by Eva Devon
Her lush voice grew rich with emotion and her eyes flashed. “And we are merely lucky if our husband is kind to us. Some husbands are brutes, you know, treating their wives as if they were bits of furniture to be shoved about rather than persons.”
Those words burned him to his core. He knew that picture. And for one brief moment, he was not in the ballroom. He wasn’t standing here with this fascinating creature.
No. He was four years old, cowering in his mother’s arms as she cried and his father, red faced and looming, raged at her. His father was a gargoyle in his memory, terrifying and large. His mother’s hands wrapped about St. John, holding him close before she quickly shoved him away as her husband’s hand cracked across her cheek.
He felt the blow to his mother almost as if it had been delivered to himself.
“My lord?” Miss Edgington said, her voice strange. “Are you unwell?”
He shook his head, sucking in a sharp breath. He did not usually permit such memories to overcome him in public. Digging his fingers into his palms, he replied, “I see that you understand far more than I thought you did. Young ladies often don’t seem to have the—”
“Young ladies often do have the scope,” she mocked, “to understand such things. They just don’t say such things to you.”
He was not about to explain that most of his life was a response to his mother’s experiences with his father. . . And then his own. He understood the will of a powerful man better than she might think, but he’d never understand what it was like to be a woman in such times.
It was a damn shame, he thought, that women felt the need to hide themselves away from men. But men did make it necessary so often, wishing to have caricatures of women and not real women themselves.
His heart ached at it.
For the most part, the only women he’d known who could truly be themselves were either ridiculously wealthy in their own right and unmarried, or they were women in the arts.
He’d chosen to spend his time with them. Hating to think that one day he would marry and impose his ownership on a woman.
He could not marry a woman of the theater, of course. That was not the done thing, though dukes had made actresses into wives. It was rather tricky to do such a thing, for they were not prepared for his kind of life.
He slowly held his hand out to her. “Come and dance with me, and you and I shall discuss your future.”
She eyed him carefully, not trusting, which was very wise. Then, slowly, she placed her hand into his and followed him out upon the floor.
He led her to the beat of the music and soon they were swirling about the room to the hopping steps of the “A La Monde.”
“So,” he said, “you wish to be a singer. You adore the great composers of the day and believe you can carry an aria well enough to hold an audience captive for four hours.”
“I do indeed,” she said, “even though you sound as if you are mocking me.”
“Oh, I cannot mock you, my dear. Though I have not a great talent, I enjoy singing in private performances.”
“You do?” She gasped.
“Of course,” he said easily. “I’m sure you know that I love to play upon the stage, though always for a special, intimate audience. I have never gone on the stage in Covent Garden, as you so wish to do. Most shocking, my dear. Looking upon your features, one never would have thought such an idea could pass through your mind, let alone such an idea pass your lips.”
“Well,” she whispered as she moved about the floor with surprising grace, “you will find that wallflowers can be shocking creatures.”
“So I see,” he agreed, marveling at her, “so I see. You wish to shock the world, do you? What will your parents think of that? Are they ready and eager to applaud an actress of a daughter?”
“Of course not,” she said quickly, her shoulders sinking slightly. “I don’t know what I shall do, but I must do it. Perhaps I can choose a new name, as you suggested, and an entirely different persona. I can go away.” Her eyes lit. “I can go and stay in the country and then come back as someone else.”
“Come back as someone else,” he repeated, musing that half the ton likely dreamed of such a thing. “What an interesting idea. That’s what you wish to do, to come back as someone entirely different?”
“I am so tired of being Miss Eloise Edgington of no interest and no opinion,” she confessed with a stunning fire. “I would really truly love to be someone remarkable.”
The desire in her voice—the longing was so intense that it shook him to his core. And he thought of all the young ladies who had thrown away their desires and dreams in favor of duty.
He thought of his own dreams crushed. Of his mother cowering away.
Suddenly, he found himself determined to help her.
Once, he too had dreams and desires that he had thrown away for duty at the demands of his father.
As a result, he had spent years in debauchery and decadence, dancing from mistress to mistress, party to party, and only finding happiness in the theater.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s make you into someone else.”
“You’ll help me?” she gasped.
“I will. Only because I’m afraid you’re going to throw yourself into the arms of some treacherous fellow who will make terrible use of you and never let you upon the stage.”
“But you will let me upon the stage?” she asked, clearly uncertain.
“First,” he said, “we have to find out if you’re any good. If you’re not good,” he warned, “you’re going to have to accept it, you know?”
“I understand,” she said quickly, her frame all but radiating with hope. “I promise you I am good. But If I’m not, I’ll go back to the drawing room and I’ll marry a vicar,” she declared.
“You promise?” he asked.
“I promise.”
And he found the very idea of her married to a vicar in the country appalling. For a young lady of such fire? Surely, she deserved more.
