“Yes, and yes.” Mr. Seton sighed. “But few of them know the struggle with life that most of our class have gone through, and as for their morals … Let us say, my dear, that they take them less seriously than we do.”
“Surely not all!” his daughter protested.
“No, of course not. But theirs is a rich and idle existence, full of privilege, and often without consideration for those not in their circle.”
Eveline stopped rolling the little egg about and held it tightly instead. “So are you telling me that he is trifling with me because I am not of his class?”
“Do get off your high horse, daughter! Did I say that?”
“No, but I think you were leading up to it.”
Her father laughed. “In a way, I suppose I was.”
“How complimentary you are to me today, dear, dear Papa!” She tossed the ornament in the air and caught it neatly, then put it back on the mantelpiece with a decided snap. “I am your daughter, Papa! Would I be such a fool? True, Lady Brookland takes me about to all the routs and balls and assemblies in Bath. True, I do have admirers. But do any of them call at this house? I think not. Do any of them mean marriage? Most certainly not.” Eveline’s smile was wry.
An ache grew in Mr. Seton’s heart. His daughter was no wide-eyed innocent who saw nothing in people’s actions but good. She, like him, could weigh a man’s heart against his words. And yet, he wished that it had never been necessary for her to be so. He sighed. Certainly, there were many promising young men of business he had asked to his house, and introduced them to Eveline. But she had never shown any interest in any man until now.
“Then how is this one different?”
Hesitation showed plainly on Eveline’s face. She glanced at her father, then said: “I do not know that he is different.”
The merchant wished he could stop his questioning at this point, that he could say, “Well, then, that is that.” He could not, however. Eveline had a clear-reasoning mind—more sharp than many men he knew. Logically, of course she would state the facts: that objectively she did not know this admirer was any different from any other. Yet, clearly, this viscount was different in some way essential to her. Mr. Seton sighed again.
“Is there one thing he does that other men do not?”
Eveline hesitated again. “He listens to me.”
“Eh?”
She blushed, then laughed slightly. “Perhaps it sounds silly, but he listens to me, to what I have to say … as if it were important.”
“I should hope so!” Mr. Seton tugged at the shawl across his legs, pulling it closer to him.
“No, really, Papa. Most men will listen to me—to most women—with an indulgent air, as if they know better no matter what I say. I declare, some come close to patting me on the head as if I were a little dog! But Lord Clairmond … he listens, and takes my words quite seriously—unless I am not serious, that is, and then he responds in kind.” Eveline put her hand on her father’s arm. “Do you see what I mean, Papa?” she asked earnestly.
“Yes, I do, child.” He did indeed see. It almost made him regret the education he had given Eveline. He’d educated her for a position far higher than a merchant’s daughter would normally aspire to, yet her birth would never tempt anyone from the ton. But what else could he have done? She was his only child, and when her mind proved to be as sharp as his, how could he not give the girl all the lessons that would hone that mind to a fine edge? And with that sort of mind came the knowledge that Eveline would never be content with the usual life of a merchant’s wife. Though she never spoke of it, she must know it. She never was more than civil in a friendly manner toward the young men that called upon them. To tell the truth, once they’d found how much more astute a mind she had than theirs, they soon left for less daunting ladies.
Was this viscount worthy? Certainly his title would be, thought Mr. Seton. But he wanted someone right for Eveline, not just a title. He patted Eveline’s hand gently. “Well, my dear, if he wishes to call on you, I would like to meet him.”
“Yes, if he wishes to call on me,” sighed Eveline.
The house was in a fashionable part of town, which Richard expected. What he did not expect was that it was also well-appointed, decorated with elegance and good taste. Perhaps he should not have been surprised. Miss Seton never dressed vulgarly, nor was her conversation simpering or banal. It seemed fitting that her home reflect her character. The viscount gave his hat and coat to the butler, and a mocking smile briefly touched his lips. What, really, did he know of her? He had danced attendance on her for two weeks, stayed away for another two, and now he was back. That was not much time in which to know anyone. Better he should rely on what he knew of merchant’s daughters in general: women who thought only of titles and estates, with little refinement or elegance of mind.
