Most people still didn’t, and it would remain that way.
She scanned the room again, noting a few more friends, acquaintances, and neighbors. Not all strangers then. This might be bearable. While married, she’d managed larger, much more raucous crowds many times with no lasting ill effects.
Save her nerves wrought ragged for a week afterward.
Which was one reason she avoided large assemblies.
Her attention snared on a dark-eyed man towering above the others, and his well-formed mouth slid upward a fraction as he acknowledged her regard.
Bother and blast.
The disturbing Duke of Sheffield.
Expression bland, she forced her gaze away even as her stomach toppled over itself in the unnerving manner it did when she sensed a man desired her. Other women might be flattered, possibly encourage the beau’s interest.
Not she, by juniper.
On a night not so very different than this, just such a man had ruined her. Destroyed her life. Stolen her future.
Oh, she could feign politesse when necessary, but for the most part, she avoided men, trusting few other than James Brentwood and Victor, the Duke of Sutcliffe.
Mouth firmed, she took in the others present, aware that Sheffield’s keen focus never left her. With a little start, she realized her skin didn’t crawl with the knowledge. She hadn’t considered he’d be here. She ought to have. After all, he’d been at Theadosia and Sutcliffe’s wedding ball.
She dared a covert peek at him.
Eyes hooded, he still stared, but not menacingly.
No, if anything, she’d say he appeared intrigued.
Hadn’t she made it clear that night she’d no interest in him?
Or any man for that matter.
Which is exactly what she’d said to him when he’d asked her to dance for a third time at the ball. Surely, he must’ve known doing so was outside the bounds.
Or, perchance, he was as dense as mud too. Must be an inherent characteristic of immensely good-looking men. Beauty and brawn but a distinct shortage of brains.
Ironic that beautiful women were often accused of being flighty and lacking in intelligence, when she’d met an equal number of men who fit that description.
A moment later, her cousins, Theadosia, and Rayne glided up to her, their troubled gazes a contrast to the welcoming smiles framing their mouths. They formed a protective semi-circle around her, their bearing guarded.
Her nape hair raised.
Her protectors were in full defensive mode.
Why?
“Everleigh, don’t tell me you’re still in half-mourning? It’s been almost two years since Father Chatterton and Frederick died. Your . . . devotion is touching.”
Caroline’s high-pitched sarcastic drawl rose above the quiet murmuring, succeeding in doing what Frederick’s widow intended: drawing every eye to Everleigh.
Mortification fixed her to the Aubusson carpet.
How many of those staring knew her secret shame?
Humiliation burgeoned from her middle, sweeping up her chest and neck, and infused her face with heat.
Swathed in a shockingly immodest carmine-colored gown, Caroline’s abundant bosoms were on full display. She lifted a sherry glass to her rouged, smirking lips as she stepped from the shadows where spiders and centipedes and other unpleasant creepy crawlies were wont to loiter.
Some nerve she had pretending any affection for Arnold. Father Chatterton, indeed. Not once had she addressed her father-in-law half so kindly.
Features stern and expression steely, the Duke of Sheffield folded his arms, and leaning one broad shoulder against the doorframe leading to the music room, regarded Caroline with the same distaste as one might warm elephant dung between one’s toes.
Theadosia jutted her chin toward Caroline the merest bit.
At once, her sister Jessica and brother James shifted to block Caroline’s view. The Dowager Duchess of Sutcliffe followed their lead, and with the distinguished banker, Jerome DuBoise, in tow, she also took to the field like a general leading the troops and commandeered Caroline’s attention.
Known for flaunting Society’s rules, even Caroline didn’t dare insult her host’s powerful mother and continue targeting Everleigh.
Childless and older than Everleigh by fourteen years, Caroline most certainly wasn’t grieving. No, she’d tossed off mourning weeds a mere six months after her husband’s ill-timed death. The only person who’d loathed Frederick Chatterton more than Everleigh had stood across the room enjoying the drama she’d stirred.
“Ignore that witch.” Ophelia’s overly bright smile belied her clipped words. “She’s still furious you inherited everything.”
