Page 14

T he following week, Evelyn sat in Nathaniel’s grand carriage, her fingers tapping against her leg.

They were on their way to Almack’s—it had taken Nathaniel’s cousin only a week to secure guest vouchers, thanks to his friend Julian and Julian’s well-connected aunt, one of the lady patrons.

Evelyn had hoped it would take longer. In fact, she was still rather vexed with herself for losing the duel in the first place.

She had done so well. Until she had slipped.

She had nearly freed herself from these tedious courtships for an entire month, only to lose in the final moment.

How frustrating.

Her thoughts drifted back to that afternoon—not to the duel itself, but to the moment Nathaniel had stepped behind her to adjust her grip. She now had to admit, reluctantly, that it had been necessary. It had given her much better control over her saber.

She recalled the sensation of him standing behind her, his arms wrapped around her, pulling her knee into a more comfortable position. Had he sniffed her hair? It certainly sounded like it—but that would be odd. Wouldn’t it? And yet, at the moment, she had found it rather… enticing.

And his hands—so smooth and soft on top of hers.

I am making a fool of myself. I must stop these silly thoughts at once!

“You’ll have to be a little livelier than this,” he said beside her.

She snapped out of her reverie. “Lively? Now you even critique my demeanor? Is a lady not allowed to sit quietly as she’s being driven to her?—”

He raised an eyebrow. “Please do not say ‘slaughter’ or compare yourself again to meat at the market. I’ve heard it before. You lost fair and square. I won, and this is my reward. You were the one who insisted on placing a wager.”

That was true. She had insisted. Why had she done that? She didn’t know. In hindsight, it had been incredibly foolish.

And now here they were on their way to Almack’s.

Or rather, they had arrived. The carriage came to a stop. A line of carriages stretched around the block, but Nathaniel didn’t wish to wait. He leaped out, opened the door, and offered her his hand.

“Let’s go,” he said. “It’s been a long time since I last came here. And if what I hear is correct, it will be teeming with eligible gentlemen. You may walk out with a fiancé.”

She gave a low growl. “Are you always this vexing, or is it a seasonal affliction?”

He let out a laugh loud enough to turn heads.

“I enjoy your bite, Lady Evelyn,” he said. “But do reserve it for private company when we are inside. No gentleman wants a lady who bites his head off upon introduction.”

Her blood boiled. First, he continued to insist on calling her Lady Evelyn instead of ‘Your Grace'; then he criticized her behavior. He, a duke, deserved her best manners, but she had no desire to offer them. Not to him.

They walked down the sidewalk, past the waiting carriages. Curious eyes followed them.

“They all think we’re cutting in line,” she muttered.

“We are,” he said simply. “That’s what happens when others are too lazy to exit their carriages. Now, here we are.”

They climbed the stairs and Nathaniel presented their vouchers.

Evelyn’s skin crawled. She had no fond memories of Almack’s.

She had been brought here as soon as she was of age—sometimes under her father’s watchful eye, sometimes chaperoned by a maid.

She had been pushed to dance, and dance, and dance.

To converse until her voice went hoarse.

And all for what? To be married off to a seventy-two-year-old dragon…

“I thought all of this was behind me,” she said.

“It can be—once you find yourself another husband,” he replied cheerfully. “Now let’s see who we can introduce you to.”

They were still walking arm in arm, which felt rather peculiar indoors. Such displays were unusual.

“Look at her,” a voice whispered nearby. “Husband not even cold two months and she’s flaunting herself.”

Evelyn turned her head, but saw only a flutter of feathered fans hiding assorted faces. She glared and looked ahead, but the whispers continued. As they passed the orchestra pit, someone muttered ‘fortune hunter,’ another commented on the ‘elderly duke’ and how she had ‘traded up.’

“I do not wish to be here,” she whispered to Nathaniel. “Everyone is gossiping about me.”

He leaned down, his warm breath brushing her cheek. “That is precisely why we are here. So you can find yourself another husband and settle in a more favorable situation.”

“Why don’t you help me, then?” she snapped. “All you need to do is ask Lady Appleton to move to her Highland relations, and I could have the house.”

He looked at her and shook his head. “One evening. That is all I ask.”

She sighed. “Very well. Then will you at least dance with me?”

“It’s not me you’re here to dance with,” he replied.

Of course, he wouldn’t. He would do nothing to make this tolerable. Her usual anger flared, but there was something else, too. Disappointment. Why didn’t he want to dance with her? Julian wouldn’t object. Besides, would it not show off her dancing skills?