But it was difficult to keep in mind. The Setons’ butler announced him, and Miss Seton looked up, surprise writ large on her face—and that was the difficulty. For when he looked upon her face, Richard could not believe there was anything grasping or vulgar behind those large and intelligent eyes, the kind smile of welcome, or the soft, impulsive, brief touch of her hand on his own. He made himself remember the faces and the poverty of his tenants instead, and Miss Seton’s attributes faded in comparison.
“How good of you to call, my lord!” she said. Richard had meant to bow over her hand only in the usual way, but somehow the feel of her long tapered fingers in his own made him bring them up to his lips. He noticed she hesitated slightly before pulling away. He smiled, and when he rose, he saw she was blushing slightly. “I have not seen you in a while.”
“Not for two weeks, that is so, ma’am. I had business to attend to.” That was true, although he also meant to stay out of sight to pique her interest. Miraculously, his solicitor had found an investment that had somehow been overlooked and had sent for him immediately. Miraculous, indeed. The viscount could sense the hand of Teufel in this. An advance on the contract, no doubt. But it gave him enough to send to Marianne, to keep the duns at bay for a while.
“Is there something amiss?”
Richard looked up, startled. Miss Seton’s face wore a look of concern. “No, not at all. Last week’s business was tedious; I was merely reflecting that I am glad to be shut of it.” He must keep better control over revealing his feelings—the lovely Miss Seton was too perceptive by half.
She nodded as she rang the bell for a servant. “It can be tedious, I know. My father says I have a good head for business, but I cannot see it. One would think a talent for a certain thing would make one fond of it. But I, alas, do not care for sums at all.”
“It takes more than sums, I would think, to make up a talent for business,” Richard said lightly.
“That is what Papa says, but I am sure that sums are the greater part of it.” She paused as the maidservant entered, and she looked up at him. “Would you be pleased to take some refreshment, my lord?”
He smiled and shook his head. “No, I thank you. I have come only to call and ask if you would be willing to take a short ride in my curricle with me.”
“Now?” Her eyebrows rose briefly at his nod, and she hesitated. “I … would be very pleased to do so, my lord. I shall have to tell my father.”
“You seem surprised, Miss Seton.”
“I rarely go on carriage rides with gentlemen.”
“Do you not like to do so?” he asked, curious.
A wry smile touched her lips. “I am rarely asked.” She glanced at a watch pinned to the bodice of her dress. “I shall be ready in a quarter hour, is that soon enough?” He smiled and bowed in assent, and she walked gracefully out the room.
As soon as Eveline left the parlor, she all but ran up the stairs to her room. Her cheeks were flushed when she spied her nurse, who was startled out of arranging flowers on one of the side tables.
“Oh, Conny, he is here!” Eveline pulled hard on the bell rope. “Oh, yes, my maid. I must have Janie to help me change to
a carriage dress. I must hurry!”
“Whisht! Now what is all this, Miss Eveline?”
“Lord Clairmond! He has invited me for a carriage ride in his curricle.” Eveline flung open the wardrobe door and pushed aside one dress after another in a distracted manner. “No, no, not that one. Oh, that jonquil makes me look positively ill! I should never have bought it! Where is my cherry merino?”
“Oh, Lord Clairmond, is it? Well, he may be a lord, Miss Evie, but crushing your clothes like a heathen because you’re in such a hurry I will not have.” Nurse clicked her tongue in disapproval and went to the wardrobe, pulling out the cherry carriage dress at once. “Sure and it’s in less time I found it, for all your scrambling!”
“Thank you, Conny!” Eveline smiled brilliantly upon her.
“My, you are in a tizzy, Miss Evie, which—if I may be so bold to speak—won’t bring you downstairs any faster than if you dressed with more care as a lady should.”
Eveline stilled herself and looked at her nurse gravely. “Of course, Nurse Connor, you are quite right.” She stopped and waited until the maid entered to help with the tiny buttons on the back of her dress.