That wasn’t the only reason Caroline despised Everleigh. Few knew why save those standing around her now and Nicolette Twistleton who speared Caroline a lethal glance as Nicolette wended her way toward them.
Frederick had delighted in boasting to his wife that he’d sired a child with Everleigh whilst Caroline remained barren after sixteen years of marriage. His cruelty inflamed her hatred of Everleigh, and she made a point to bare her needle-sharp claws and draw blood at every opportunity. Given they’d lived in the same house until Chatterton died, life had been hellish day in and day out.
Only Rayne’s presence had made living at Keighsdon Hall bearable.
“Why is Caroline here?”
With an expert flick of her wrist, Everleigh splayed her hand-painted lace fan. She cut Theadosia a side-long look. Had she known in advance, her friend would’ve told her—warned her. Of that, Everleigh had no doubt.
“Surely you understand I cannot stay if she remains, Thea,” Everleigh said.
Theadosia presented her back to the drawing room’s occupants.
“She arrived with the Moffettes,” Thea said, with an apologetic grimace. “I’d forgotten they’re distant relations to her, on her mother’s side, I believe. They’re mortified she imposed upon us. Mr. Moffette admitted he considered trussing her like a goose and stuffing her in the larder when they left, and Mrs. Moffette all but told Caroline she wasn’t welcome, but the daft woman paid her no mind.”
Probably because she’d anticipated seeing Everleigh and couldn’t resist inflicting more wounds.
Known for her pleasant temperament, Theadosia pinched her lips together and a slight scowl wrinkled her forehead. “Given her reputation for histrionics, I feared she might say things better left unsaid and cause an ugly scene if I insisted she leave at once.”
“Since Uncle Frederick died, she’s been hopping from relation to relation, like a starving flea looking for an ever-fatter dog.” Rayne made a rude noise and wrinkled her nose. “She wears her welcome out in a hurry.”
Arnold’s ward, and a welcome ally against the Chattertons, Rayne had soon become like a sister to Everleigh. After his death, it was only natural the two continue to live together, but at Fittledale Park, the pleasant estate Everleigh purchased outside Colchester. That other house, where she’d experienced nothing but misery, was sold and the monies donated to a children’s home.
Caroline had nearly had an apoplectic fit when Everleigh turned her out. Not penniless, as she deserved—and claimed to all who would listen—however. She’d blown through the five thousand pounds in short order, sold the modest but comfortable house in Kent Everleigh had gifted her, and, henceforth, relied upon the goodwill and generosity of her numerous kind-hearted relatives.
“Thank goodness the Moffettes are off to their daughter’s to spend the holiday with their first grandchild.” Gabriella’s hazel eyes rounded in distress, and she sliced a glance over her shoulder. “She won’t stay on when they leave, will she?”
“Only an utterly gauche bacon-brain would do so.” Ophelia—an exact replica of her sister tonight, except she wore the palest blue gown and Gabriella the softest green—also slid Caroline a covert peek.
Nicolette edged nearer, murmuring, “That sounds precisely like something Caroline Chatterton w
ould do. I’m not above shoving her in the lake and hoping she catches lung fever.”
Everleigh laid her hand on Theadosia’s forearm. “Forgive me, but I’m afraid I’m off as soon as my carriage is readied. I shan’t subject myself to that woman’s animosity. Two years of her enmity was more than enough.”
“No. Please don’t go.” Theadosia shook her head, her strawberry blonde hair glinting gold in the candlelight. “You are one of my dearest friends, and I so want you to celebrate Christmastide and Twelfth Night with us.”
“And your birthday too,” Gabriella said, slipping an arm around Everleigh’s waist.
Everleigh had hoped thirty-one December might pass without marking her four-and-twentieth birthday.
“Besides, do you have any idea how hard it was to convince Grandfather and Grandmother to allow us stay at Ridgewood for weeks?” Eyes wide, Gabriella bobbled her head in a silly fashion and grinned at her twin. “When we live but four miles away?”
Ophelia chuckled as she adjusted her glove on her arm. “That did indeed take a great deal of finagling, and they only permitted it if you act as our chaperone. Else we’ll have to go home and miss part of the festivities. Grandmama and Grandpapa are ever so stuffy. Why, they snuff the candles at precisely nine o’clock every night.”
