Viscount Can Wait, The EPB

by Tremayne, Marie

  She could only imagine how different her season could have been without the added complication of Evanston. Hating him was impossible, loving him even more so. But one thing was absolutely certain as she reflected on the situation with Landry’s “stolen” horse, her lips reluctantly curving into a grin.

  He was certainly entertaining.

  Eliza arrived at Caroline’s town house as daylight gave way to dusk. She wondered if Caroline might find amusement in the retelling of Evanston’s latest disturbance, or whether she, like her suitor, might find cause for upset. The truest reason for her friend’s dismay would likely stem from Eliza’s argument with Landry. No, better to leave that part out.

  Anticipating a quiet dinner with Caroline and her aunt, she relinquished her shawl to the butler and followed him into the residence. Upon being escorted into the empty drawing room, however, she had the unmistakable sense that something was wrong. Rarely did her friend keep her waiting. The apprehensive countenance of the butler as he rushed about to bring refreshments did not quell her uneasy feelings. Yet there was no need for anxiety tonight—not for a routine evening spent among friends.

  She sat waiting for nearly a quarter of an hour when the muffled sound of yelling from upstairs nearly caused her to drop her china teacup. Eliza set it down on the side table with a disharmonious clank and rushed out the doors to the foot of the staircase. Meg, Caroline’s now wide-eyed housemaid, stood sentry between her and the steps beyond.

  “Excuse me, please,” said Eliza in a low voice.

  The girl trembled before her. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but Lady Caroline requested that no one be allowed—”

  She narrowed her eyes.

  “I’d like to check on my friend. Move aside.”

  With less fight than anticipated, the maid hopped to the side. Eliza lifted her skirts and began a harried course up the stairs to stop at the door to Lady Frances’s bedchamber. A tumult of noise—objects falling, panicked yells and Caroline’s hushed pleas—was audible through the wooden portal. She rapped sharply on the door.

  “Yes, come in, Meggie. I need your help,” came the desperate reply.

  Eliza twisted the metal knob and pushed open the door. She saw Caroline, her hair mussed and bodice crooked, with frantic eyes that grew huge in recognition. Her friend threw her hands outward, beseeching.

  “No, Eliza. Stop there. Please—” she cried, her voice choked with emotion.

  Too shocked to stop, Eliza allowed the door to fall open, revealing the source of Caroline’s alarm. Her friend’s elderly aunt, a woman who was normally the very example of polished refinement, was running madly across her bed, gray hair flying, clad in only her chemise.

  “The rabbits have escaped their hutch!” she yelled. Latching onto Eliza’s surprised gaze, she lurched forwards on the bed, lowering her voice into a harsh whisper. “Quickly, you must get Father!”

  A tear trailed down Caroline’s cheek and she huffed in frustration. “I’ve told you, Auntie, we have no rabbits.”

  “Liar!”

  Lady Frances reached over to her bedside table and hurled a candlestick across the room, and Caroline raced to the bed to wrap her aunt in her arms. Eliza guessed the gesture was both meant to restrain and comfort. She stood dumbfounded for another second, watching the pair struggle with each other, trying to make sense of what was happening. Lady Frances was in a confused and agitated frame of mind, and upon watching her friend’s practiced attempts to soothe the elderly woman, it became clear this was not the first episode. Indeed, it might explain Caroline’s abstaining from certain social gatherings in weeks prior.

  Suddenly, an idea came to her.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, staring beneath the bench at the foot of the four-poster bed. Eliza dropped down and made a scooping motion with her hands to retrieve a small pillow, most likely flung during the lady’s fit of rage. “I’ve found one!”

  The motion on the mattress stilled. She glanced up to see both sets of gray eyes staring at her, one set shining and hopeful, the other faded and wary.

  “Show me,” came the demand.

  Making a display of cradling the pillow, Eliza rose and approached the bed.

  “You must be careful.”

  Gently, she passed the cushion to Lady Frances, who skeptically examined the object even as she accepted it into her arms. Eliza’s eyes flitted to her friend’s, both women holding their breath in expectation of the older woman’s temper. To their surprise, though, the lady cooed softly and sank back into a jumbled mass of blankets.