Chapter 5
The music came to an end, and Hollybrook bowed over her hand. She could scarce utter a word as he led her back across the floor and left her quickly.
Her hand was still aloft as she gaped at him striding away. Had he truly just said he would help her? She wanted to jump for the joy of it but knew that such a thing would draw far too much attention.
The whir of a gown and the wild waving of a painted green fan signaled the arrival of her mama by her side.
“My darling, my darling! Has the earl paid you attention? I cannot believe my eyes. Do you think, do you think, my dear, he is interested in you?”
“No, Mama,” she said bluntly, hating to have got her mother’s hopes up so entirely.
“I think he is just meaning to be kind,” Eloise said quickly, trying to think of anything which might explain his behavior. “He saw me standing alone and seems to be a man of—”
“But as long as he doesn’t mean to ruin you, my dear,” her mother cut in suddenly, tutting.
For if he was not interested in matrimony, surely he must be interested in something else. Eloise fought a sigh.
“No, Mama,” Eloise ventured. “I do not think that he has any such desires towards me.”
“Well, he was looking at you in the strangest way,” her mama replied from behind her waving fan, her red hair shining in the candlelight. “And it was the most pointed look, my dear. I think half the room was shocked by it. Half the mothers will need smelling salts because none of them have ever considered that the Earl of Hollybrook would look upon you with any interest at all! Let alone such pointed notice!”
Eloise all but snorted.
Pointed notice, indeed.
She had not thought such a thing, but was it possibly true a man so beautiful might look at her with that kind of curiosity? Surely, it was because she had merely shocked him to the tips of his black Hessians.
Yes, that was it. She was a novelty, an odd duck, and a fellow opera lover.
&
nbsp; “Mama,” she began, eager to end the speculation and begin her endeavors.
“Yes, my dear?” her mama said, as she followed the earl about the room with what she no doubt thought to be a warning stare. In fact, it looked as if a bit of feather had fallen into her eye.
Even so, the earl was standing by the fire drinking brandy apace and avoiding the whole room’s gaze.
Eloise all but bounced with nervous excitement. “I haven’t been able to broach it to you yet, but I did want to let you know that Lucy has invited me to stay with her in the Highlands. And I think I should go. Do you mind?”
Her mother paused in the frantic waving of her fan. “Now my dear, I suppose I do not mind. Perhaps a little bit of time in Scotland will produce an eligible man up there.” Her mother gave a sympathetic smile. “Perhaps men in the Highlands might be a little less…”
“Choosy?” she suggested for her mother.
Her mother’s smile tensed.
“Forgive me, my dear,” she said with surprising woe. “I feel we shall never get you married, but perhaps up there? There is still hope.”
“Perhaps, Mama.” She did not wish to crush her mother’s spirits and she certainly didn’t wish her mother to suspect she had given up the idea of matrimony all together.
She hated lying to her mother so entirely. But what else could she do when her mother was so opposed to her singing?
She needed an excuse to vanish for some weeks, if not months. And Lucy was the best possibility of it, for Lucy lived in a place thought far away from it all.
Safely ensconced in the very northern tip of Scotland, her mother would have no worries as she continued her society rounds.
Yes, if she said that she was going with Lucy, there would be no concern. Eloise would be able to do as she pleased. And her mother would feel confident and not have to worry about ensuring that her daughter was invited to enough card parties, fetes, or balls to potentially secure a husband.
Such securing was ludicrous to Eloise, in any case. She was not popular or in demand. The trickling of cards and invitations had made that clear this year.
She only wished her mother could accept it as well and no longer force her into company, enduring long hours standing, waiting to be noticed by a gentleman. Any gentleman, at this late state.
It must’ve been a moment of complete euphoria for her mother when the Earl of Hollybrook had come over and asked Eloise to dance.
She saw now that her poor mother looked quite downtrodden, despite her pretty emerald gown and still lovely face, that such a thing had not resulted in some sort of immediate discussion of marriage.
“You know, my dear, the rumor is Hollybrook is looking for a wife.”
“Is he?” she asked, stunned.
He didn’t seem to be looking for a wife to her. He didn’t seem to be the sort of man to settle down.
“Oh yes,” her mother said. “That is why I…” She swallowed, having already realized her daughter was the last sort Hollybrook would likely consider. “Yes, he’s made it quite clear that he’s looking for a young lady of good breeding to marry and to settle down with him to begin establishing his heirs.”
She nearly groaned.
Of course, women were nothing but breeding animals to a man like Hollybrook if they were to be married, but it was quite strange considering his reputation for mistresses.
Surely, he found ladies to be more interesting than breeding stock. But then again, he was an earl, and earls needed to breed to continue their lines.
It was what the aristocracy did. She could not fault them for doing what they were meant to do. Still, she would rather hope for more of him.
She did not know why, but she did.