Poor darlings.
They’d lived with their paternal grandparents since their parents had died of typhoid when they were five. A widow, Everleigh’s mother didn’t think she could provide for them, nor was their room in their modest cottage. Still, the girls had visited one another often.
“Everleigh, you deserve some joy and happiness,” Nicolette said, and the others agreed with overly bright, encouraging smiles and nods.
“I shall make it clear to Caroline she is not invited for the duration. I don’t care if that’s unchristian or impolite. She’s just mean-spirited and will put a damper on the house party.” Theadosia regally inclined her head toward the butler.
Grover acknowledged the sign with an equally noble dip of his chin before leaving the room.
Everleigh must’ve been the last to arrive downstairs. Now dinner could be served.
Theadosia touched Everleigh’s elbow. “I understand if you’d rather a tray were brought to your room tonight, but please don’t leave. I have ever so many wonderful things planned for the yuletide. I don’t want you to spend it alone again and . . .”
She glanced round the circle of women, then took Everleigh’s hand in both of hers. “And . . . we know what day tomorrow is, dearest.”
The day Meredith had died.
Tears blurred Everleigh’s vision, and she dropped her gaze to her hand clutching the fan.
“I shouldn’t have come. I’ll only dampen everyone’s spirits with my doldrums.”
“Nonsense, darling.” Nicolette hugged Everleigh. “We only all agreed to inundate Thea and Sutcliffe for weeks because we care so much for you.”
Despite her shameful past, her friends loved her. “Thank you, but I’m just not—”
“Papa?”
A child’s frightened voice called out.
Everleigh, along with her friends, swung their heads toward the doorway.
“Papa?” Sobbing echoed in the corridor.
“I want my Pa-pa!”
At once, Griffin straightened, bent on preventing one of Sarah’s shrieking tantrums.
Why wasn’t she asleep?
Another nightmare?
What was she doing out of the nursery?
And how the devil had she managed the stairs and not become lost?
He’d barely found his way to the drawing room this evening. But then again, though he’d been friends with Sutcliffe for years, Griffin had only stayed here once prior at Sutcliffe’s wedding ball.
That was also the first time he’d laid eyes on the Ice Queen, Everleigh Chatterton.
Even her unique name appealed in a way that made no logical sense.
By all that was holy, she was exquisite tonight.
From her intricately styled gardenia-white hair to her eyes, the arresting green of the Scottish Highlands in spring, and her soft raspberry pink mouth, pressed into a severe line at the moment. Her milky gown, trimmed in muted black lace and purple velvet, emphasized her bountiful breasts without revealing their lushness. She was, in short, a brilliant white diamond amongst vivid gemstones.
He’d no business noting those particulars about her.
Sutcliffe, Pennington, and Bainbridge had made it brutally clear; Mrs. Everleigh Chatterton was not on the market. Would never be if her avowals could be believed.
Griffin, however, was on the marriage auction block.
Sarah needed a mother. But not just any mother. She must be a warm, tender-hearted woman who’d accept and love the child as her own. One who didn’t care a whit about Sarah’s origins. That had proved much harder to achieve than he’d anticipated.
That was why he’d attended dozens of balls, soirées, and musicales, the theater and opera, and house party after house party these past months, seeking the perfect duchess.
He couldn’t drag Sarah about with him forever, but until he had a duchess to look after her, he wouldn’t leave her when he traveled, sometimes being absent for months. He had no plans to cease his explorations and voyages until well into his dotage, so a wife had become essential. His hosts knew in advance if they wanted him present, she and Nurse must accompany him. Sarah had suffered enough trauma in her young life.
“Papa?”
Attired in her nightclothes, cute pink toes peeking from beneath her gown and her riot of untamed sable curls falling over her shoulders, the ebony-eyed child toddled into the drawing room, clutching a one-eyed, almost bald raggedy excuse for a doll. A pathetic memento from her former life.
“Papa?”
He maneuvered around a settee, but the expression of utter delight blooming across Everleigh Chatterton’s face hitched his step.
Squatting to Sarah’s level, she gave a gentle closed-mouth smile and held out her arms.
