations that my brother will attend? He goes nowhere. If anyone needs protecting, it’s him. The wound of our parents’ death has been heavy on his heart for too long. In my opinion, he needs a bride.”

“And how does Kingsley feel about it?”

“Who can tell? He doesn’t discuss such personal matters, especially with me, and probably with no one, come to think on it. I believe he’s afraid for me to marry.”

“Because you’ll leave, and he’ll be alone?”

“No. Because Kingsley wants me happy, at all cost, to the point of smothering. I swear he’s worse than a broody hen.”

“Do you think he’ll approve of you attending with me? If so, I won’t need a chaperone.” Evelyn hoped so.

“He’ll insist I go, and then he’ll escort me and scare off any suitors. But how can I deny him when his heart is clearly heavy? Would you ride with us? It will be something to look forward to.”

“Sounds perfect,” Evelyn said, placing a supportive hand on Clover’s knee. With Clover’s brother as chaperone, Evelyn’s father would have no reasonable argument to send a companion with her.

For the next two nights, Evelyn barely slept, which was of no consequence since sleeping often eluded her. Yesterday her dress had arrived from the modiste, and today her heart pounded just thinking about wearing it. The delicate peach gauze looked bare next to her cream underdress, as if she wore the embroidered poppies and greenery painted on her skin.

She nervously dressed. With help, she carefully laced pearls through her hair and slipped on white silk elbow-length gloves, after which she examined herself in a mirror. Lastly, she grabbed a pearl-encrusted reticule, cinching the ties over her wrist.

“Evelyn,” her father called as she passed his study. He sat in his favorite leather chair with a brandy on the side table. His green eyes, so much like hers, had not faded with time, and she thought him handsome and a little sad. Why he never remarried, she’d never know except that he must have loved her mother very much. His salt and pepper hair had once been brown like Winn’s, and her mother’s portraits bore the same dark, dusky blonde as hers. The wood-paneled room smelled of sweet pipe tobacco. The scent soothed her.

“Papa, would you like to meet the Duke of Kingsley when Lady Clover arrives?”

“I’ve met him. I wanted to remind you to be on your best behavior.”

“When have I not?” she asked before kissing his cheek.

He smiled, something he’d been doing more frequently. She assumed it was the near betrothal he was planning. “You’ve always been full of mischief, darling. I want you to enjoy your last Season as a single woman, but I also want you to be mindful of your future responsibilities.”

“I look forward to being an auntie,” she purposely misunderstood.

“That’s the mischief I’m talking about. You know what I’m saying, and yet you pretend otherwise. I know you’re worried, but the baron is a kind man and will generously provide for you. You cannot deny me the joy of seeing you happy.”

She took care with her dress, checking the carpet for dog hair before kneeling next to her father. She leaned her cheek against his knee, her legs tucked under her. “No one is kinder than you, Papa.”

He carefully traced a finger through her hair. “Trust me, then, my precious girl.”

She looked up and smiled reassuringly, but she could not trust her father with something so important as a husband. Her needs would be met, but her heart would remain dormant.

The new Theatre Royal, built by John Nash, was glorious in its opulence. If Rochester were to follow the ton on their usual haunts, he’d surely be there tonight. Perhaps if he spied her in the Duke of Kingsley’s private box, he’d seek her out during the first intermission.

When they entered the vestibule, Evelyn’s senses reeled at the sheer indulgence. Mirrors lined the walls, and she immediately looked for her target in the reflection.

Clover linked her arm with Evelyn’s. “Now, let us find your Mr. Rochester.”

“He’s not mine.”

“No?”

She gave Clover a look. “Did I give that impression? If so, I didn’t intend it. I’m here to teach him a lesson, nothing more.”

Clover bit her lip, the hint of a smile turning the corners. “I’ll hold off on my opinion. Meanwhile, he’s difficult to miss, especially when he’s standing with Darrington.”

Mr. Hugo Darrington stood almost as tall as Rochester, with brown hair a shade lighter and sea-green eyes. Both were handsome in their own right. Darrington and Rochester had followed Winn to Bath for those three years. The subject had been poorly received in her home, and to this day, Evelyn’s father refused to speak of it, and Winn ignored her questions entirely. When she asked Adeline, she’d only referred her back to Winn, saying it was his story to tell. At some point in her crazy life, she swore to get the story from Rochester.

Afraid to move, Evelyn searched the mirrors for both Darrington and Rochester.

“Don’t move your head, but they’re behind you, maybe twenty paces. Here,” Clover said, feigning a tweak to Evelyn’s hair and giving her reason to tilt her head enough to catch a glimpse of Rochester’s reflection.

“I see him,” Evelyn whispered. Her pulse beat frantically. She nervously gulped half a glass of champagne. Between the heavy sip and the bubbles, it felt like a stone bruising its way into the clenched pit of her stomach. “Let’s find our seats.”

Nothing compared to the splendor of the Theatre Royal. A marvel of rich, luxurious color in rose pink and crimson velvet hues. The walls and accents were gilded, and marble pillars framed the stage arch with golden palm fronds at the peak. To dress for a ball was an excitement, and the gowns and headdresses, the superfine jackets and ornate waistcoats worn by posh theatergoers were a treasure to behold. And even in such company, Rochester stood out in his black finery and gold waistcoat.

There were those people whose clothes wore them. And then there was Rochester. In all his regalia, he was the ornament, the gilded frame, the marble pillar. Heartbreakingly gorgeous. No man had any business outshining every woman in the room.