  “There, there. You’re safe now, little Tipper,” sang Frances. She raised her eyes imploringly. “Girls, quickly. You must find the others.”

  It took Caroline a moment to realize what needed to be done, jumping off the bed a moment later to join Eliza in the rabbit hunt. They were unsure how many rabbits would be required, but thankfully Lady Frances possessed multiple pillows and had hurled them all to various corners of the room. After the pillows had been collected, they sheepishly presented their offerings to Caroline’s aunt, who scrutinized each one in turn.

  “Yes, I see Crumpet, you naughty boy . . . and Digger . . .” Her voice trailed off and she suddenly glanced at Caroline in offense. “Wait, what’s this? We’ve only got three rabbits—”

  Before her agitation could rise once more, Caroline tossed the extra cushion out of sight and reached out to stroke the woman’s shoulder. “Auntie, I’m so glad we found them. Do you want us to put the rabbits back in the hutch? Or would you like to hold them a little while longer?”

  Lady Frances greedily hugged the pillows to her chest. “I’d like to comfort them a bit more,” she said in a breathy tone of voice.

  “Why don’t we get you settled too?” asked Eliza. She and Caroline helped ease Frances back into the bed, tucking the coverlet snugly around her hips while the lady quietly soothed her imaginary pets. Caroline cleared her throat.

  “I’ll ring for some tea. You just relax.”

  The women tiptoed out of the room, terrified that one misstep might alert Caroline’s aunt to the false pretense to which she had succumbed, and gently clicked the door shut behind them. They stared at one another until a sob escaped Caroline’s lips and she slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle it. Her weeping began in earnest once Eliza pulled her into her arms, hugging her tightly.

  “Oh, Caroline. Why did you not tell me?”

  Sniffling, her friend raised her red-rimmed eyes to meet Eliza’s. “I was hoping it would pass,” she admitted tearfully. “But the episodes have become more frequent, and . . . more intense.”

  Eliza’s thoughts went immediately to Thomas. William would have been willing to help, but he was back in Kent with Clara and Rosa. It didn’t make sense to impose on him when his best friend, the man who had come to her aid countless times—the one she had defended to Sir James this very afternoon—was right here in London.

  Even if she was no longer certain Lord Evanston would help her.

  She gave Caroline a reassuring squeeze before releasing her to step backwards. “I’ll make some discreet inquiries, my dear. It may be that returning to Hampshire is in both your and your aunt’s best interest.”

  Caroline nodded, sending a crystalline teardrop sailing off the tip of her nose. She sighed dismally. “I suppose it is ironic that the one time I find an interesting man in London, my season is to be cut short. Lord Braxton will surely move on once I return home.”

  “Not at all. The season is nearly over as it is, and I will speak to my brother about inviting him for the house party he is planning.” She smiled in reassurance. “I’ll work out the logistics of getting you and Lady Frances back to Hampshire, but it may take a few days. In the meantime, you must try to act normally.” She paused. “It might mean requesting a bit of help from Thomas. Would that be amenable to you?”

  Caroline gasped quietly. “Oh no, Eliza. Don’t place yourself in such an awkward position.”

  Eliza waved off her prote
sts. “Nonsense. Evanston and I know where we stand with each other.”

  Her friend easily discerned the falsehood and frowned while retrieving a handkerchief from her pocket to dab at her nose. “That is categorically untrue and you know it. How could I forgive myself if he used the situation as an excuse to—”

  “Honestly, Caroline. If he hasn’t already taken advantage of me by now, I think it’s safe to say he is immune to my attractions.”

  Although he certainly had not acted immune while I was on his settee . . .

  She dismissed the intruding remembrance before it could make her blush. In fact, it was probably best to change the subject. Catching sight of Meggie peering from around the wooden banister, Eliza quickly waved her over and bade three dinner trays be prepared and brought up to Lady Frances’s bedchamber. As the maid hurried off to carry out the request, Caroline wrapped her arms around Eliza in a fierce embrace.