“Who is your papa, darling? I shall help you find him.”
Not so frigid after all.
Or was it just him she disliked?
Griffin braced himself for Sarah’s wail of outrage upon having a stranger speak to her, let alone attempt to touch her. In the year the almost three-year-old had lived with him, he still hadn’t quite grown accustomed to her spine-scraping vocal outbursts.
Thank God they’d become less frequent. Those first few weeks, his ears rang even in his sleep, such was the force of Sarah’s screams.
Instead of screeching at the top of her lungs, Sarah tottered into Mrs. Chatterton’s arms.
His jaw came unhinged for an instant, and something behind his ribs wobbled.
Sarah touched the shimmering platinum curls framing Mrs. Chatterton’s face.
Rather than get annoyed at having her coiffeur mussed, wonderment widened Everleigh Chatterton’s pretty smile.
“Are you an angel?”
Starry-eyed and breathless with awe, Sarah gently fingered an iridescent snowy curl.
After being introduced to Everleigh Chatterton last summer, Griffin had asked his Uncle Jerome DuBoise about the entrancing widow who wouldn’t set foot in London and barely spoke to men. Chatterton had been one of Uncle’s competitors, and there’d been no love lost between them, yet Uncle had been remarkably guarded in what he revealed about the widow.
Head canted, a crooked finger against his mouth, Griffin observed her interacting with Sarah.
Had Everleigh Chatterton married her elderly banker husband for his money, then had an affair with his son as the tattle-mongers whispered? Had the Chatterton men’s shootings truly been a robbery gone wrong or actually assassinations as a few still dared to conjecture?
“Nurse says angels have white hair.” A fragile, sad smile tilted Sarah’s little mouth. “My mamma lives in heaven. Her name is Meera. Have you seen her?”
“Hardly an angel.” Caroline Cha
tterton’s nasty muffled laugh lanced through the air. “More like a soiled dove.”
How dare that immoral hellcat cast dispersions on Everleigh?
Uncle had also shared some unsavory tidbits about the other Mrs. Chatterton. Of course, Griffin had no way of knowing she’d be here tonight or that he’d have the misfortune of meeting her. That was an unlucky coincidence.
In two strides he was beside her.
“That’s beyond enough, Mrs. Chatterton. I’ll remind you an innocent child is present.”
“So I see, though why some nitwit presumed it appropriate to bring what is obviously some sort of half-breed by-blow to an exclusive ton gathering does boggle the mind, does it not?”
Caroline Chatterton arched her back, thrusting her barely clad breasts ceilingward as she cast her sultry glance around the room.
If that was for his benefit, she’d wasted her time. He preferred women who didn’t feel the need to blatantly display their wares.
Expression coy, she ran her finger around the rim of her glass. “Whose brat do you suppose she is?”
“Mine.”
Her jaw sagged. The rouge on her cheeks standing out like candy stripes against her ashen face, her chagrinned gaze darted here and there.
Her bigotry inflamed Griffin’s fury. Rage tunneled hotly through his veins, but he casually adjusted a cuff link.
“Which means, Mrs. Chatterton, that half-breed urchin brat outranks you.”
Caroline’s mouth snapped shut, and after she speared him a murderous glare, she stalked off.
James Brentwood chuckled and spoke quietly into Griffin’s ear.
“God save the King, hail Mary, and hallelujah, someone has finally rendered the sluttish shrew mute. Now if you could please find a way to encourage her departure . . .?”
“Good riddance,” the Dowager Duchess said with a satisfied nod. “The only nitwit present tonight just flounced away.”
“Hear, hear,” Uncle Jerome agreed. “Not a pleasant sort at all. None of the Chatterton’s were. Except that one.” He slanted his head toward Everleigh. “There’s more to being a lady than breeding, and Everleigh Chatterton is quality through and through.”
Everleigh stood straight, then rested Sarah on her hip. Her black lace shawl slipped off, exposing a gently sloping ivory shoulder. She shifted Sarah to one arm, and gathering the folds of the shawl, tugged if off.
A December with a Duke: A Regency Romance (Seductive Scoundrels Book 3) Page 2