But Nurse did not miss the little spark of mischief in her charge’s eye. She shook her head and frowned. “Eh, and there you stand as if butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.” Her expression softened, and she said: “Well, then, excepting he’s a lord and all, what is there about the man that has got you so shatter-brained, child? Taken a bit of your heart, has he?”
“Oh, nonsense, Conny! You know I have no interest in titles, and besides, it is only a carriage ride, after all.”
“Which is why you rushed in here like a besom from a fishmarket, flinging your clothes about, is it now?”
Eveline’s lips trembled upward in a half-suppressed smile, though she blushed. “I am sorry for crushing my dresses, but I have been so dull lately, staying indoors because of the rain. I would have been eager for any outing, I daresay.” She moved away from the maid when the last button was hooked, and gazed into the mirror. She smoothed back her hair, and Nurse began to tidy it.
“Humph!” said Nurse. She noticed her mistress had not precisely answered her question; she’d only said that she had no interest in titles, and not if her heart were engaged. Well, it was early days yet. She’d kept note of her young lady’s talk of this viscount, and it had been but a few weeks he’d come to her notice. Miss Eveline had a practical head on her shoulders, and was too good, beside. Little chance she’d be carried away by a handsome face and a title.
And it was true. Eveline was not at all carried away by Lord Clairmond’s face or his title. As she entered the parlor again, he took her gloved hand to his lips, and the sun cast its rays through the windows and across his face, showing every feature. She reflected that he was not a beautiful man or wonderfully handsome. The lineaments of his face were too angled for that, his skin sallow beneath its brownness—certainly not the classical looks fashion favored so. It was a manly, strong face, stern in repose; but it could soften, as it did now while he looked at her.
He smiled. And that, thought Eveline, feeling breathless, was his attraction. For when he smiled at her, a warmth grew in his eyes, dispelling the darkness she sometimes fancied dwelt there. His gaze might wander, but it never wandered to other ladies’ faces when he talked to her, but lingered on each of her features until it returned to her eyes again in clear appreciation. It seemed as if, during the time the viscount was with her, she had the whole of his attention; none of it grudged, or impatient, or patronizing; and certainly it was admiring. How could she be proof against that?
But she knew little of him. Only a few weeks’ worth of his presence, and that was not knowledge enough of anyone for— Eveline stopped her thoughts firmly. She knew little of him, and perhaps she would come to know more, but that was all. She was a merchant’s daughter, after all, and perhaps presentable enough to dance with him or ride in a carriage with him, but not more than that. She would enjoy what she had and not expect anything else.
And yet, and yet … A little tendril of joy crept in, and she allowed it, even letting it grow. A bit of happiness must be permitted her, surely. She had worked so hard this past year, with Papa’s illness, and the business!
“I thought we might drive down Great Pultney Street and then to Sydney Gardens,” Lord Clairmond said. “Unless, of course, you wish to go elsewhere?”
Ah, there it was again: his eyes caressing her face, smiling almost intimately. Eveline shook herself mentally, then nodded. “Oh, yes, the gardens would be delightful, thank you.” She wondered briefly if his manner toward her were simply the way he was around all ladies. She supposed it must be true, if any of Lady Brookland’s gossip were also true. All the Clairmonds, had said the Dowager Countess, were charmers. Well, then! To succumb to his looks and his smile was folly, for they meant nothing.
But the afternoon conspired against her. For it was a warm day for spring, warmer than she’d expected. All that remained of the clouds that had obscured the sun and sky for weeks on end were small white wisps, too fragile-looking to survive such warmth. The sky was a blue that only spring could bring; so bright and deep it almost hurt her eyes to look at it. It made all things stand out sharp and clear, and whenever Eveline looked at the viscount’s not classically handsome countenance, the clarity of her vision etched his eyes, his mouth, the lean lines of cheek and jaw painfully into her heart.
“I suppose you have seen Sydney Gardens many times already,” he said as they approached.
Eveline looked at him, a little surprised. His voice had sounded diffident, almost apologetic. Somehow the emotion did not fit with her perception of him, for he seemed a proud man. But she smiled and said, “Yes, I have. We have lived here, my father and I, for two years, after all. But I never tire of it; it is pretty and I am always finding something new in the gardens.”
