Page 3 of The Spinster's Seduction(The Lover's Arch #4)

Evelyn did not usually make a habit of attending social events. Or, at least, she had not done so since the age of five-and-twenty, at which point she had largely retired her position in society and dedicated her life to looking after her elderly father.

The difficulty came, of course, when said father insisted on her attendance.

“You must go,” he said as faint wisps of snow danced against the windowpanes. “It’s February, and there is no better time for a young lady to remember how young she is.”

“But I am not young,” she said calmly.

“Nonsense! Why, when your mother and I were your age—” He stopped abruptly, his face darkening with the memory. His wife, Evelyn’s mother, had passed away eighteen years ago when Evelyn had been a mere girl of nineteen. Just as she had begun her first Season.

That, she often thought, had been the beginning of the end. Her father fell into a decline, mourning the life of the woman he had loved beyond all else, and Evelyn had discovered with devastating clarity how little she resembled the other young ladies of the ton . She had not the gift of easy conversation, or of smiling until her cheeks hurt, even when the cause was inane. She could not flatter a gentleman’s ego in the ways Charles had once told her a gentleman required. And she was distressingly blunt. These qualities together made her an outcast. Ladies looked down on her for not following the same unknowable social codes, and gentlemen were disinterested in a lady who would not flirt, flatter, and pretend to be ignorant of their true characters.

“Really, Papa,” she said, drawing his rug up his legs, though they both sat suffocatingly near the fire. “A rout holds no appeal. I should be far happier spending the evening at home with you.”

He fixed her with pale blue eyes, watery yet filled with fire. “You spend too many nights with me.”

“Where else should I spend them?”

“Having fun.”

“That is not my idea of fun.”

“Charles will be there. That boy always looks after you.”

A prickle of anticipation ran through Evelyn at the thought of Charles. The way he had kissed—or at least, she supposed it must have been a kiss—the curve of her neck before stepping back and informing her that she must be discomforted. An unreasonable supposition when she did not, herself, know what she was. And, unusually for him, he had not given her the opportunity to sort through her feelings.

Ordinarily, she disliked someone touching her without prior warning, but with Charles, she had always felt comfortable and safe with the way he had held her hands. They had always been perhaps more free with one another than they ought.

The way he had touched her the previous evening had been a surprise. No, a shock might be a better term for it. And yet, it had not been unwelcome, necessarily. She had just required time to adjust.

Something Charles, who knew her at times better than she knew herself, must have been aware of.

“Charles has no obligation towards me,” she said.

“Nonsense.” Her father glowered at the fire. “He has always been good to you. And his father, you know, would not stand for his son to slight you, not when the duchess and your mother were such good friends. You may be sure Charles will look after you. ”

“He has other obligations.” Plus, she didn’t know how things would be between them after her request—and his refusal. When they did meet again, she would rather it not be in public.

“What could be more important than you, pray?”

“Papa.”

“I mean it.”

“Well, he is going to marry, you know. Lady Rosamund.” Who would, no doubt, be there, too. Her stomach turned over again at the thought.

“Bah.”

Seeing further conversation on the matter was fruitless, Evelyn rang for tea.

Unfortunately for her, her father did not have the same reticence.

“I won’t hear of you staying home,” he said as she poured the tea through the strainer and into two cups. “You must go out. I insist on it.”

And that was how Evelyn, the next night, found herself in the middle of Mrs Clarence’s drawing room, listening to a girl of eighteen playing the harp and trying not to wince at the poor intonation. Someone ought to teach the girl how to listen for flat notes—but then again, not everyone had been born with an ear that could detect such things. Fortunately for the girl, the majority of her audience also seemed oblivious.

Evelyn pressed two fingers against her temples. Why the expected mode was to ignore something that caused her positive grief, she didn’t know. And yet it was. When the girl finished, she would be expected to clap and smile and lie through her teeth.

Then, later, the matriarchs of the room—those who noticed—would dissect the poor girl’s failings. It was a distinct cruelty, and one in which Evelyn steadfastly refused to partake. If she had a criticism, she would much rather direct it to the person in question.