  “You are so kind,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

  Eliza pulled back to kiss Caroline on the forehead. “You are very welcome. I wouldn’t want Lady Frances to be alone tonight.”

  Outwardly she ventured a smile, but inwardly she was already steeling herself for a thorough rejection from Evanston who, by this point in time, likely wanted nothing more to do with her.

  “A letter for you, my lord.”

  Thomas glanced up from the soft refuge of his pillow, vision clouded after a night of cards and heavy drinking, then shut his eyes against the intruding butler and lowered his head once more.

  “Not now, Burton. I’m busy,” he mumbled.

  It was both a blessing and a curse that he was a member of all the fashionable gentlemen’s clubs. Brooks’s, White’s and the slightly less savory Putnam’s were places to which he could easily escape—something he’d desperately needed as of late.

  He much preferred the skillful machinations of cards in the clubs to the dice games in the gambling hells, where the player’s success relied solely on luck. Luck would always be part of any game, but as it turned out, his improved dramatically when playing whist. Thomas played to win, but in what some would deem an uncharacteristic break, he refused to “play deep,” acting on advice his own father had delivered shortly before his death:

  There is excitement in the challenge, but no thrill to be had once you’ve lost it all.

  This was advice that could have easily applied to his relationship with Eliza too except he hadn’t had the good sense to follow it with her. Normally, he might be waking next to some delightful minx he’d met the night before, sated and carefree. But his current condition—head pounding from an excess of brandy, lying askew on his bed in last night’s clothing—was a worrying reminder of how things had changed. That the one woman he longed for during his moments of ecstasy would never be there, and the imposters in his bed would serve as paltry imitations. He didn’t think he could cope with the inevitable disappointment that would follow, so he drank instead. Especially when tormented by the memory of Eliza’s scowl as she had shoved him away from her.

  It took him half a minute to realize that Burton had still not retreated. Rather, the butler remained standing beside him, nearly concealed in the poor lighting of the bedchamber, a gleaming silver salver held steadily in his gloved hand. Thomas stared up at him in bleary disbelief.

  “Can I help you? Or would you rather find employment elsewhere?” he snapped.

  Burton’s spine stiffened at that. “No, my lord. But this is a letter from Lady Eliza.”

  The air was suddenly heavy with the weight of her name lingering, and Thomas sat up to glare at the man. “I instructed you to dispose of any incoming correspondence from her.”

  “Yes, my lord. However, seeing as this is her third letter to you in fewer than as many weeks, I thought you might make an exception.” Burton executed a small bow. “Just this once.”

  Evanston clenched his teeth. “You mean you want me to make an exception.”

  “It is not my place, of course, to have an opinion one way or the other.” Stepping closer, the man extended the silver tray, burdened only by the singular ivory envelope upon it. “I only thought you might consider it.”

  Despite Burton’s insolence and his own increasing annoyance, Thomas squinted in the gloom to stare at the letter, mocking him from its seat on the platter. After reaching out to snatch it quickly, he squeezed the parchment in his fist.

  “Fine, I’ve taken it. Now leave me.”

  Burton acquiesced with a bow, then lighted a lamp beside the bed for easier reading. “I’ll send your valet up to help you dress, my lord,” he said, leaving the room before his master could curse at him.

  With the door safely closed, Thomas let out the breath he had not known he’d been holding and glanced at the missive in his hand. A trace of fragrance, barely detectable, filtered across the still air of the room. Jasmine. Her scent.

  The smell was indistinct, too faint to have been spritzed onto the stationary deliberately. It had likely been absorbed by simple contact with her.

  Contact with her. His jaw tightened at the remembrance of the last time they had touched. His lips, her skin, his hands on her, the smell of her hair . . .

  Evanston examined the pretty style of her penmanship in the flickering golden light. He’d been trying to forget about her. Truly, he had. Even dealing with Ashworth’s blasted cotton mills was preferable to torturing himself over the man’s sister. But her refusal had grated on him like nothing ever had, and the idea of her marrying another was troubling. He could imagine Landry or some other stuffy aristocrat trying to manage the vivacious Eliza and her spirited daughter, expecting them to comply in all manners of propriety. Unlike other, more suitable men, he rather liked them the way they were.