She forced herself to stop thinking. Chin lifted, she announced, “I am thirsty. I’m going to find some of that dreadful lemonade they serve here.”

Without waiting for his answer, she strode off.

Why did it bother her so much that he didn’t want to dance with her? It shouldn’t. So why did it? And why had she enjoyed his company of late, even if he made her utterly mad?

She reached the refreshment table and took one of the filled glasses of pale lemonade, already bracing for the bland taste. Almack’s was not known for its refreshments.

She sipped—and grimaced.

“Dreadful, isn’t it?” a voice said.

She looked up. A tall, blonde gentleman had joined her. He withdrew a silver flask from his coat and smiled. “May I make it more palatable?”

Before she could respond, he poured a splash of liquor into her glass, then did the same with his own.

“Try it. Much better—I guarantee it.”

She hesitated, then sipped. It would have been impolite not to do so. The flavor hit her at once. Her brows rose, but then she relaxed.

“It’s strong,” she said. “But good.”

“I daresay anything makes this lemonade better. Would you care for a slice of dry cake?”

“No,” she replied. “If I wanted to eat sand, I could’ve done that at home.”

He laughed. “You must be Lady Evelyn Langley. Or rather, the Duchess of Sinclair. I have heard of your wit, Your Grace.”

“Have you? And from whom?”

“My cousin is friendly with Lord Pendleton. He spoke of the rather… entertaining afternoon he spent with you.”

She glanced at her shoes. “I assure you, I did not push him into the pond.”

“I’m certain you didn’t. Though he probably deserved it.”

She smiled. “I thought you said he was your friend?”

“I said he was my cousin’s friend. I am more selective about my company. Present company, for instance, is far preferable.”

He was charming. Handsome. And yet… she felt nothing.

Would she ever feel something for someone? Would she ever be in love? Would the touch of a man ever excite her the way Nathaniel’s brief touch had?

No, I must not think of him in that way. What is wrong with me?

She took another sip of the spiked lemonade and summoned her brightest smile.

“I’m pleased you find my company agreeable. But it is most improper to speak with a lady at length without introducing yourself.”

He chuckled. “Indeed. Lawrence Brightmore. Earl of Halston.”

Halston. She had heard of him. His father had recently passed, leaving him a sizable estate with holdings across the country.

“A pleasure, Lord Halston,” she said.

“A pleasure indeed,” he replied. “I would ask you to dance, but I’m afraid I must depart. Will you be here next Wednesday?”

“Perhaps,” she said. “I’m only here on a visitor’s voucher.”

“I see. In that case, I may call on you—if you don’t mind?”

She wanted to say no. But then she thought of Nathaniel. He wanted her to court, didn’t he? Halston was pleasant. Perhaps she could use that. If he came to call, perhaps it would buy her some peace—days, maybe weeks—so she could work on getting Lady Appleton to vacate.

Still, she had to be honest.

“Lord Halston, you should know—my husband passed away not long ago.”

“I’m aware,” he said gently. “Everyone knows about the… one-day widow.”

One-day widow. That’s what they were calling her? She wasn’t sure how to feel about it.

“But I’m also aware you are actively courting.”

She was not sure how to respond. As if sensing her hesitation, he smiled.

“How about this: I must leave town at the end of next week for at least a fortnight. When I return, I shall call on you, and you can give me your answer then.”

“Very well,” she said, grateful for the breathing room. Perhaps by the time he returned, she would have succeeded in dislodging Lady Appleton.

“Good,” he said with a bow, and departed.

She finished her lemonade, setting the glass down with a sharp clink, then returned to the ballroom. Nathaniel was speaking with a gentleman. He glanced up as he saw her and approached.

“There you are. I found you a dance partner.”

“Did you now?” she replied, with less enthusiasm than she would offer a bowl of cold porridge.

“Yes—Lord Foxworthy.”

The man he had been speaking with stepped forward. He was older than Nathaniel, with a touch of gray in his beard. What was Nathaniel thinking? This was precisely the sort of old man she didn’t want. True, he wasn’t as ancient as her late husband, but he was easily in his late thirties.

“Your Grace,” Lord Foxworthy said, “it would be my honor to dance the reel with you.”

She inclined her head. “Very well.”

When he offered his arm and escorted her toward the dancers, she glanced over her shoulder, glaring at Nathaniel.

He smiled and shrugged. “You said you wanted to dance,” he murmured—just loud enough for her to hear.

Evelyn found herself, once again, paired with a man she had not chosen, being pushed toward a future she did not want.