“I recognise that face.” Charles slid into the chair beside her. “You are thinking again, and about a subject that displeases you.”

Evelyn jumped slightly, almost dislodging the teacup she had placed on her lap. The liquid sloshed, and she rested a hand on her racing heart. “You scared me. ”

He slid her a long glance that held too many secrets. Usually, she could read him well enough, but not today. “My apologies.”

She opened her mouth to apologise for what she asked him the previous day, but the words failed her. Even now, at the memory of his rejection, her gut curled in humiliation. And sitting beside her in this way, he must be thinking of it, too.

She recalled the feeling of his lips on her neck, and she flushed.

“Pidge.” Charles’s voice was stern, but there was a thread of kindness in it. “No awkwardness.”

“I—”

“I won’t stand for it.”

She looked at him for the first time, and found a smile in his eyes, warmth there just for her. No matter what he thought of her suggestion, at least he still looked at her with affection. And besides, he had called her beautiful, and although she doubted the veracity of that statement, she did not doubt his reasoning for turning her down.

“Very well,” she said, forcing her tone to return to normal. “No awkwardness.”

“Now tell me what it is about this performance that made you scowl.” He nodded at the front where the girl twanged another slightly flat note.

Evelyn winced. “I did not scowl .”

“That observation wasn’t up for discussion.”

She rolled her eyes and opted for a half-truth. “I was merely thinking how sorry I feel for the child on display.”

“You needn’t. She’s caught the eye of Mr Rollings, and he’s as rich as Thebes. No doubt she’ll be set for life.”

“Do you think she has such material concerns?”

“What woman does not?” He laughed when she caught his eye. “Aside from you, of course. I know you are above such reproach.”

“I have my own vices, I am sure.” She snapped her jaw shut, thinking back to the vice she had admitted to, and so recently.

A line appeared between his brows, and he lounged back in his chair, insouciant almost to the point of impropriety. After a second, he said, “Don’t tell me you’re going to be missish around me now, Pidge. I couldn’t bear to lose your friendship. Who else am I to talk to in times such as these?”

Evelyn glanced around the room. There were several people with whom he could talk, and several more whom she doubted he ever wanted to exchange words with again in his life. To begin with, his mother and father were in attendance, though seated separately. The duchess had chosen a seat beside one of her old friends, and the duke was deep in discussion with Lady Rosamund’s father. And there, sitting primly with her mother, sat Lady Rosamund herself.

Evelyn had exchanged very few words with the lady in question. There was very little to connect them, save Charles, and he had made no attempt to acquaint them. From what Evelyn knew, Lady Rosamund was a good sort of girl in her first Season with a large dowry and a family name going back generations. She was also—and this confession came with a private twist—extremely beautiful, with rich dark hair and deep brown eyes. Most gentlemen would be tripping over themselves to have her hand in marriage.

It gratified her that Charles was not one of those gentlemen.

Lady Rosamund glanced in their direction, and Evelyn turned away.

“Your future bride is looking at us,” Evelyn said. “Should you not speak to her as well?”

“Where do you think I escaped from?” He let out a low groan. “Believe me, I have no desire to return so soon.”

“Do you dislike her so much?”

“Lord, no. There’s nothing to dislike. And nothing to like, either. We are both marrying for convenience’s sake and nothing else. I am over twice her age, and I suspect she has as much fondness for me as I do for her. No doubt we shall make a fine pairing.”

“Does that satisfy you?” she asked, unable to hold her tongue. “The prospect of a marriage with so little affection?”

“Should it not? What else am I to expect? Some great love?” He reached over for her tea and took a sip. Then he made a face as he replaced it on the saucer. “Foul stuff, Pidge. Where did you get this dirt? ”

“I was offered it earlier,” she said. “And I haven’t been drinking it because I don’t like the taste.”

“Good. Pour it into a plant pot.”

“Would that not be rude?”

“Well, yes,” he admitted, and gave a wry smile. “Don’t listen to me. I’m chafing at the bit, but what might be allowable eccentricity for the son of a duke would undoubtedly be inexcusable in you. Here, pass it to me. I’ll drink it for you.”