  At this point, he longed to move on. If he could not have her himself, it was the most he could ask for. But how was he supposed to move on when she persisted in sending him these damned letters?

  It could be an apology. An invitation.

  But he knew better, didn’t he?

  He glanced down to find the missive a crumpled mass in his palm. Before he could give it additional thought, Thomas unfurled the envelope and tore the letter to pieces, tossing the remnants out across the dim expanse of his room.

  Chapter Eight

  The day’s post brought nothing from Evanston. Still nothing came the following day, and as the hours wore on, Eliza found herself theorizing about the potential reasons for the delay of his reply. She was sure to exclude the most sensible explanation, of course, which was that he did not wish to speak to her. The disappointment associated with that idea overtook her mood each time it breached her consciousness. This was a setback she could not afford, especially when trying to maintain normalcy for both Caroline and her aunt during this sensitive time.

  Adding to her gloomy disposition was the disclosure of some information, albeit innocently imparted to her, by her friend that afternoon. Caroline, taking advantage of an upturn in her aunt’s condition, had dressed Lady Frances in her finest day dress and took the carriage to Bond Street for some shopping. It was there she observed Thomas departing from a shop, having purchased what appeared to be a gift of some kind. He had exchanged brief words with the ladies, then disappeared into his awaiting carriage.

  It was none of Eliza’s business, but her active imagination couldn’t help but ponder the possibilities, conjuring images of a delighted female recipient. Perhaps even one with dark hair and a ruby-red dress.

  Eliza could only attend this evening’s party at the Fitzwilliam residence as a means of both adhering to routine and preventing her attention from straying relentlessly towards Thomas. After much debate, she decided on a luminous gown of pale lavender. Amethysts adorned her earlobes and throat, and her fair hair was swept up into a sophisticated mass of curls. Patterson had exhaled in admiration when securing the clasp of her necklace, and Eliza had to admit that she too was pleased with the overall effect.

  At least she felt confident she l
ooked her best, especially since she was journeying alone this evening. As a widow, she enjoyed the ability to attend gatherings without the necessity of a chaperone, but tonight she longed for company. Caroline had felt it best to stay home, as her aunt’s difficulties often presented in the evening hours, and since Eliza was not overly familiar with the host and hostess of the night, she found herself in a melancholy state of mind.

  From what she did know, the Fitzwilliams were a fashionable couple of the landed gentry who enjoyed throwing soirées when they were not busy attending them. Despite their children being grown and married, the couple still participated in the season with enthusiasm. Eliza could only presume this showy display of their vast wealth was to cement their position of relevance within the aristocrats of the ton, for the expense must have been considerable.

  After a lengthy wait in the receiving line to meet her hosts, she sought out the cloak-room to divest herself of her shawl. Sparkling crystal chandeliers caught her eye on her way, and she paused to admire the gilded paneling along the walls and the ornately designed Axminster carpets beneath her slippers. Eliza was examining the intricate pattern woven into the sage hall runner when she suddenly had the distinct impression she was being observed. She raised her eyes to find the same raven-haired beauty who had previously accompanied Thomas to the theater, wearing yet another dress in the same daring shade of red.

  Their eyes held one another’s, and Eliza’s heart plummeted. At best, she could hope for an awkward interaction. At worst—well, at worst . . .

  Lord Evanston stepped into view, his arm extended in the woman’s direction. He did not yet see Eliza, and with a slight tug on his arm his companion ensured that, at least for now, he would not. The lady expertly steered him into the drawing room, breaking the gaze between herself and Eliza with the smallest of smiles.

  She stood frozen in the hallway, her mind waging a panicked battle between the need to observe etiquette, and her overwhelming desire to bolt from the house. Eliza was aware of the need for propriety, but the all-consuming thought at this moment was that perhaps no one would notice if she simply kept her shawl and called her carriage back around. The only thing worse than being shunned by Thomas in person was the idea of also being disdained by the woman he had most certainly selected to warm his bed in her stead. The same one he’d likely been out buying gifts for on Bond Street.