“New?”
“Shrubbery, flowers, trees. It is different than in London, somehow. Perhaps it is because the gardeners are always changing something, planting new flowers and such every year.” She turned to him, smiling in a comforting manner. “I daresay it is all very new to you as you are only recently come back from the Continent.”
“Yes.” His voice sounded odd, as if he were holding in his breath as he spoke. She saw his jaw stiffen and his body tense as if he were readying himself for an assault. She remembered suddenly that Lady Brookland had said he’d been thought dead, for his injuries had been severe. An aching warmth flooded her heart, and she put her hand on his arm.
“I am sorry. It must be … difficult for you coming back to England. I should not have even hinted at the … the unpleasantness you must have experienced there.”
He turned an astonished gaze on her. “Unpleasantness? Is that what dirt and blood and death are to you civilians? Good God.”
Eveline could feel her face grow warm. “I … I am sorry. How could I know? And since I do not know, how can I find the right word to describe it?” She looked away, at once angry and ashamed. How could she know? Yes, she’d heard the reports, but the numbers of dead and wounded had been so high as to be incomprehensible. She had tried, but her mind had refused to take it in, for at that time she had been deep in her father’s business during the day, deep in worry over his unconscious state, and nursing him at night. “I only meant after living in different countries and fighting for so long, that coming back to England must seem almost foreign to you.”
Lord Clairmond gazed at her with angry, yet assessing, eyes. He blinked, and it seemed a mask came over his face, smoothing it of expression. “Yes. I am sorry. I have been inexcusably rude, have I not?” he said, his voice civil once more.
“Don’t. Just don’t,” blurted Eveline.
He raised his eyebrows in question.
“You … you disappeared, you see,” she said. “I would much rather have you angry at me for my thoughtlessness than have you pretend you are not.”
His smile was
amused. “Disappeared? But I am here, as you see.” Flicking a glance at the approaching gardens, he slowed the horses, then stopped. As he stepped down and helped her out of the curricle, his smile broadened. “And I am not at all angry at you, believe me.”
Eveline bit back a sigh and fell back to common civility, returning his smile and saying, “It was only an odd expression of mine. Silly, actually.” It was not really an explanation, but Lord Clairmond only smiled again and nodded almost absently.
She regretted her outburst. The day was still crisp and clear, and yet their outing felt clouded to her now, as if a mist separated them. An ache grew where she had felt joy just minutes before, and as she looked up at Lord Clairmond’s face once more, she knew a thing she wished she did not: She was falling in love with him.
It was not, as she had thought, truly because of his smile, although it was one of the most attractive things about him. It was the air of singularity, of aloneness, of apartness; as if he were not a part of this civilized, ordinary town of Bath, but as if he belonged somewhere else—dark, wild, and even cold. It was something she, herself, knew, for though she was educated and raised as a lady, her education went far and above what most young ladies received. It set her apart, set her mind raging with a wild passion, wanting to be out of the ordinary, but knowing her birth would hardly let her do so. But cold … She was not that, she was sure, and that element she perceived in Clairmond intrigued her.
The viscount said something about the gardens; she had not heard the whole of it, she realized, for she had not been attending. She turned her face away from him to hide the blush suffusing her cheeks. She replied something—she was sure it was inane, though her confusion did not let her remember what she said—and blushed more fiercely at the thought of her inanity. She hoped at least it was adequate enough to turn the subject and continue the conversation in a more conventional vein.
It was; or at least enough for the viscount’s easy address to make it so. As they strolled the gardens, a crisp breeze cooled Eveline’s warm face so that she could gaze at him once again and smile. She saw an assessing, intimate expression in his eyes then, and fearing she would blush once more, she looked away and caught sight of a squirrel looking at them quizzically from a tree. A laugh broke through her discomfort, and she pointed at the little animal. “Do look! Is he not the most odd little creature? He looks for all the world as if he wishes desperately to talk to us,” she said.
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