She hardly heard a note of the musical play while she searched the balcony and even the gallery for Rochester. He had to be seated beyond her view, underneath, overhead, or to the side of the duke’s box. During the first intermission, she searched through the crowded foyer but to no avail. The conversation never let up. The merriment continued during the play, and by the end of the second act, Evelyn began to wonder if he’d been an apparition.

Feeling as inconspicuous as an island, she stood in the vestibule, rubbing her thumb along her lip, her reticule swinging by the ribboned strings from her wrist.

“Are you waiting for me?” Like audible velvet, Rochester spoke from behind, turning her knees to jelly.

Evelyn stiffened as a glass of champagne appeared in front of her eyes. Her gaze narrowed in on his white shirt cuff peeking out from the edge of his black tailored jacket. The gold filigree cufflinks winked with square-cut diamonds in the center. She swallowed, pawing for composure as he rounded her side.

“I’m here with the Duke of Kingsley,” she said, blurting out the first thing that came to mind.

“And Lady Clover?”

“Naturally.”

“I wouldn’t count on Kingsley breaking any of your rules. He’s a bit of a stickler.”

“As are you, it would seem.” She hid behind a sip of champagne.

“Touché. I like your style, Miss Markham. Never neglect the chance to keep me on my toes.”

“I like your waistcoat, Mr. Rochester. It matches your cufflinks.” The conversation felt like a volley. Neither of them particularly invested in much else.

He shifted his shoulders back and lifted his chin. Little crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes while he appreciated her gown. “And your gown? That’s more like it.”

Evelyn wanted to burst with a cynical smile the moment his gaze rested on the cut of her decolletage. “You mean this dress, Mr. Rochester? After my delicate womanly self-esteem took a rather stiff blow, I thought it best to purchase something new.”

“For me?” He put a hand to his chest with exaggerated appreciation.

“Your ego is a formidable power. But I’d just as soon you practice it on someone else. It only bores me.” She tried for indifference, but it was difficult to keep from sounding wounded.

His face changed from arrogant and cocksure to almost apologetic. “Evelyn, you know I was not serious about the blue gown. It seemed we were making sport, a bit of banter, that’s all.”

Despite her determination to stay neutral and disinterested, she felt her eyes sting at his near apology. “I’m but a woman who doesn’t know my own mind. Surely, I don’t possess the sense to be offended by banter. My father chooses my beau, so why shouldn’t another man choose my gown?”

His brow furrowed. “My sincere apologies. I truly did not intend to insult or hurt you.”

She almost felt guilty. “Stop before you make me weep,” she said sarcastically. “I’m sure you wrote the book on banter. I suppose I should have read it first.”

He gave a sheepish smile. “Can you read, then? Astounding.”

She tilted her head speculatively, then glanced at him aslant with a flirtatious smirk.

He reached out to touch the gauzy fabric of her puffed sleeve, but she stepped back. “Oh, no. We wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea, Mr. Rochester. I have my eye on someone who suits my needs since you have refused.”

“Point him out.” He called her bluff.

“I believe we established that you’re not my father. You’re not even my brother.”

“I’d like to think I’m still your friend,” he said absently, following her eyes as they swept the room.

“Only time will tell.” She gave a wry smile, then lost it when a stunning woman with auburn hair approached him from behind and placed a possessive hand on his arm.

One eyebrow shifted up as he accepted the woman’s company by covering her hand with his.

“Pardon me, but I believe I’m needed.” Evelyn unforgivably walked away, or more likely fled, before introductions could be made to the mystery woman on his arm. In a fierce attempt to throw him off-balance, she eagerly scouted for an unsuspecting male to prey upon. She only needed the pretense of contact—something for Rochester to mull over while he lay in bed tonight. A cursory glance of the foyer turned up a man who, by chance, was looking at her. She didn’t have time to scrutinize her plan, and neither did she stop to wonder how her little scheme had turned into a challenge of jealousy.

She smiled at the stranger long enough for him to stroll toward her. As he approached, she realized he stood two inches shorter than her five feet six inches. His features were not unbecoming. In fact, he was passably good-looking.

Having never met the man, he could not present himself, so she bowed her head, accepting his company without a proper introduction. This was the perfect tiny infraction of the rules. A good start.

“I’m Miss Evelyn Markham.” She held out a hand.

“Uh, the honorable Mr. Victor Beasley, er Lord Beasley.” He tripped over his own name. Not promising.

“How lovely to meet you, Lord Beasley. Are you here with friends?”

“No. No. I like to mingle, though. Don’t you?”

“Very much.” She surreptitiously glanced to the side, looking for Rochester, who stood sipping champagne with the hussy on his arm. “Are you enjoying the play, Lord Beasley?”

“The play is delightful. And your dress is delightful.” He smiled uncomfortably, evidently plagued with shyness. “And your hair is delightful.”

That was a lot of delight. Evelyn was relieved when the call came for act three. She met Rochester’s gaze in the mirror, watching her like a hawk.

She shook her head to indicate that the stranger was not a good fit for her plan.

Rochester grinned. And the woman he obviously escorted there was no longer in sight.

He waited for her near the staircase. “Are you ready for act three?” he asked, and they both understood he did not speak of the play.

She sauntered past him and up the stairs, calling over her shoulder, “I’m ready for anything.”