“You are under no obligation—”

“What possessed you to come out on such a night, anyway?” Tea in his hand, he nodded at the window, through which she saw a flurry of snow. “You would have been better off at home than here.”

“My father.”

“Ah.” Charles sat in silence for a moment, the peace between them interrupted only by that twanging flat note in their performer’s piece. “Still determined you get your taste of society, then?”

“I think he believes I am more like my mother than I am,” Evelyn said, trying not to let her hurt at the thought show. She had always preferred quiet evenings in, just as her mother had preferred being the centre of attention. Where her mother delighted in the heady crush of balls and routs and soirees, making friends wherever she went, Evelyn enjoyed embroidery and writing letters and other peaceful activities.

Now that her mother was gone, Evelyn sometimes felt the pressure to step into her shoes, but she could not. A simple fact of life that still, sometimes, stung.

“To return to our previous topic of conversation,” she said, determined not to be put off, “I believe it is not unreasonable to assume, or even hope, that there will be some affection in one’s marriage. It is why I have never married.”

He sent her a sharp glance. “Have you received offers?”

“Naturally. That is to say, my father has.”

“And you refused them all?”

“I did. ”

Charles’s brows lowered over his eyes. “Why did you not tell me of this? Who was it?”

“No one of concern,” she said gently. “Fortune hunters, mostly. In fact, I believe one I had not yet met in person; he did my father the honour of writing to him to express a wish for my hand in marriage.”

“Good God.”

She hid a smile. “Quite.”

Their performer finished her piece, and the room applauded politely. Evelyn did as was expected of her, then accepted her now empty cup back from Charles.

“I still cannot believe you did not see fit to inform me of this before now,” he muttered, still scowling. “When did this occur?”

“Many years ago now. When I still attended balls with any regularity.”

He grunted and they lapsed into silence as another young lady was offered up on the sacrificial altar of performing to a room of disinterested ladies and gentlemen. Evelyn was not surprised to see that Lady Rosamund was the young lady selected, though Charles let out a groan of irritation.

“No doubt I ought to look as though I favour her performance,” he said.

“I suspect it will be excellent,” Evelyn said dryly.

“As though I care for that. You know I don’t have an ear for music. She could be deaf as a post for all I care. In fact, I think I would prefer it.”

Lady Rosamund began to play, proving Evelyn right once more: she was an exceptional player. She coaxed the melody from the instrument with deft fingers and an unerring musicality, toying with the rhythm to a degree that made Evelyn’s heart ache a little. To put so much emotion into one’s playing was a rare skill, and one she found so many people lacked.

“She’s rather good,” she said. But she turned to find Charles staring at her.

“You mean to say you could have married by now, and you chose not to? ”

“Oh for heaven’s sake. Yes, I could have married, but why should I have married a man who holds no affection for me?”

He snorted. “That is the reality of many marriages.”

“Your parents married for love.”

“They married for convenience’s sake,” he retorted. “And perhaps they came to care for one another after the event, but that does not mean that such affection is guaranteed. They were the lucky ones.” Bitterness laced his tone like acid, and without thinking, Evelyn reached out to rest her hand on his.

“It does not have to be,” she said.

He glanced down at her hand, and she remembered once again, with perfect clarity, how it had felt to have his mouth against her neck. She flushed, the memory heating her all over, and she snatched her hand back. His gaze flicked to hers, and for a heartbeat, she thought she saw heat there too, a fire that scorched her right to her bones.

Then he glanced back at Lady Rosamund, whose eyes were also on them. Their display would not have gone unnoticed, even if her gaze remained inscrutable.

“I believe I have a duty,” he said. “Much as it pains me to admit it. And I believe Lady Durham wishes to speak with you. Goodnight, Evie. I doubt we shall speak again this evening. Give my best wishes to your father.”

Evelyn could do nothing but watch in silence as Charles strolled to the pianoforte and exchanged a few smiling words with the lady he was doomed to marry.

The lady who was not, and never would be, her.