He’d seemed to be such a remarkable person when she’d been alone with him in his chamber and then when they had danced. She’d loved reading about him in the papers, all of the support he gave to the arts, to artists, the painters he supported, the writers he funded, the theater that he had built, and the singers and actors that he played patron to.
Allowing them to work without the concern of financial burden was marvelous.
She caught sight of him slipping out onto the balcony and her heart fluttered with wonder. Would he truly help her as he’d said? She hoped so.
There had been something profound in his eyes when he had said it, and she could not wait to begin. She wagered with all her heart that if he would but assist her, her life would change forever, and she would never have to be a wallflower again.
Chapter 6
A nondescript coach rolled up to her parents’ rather unimportant house on a rather unimportant street in a rather unimportant part of London.
Eloise dashed down the simple steps to the bustling pavement, knowing exactly who was awaiting her. Her parents assumed that it was Lucy.
It was not.
She had left them with the belief that she would be in good company. And she was not about to give any pause in her departure which might alter their concern.
So as her portmanteau was quickly loaded atop the coach, she dashed into the vehicle with the help of a plainly dressed footman and did not look back.
Eloise launched herself upon the seat with a happy sigh. She all but flung herself against the black leather squabs, beaming. Once she blinked and look across the narrow way, she let out a peep of shock, stunned to spot the earl himself sitting in front her.
Her mouth dropped open in the most cliche of ways. “I did not expect you to join me.”
He cocked his head to the side, his thick hair brushing the lapels of his fine ruby morning coat. “I can see that by your startled expression. Whyever not?”
She pursed her lips. She did not wish to say that she’d not thought herself so important as to be collected personally. So she gestured to the plain walls of the vehicle. “Well, this is not your coach.”
“How do you know?” he asked, extending his boot far enough that it skimmed the hem of her uninspired lemon-yellow frock.
“Well, there is no crest of arms upon it,” she sputtered.
His lips curled ever so slightly with amusement. “You will find that when you go about in society and you don’t wish people to know your every action and every move, it is wise to own a vehicle that does not declare your identity upon it.”
“Oh,” she said, her brow furrowing as she weighed his statement. “I see. I had never given that much consideration before. I thought you did not mind everyone knowing what you did.”
He shrugged, resting a black leather gloved hand upon his taut, fawn breech-clad thigh. “I generally don’t, but one still likes to have a little bit of anonymity every now and then. The newssheet fellows? Well, they’ll write about anything and they’ll follow you anywhere. And in truth, I don’t need them knowing where I meet my mistress.”
She blinked and blurted, “I thought you hadn’t had a mistress in a year. That’s what my mother told me.”
His dark brows rose. Hollybrook leaned back as the coach rattled over the uneven surface of London’s cobblestones. “You and your mother discussed my mistresses.”
“Everyone discusses your mistress,” she pointed out with no apology. “You are a man of fashion, sir.”
“Oh God,” he groaned. “Would that people had something better to do.”
“They don’t,” she replied with a playful shrug. “Not generally. There are a few people, I suppose, who have better things to do. Lucky them, sorting out the country and all that. But the rest of us are rather trapped, you know. With nothing to do but discuss each other.”
“It’s bloody unfortunate, which of course is why you wish to go upon the stage,” he observed.
“Exactly,” she said, grinning. “Well, not the only reason. I dearly love to sing, and I want others to hear me do it.”
“Well, then,” he said. “My hat is off to you that you do not settle for banality.”
“Thank you,” she breathed, uncertain at his approval. “It is clear that you do no
t have an interest in banality either.”
“No,” he agreed. “I do not.”
They fell silent for a moment, and she looked to the window.
It was always an interesting experience traveling through London by coach, for the streets were jam-packed with other vehicles and carts selling oranges, milk, flowers, every possible thing that one could imagine. The sheer loudness of it was astounding.
It was the thrill of life.
Eloise adored London.
It was full of zest and vigor and intrigue and drama. She knew that some people dearly loved the country, and she liked a good walk amongst nature as much as anyone did. But there was something about the life-changing wildness of London that filled her veins with excitement.
As a girl in society, she was often not allowed to go into the wilder parts of town or attend parties of any interest.
“So,” she began, tapping her knee. “Are we to go to your country estate?”
He shook his head. “We would waste time on a week-long journey to my estate. And then we would have to explain to my servants why you were there. After all, you aren’t my future wife. I don’t take mistresses to my family home, Miss Edgington.”
Once again, his lips curled in a slow, dangerous sort of smile. “No, no. I’m going to take you to a nest here in the city.”
“A nest?” she echoed.
“Yes.” He waggled his brows at her. Teasing. “A love nest.”
“For your mistresses?” She gasped, both astonished and strangely thrilled at the idea of being so near scandal.
“Yes,” he said. “It seems the best thing.”
“The best thing?” she echoed deliciously aghast. She couldn’t countenance the idea that he might try to seduce her. It was absurd. “How could it possibly be the best thing, a place where you take mistresses?”