Senseless Sensibilities

by K. L. O'Keefe

In response to his touch, Anne’s fingers started to toil in his hair. “You’re softer than you look,” she said with a chuckle, raking a hand through his short, black locks.

  He closed his eyes as she played with his hair. “And you’re not as gentle as you look.”

  Anne’s hand stopped. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean, for all your docile airs, you’re quite the little vixen. I made that discovery two nights ago.”

  “Oh, really? I’m a vixen?” she asked, giving his ear a playful tug. “Do you want to rescind that comment, or would you rather be punished for it?”

  Grinning, Nicholas replied, “I’ll take my punishment, please.”

  A few seconds later, she was lying on top of him, covering his mouth with kisses. She kissed him until he thought his chest would explode from the pleasure.

  “My… dear… you…” he spoke to her between kisses, “you… really… know how… to punish… a man…”

  When the kisses finally ceased, she laid her hands on his cheeks, admiring his face. It was the handsomest face she’d ever seen, and she counted herself lucky. As she stared at his face, Anne lost herself in thought. And her thoughts, as usual, were mostly bleak. Even if she could only be his mistress, she would have to accept it. No matter what, she wanted to be with him. Now that she knew what it was like to feel passionate and loved, she would trade it for nothing. Not even her dignity.

  After a minute of silence, Nicholas stirred. With a chuckle, he said, “More punishment, please.”

  So she kissed him some more, until her lips were numb, and her clothes were removed from her body. His hands reacquainted themselves with every inch of her, as did his lips. They made love for over an hour, many times, until they were both exhausted. Finally, Anne fell into his arms.

  She spent the next several minutes with her face nestled against his chest. When she lifted her head, his eyes were closed. “Nicholas?” Anne whispered his name. “Are you asleep?”

  Nicholas opened an eye. “Not anymore.”

  “Did I wake you?”

  He grinned at her. “No, dearest, I was teasing you. Is there something on your mind?”

  When Anne opened her mouth to speak, nothing came out. There were so many sentiments she wanted to express, but she couldn’t. For some reason, it was impossible to put her feelings into words. She was grateful to Nicholas for what he had shown her, and happier than she had ever been. She was terrified, too—terrified of being left alone, and terrified of losing the man who gave her life meaning.

  If she told him precisely how she felt, or how important he had become to her, how would he react? She thought it best to remain silent, lest she give him a reason to flee. She knew he couldn't possibly feel the same love she felt for him.

  She loved Nicholas Grey. Like her daughter for Jonathan, Anne was admitting it to herself for the first time.

  “Anne?”

  When she looked at him again, her eyes were a void, and her lips were taut. Her countenance wore no trace of the feelings in her heart. “Yes?”

  “Is there something you wanted to say?”

  “No,” she answered softly. “No, there was nothing. Go back to sleep.”

  “Must I?” Nicholas ran his hand along her bare shoulder, basking in the warmth of her skin. “Sleeping is waste of time. I can think of at least a million other things I’d rather do.”

  “Can you?”

  To prove his point, Nicholas kissed her again.

  And he kept her awake for two more hours.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Trevelan decided to walk to Penworth Park. He had over a dozen horses at his disposal, but there was something refreshing about a brisk morning walk. He stopped several times along the way, filling his lungs with air, trying to collect his bearings. Two weeks had passed since Evangeline turned down his proposal, and it had been two weeks since he had seen her. He was going to face the woman who rejected him, and it made him anxious.

  Without a doubt, Evangeline’s rejection was the reason for his absence. When she declined his offer of marriage, Trevelan was bitter for several days. He was a wealthy, titled gentleman, and he’d been an eligible bachelor for half his life. Women of the highest quality were clamoring to be with him. To be rejected by such a young girl—the daughter of his oldest friend—did nothing but mar his ego. He had been certain she would accept him, but he was wrong. It was the most humiliating moment of his life. All forty-six years of it.

  Every time he took a step, Trevelan swung his walking stick. He tried to keep his chin up and look confident, but it was all for show. In truth, he felt miserable. He always thought Evangeline would be his wife. He was so sure of it that he hadn’t bothered with a backup plan.

  When he arrived at the house, the butler ushered him inside. Trevelan handed over his calling card and waited in the sitting room. He paced the floor for what felt like an hour, even though it was five minutes. When Evangeline appeared in the doorway, beads of sweat sprung onto his forehead.

  “Richard!” she nearly shouted his name as she entered the room. “How very nice to see you! You wanted to talk to me?”

  When she came forward, he reached out for her hands. He didn’t reach far enough, however, and ended up holding the tips of her fingers. “Well, yes… I suppose I did. You look well, Evangeline. You look very lovely.”

  “Thank you,” she said with a smile. “And you look very handsome yourself.”

  Trevelan winced. Handsome? Did she dare to give him false hope, or was her compliment a practiced nicety? “I’m sure I look worn and haggard. I’m not youthful anymore. I should have anticipated what sort of effect the long walk would have on me.”

  “Nonsense, my lord, you don’t look haggard at all! You do look handsome.”

  And he did. Though he was getting on in years, his looks hadn’t faded. He hadn’t changed much since she’d known him, minus a few new wrinkles here and there.

  “I, uh… I brought you a g-gift, Evangeline,” Lord Trevelan stammered. At first, he held out his right hand—which was clutching his walking stick. With a nervous chuckle, he said, “wrong hand,” and held out his left. In it, he was holding a small book.

  Evangeline accepted it with a smile. “How very thoughtful of you.”

  “I know you don’t care for stories, but this is a particular favorite of mine,” Trevelan explained. “I thought you might enjoy it.”

  “I’m sure I’ll like it very much.”

  For the next two minutes, Trevelan was stiff and silent. He didn’t know how to proceed. He knew what he wanted to do, but he was no expert at wooing women. He knew only one thing for sure: he had to try harder.

  “I brought you something else.”

  Evangeline raised an eyebrow. “Really? In addition to the book?”

  “Yes.” Dipping a hand into his pocket, he extracted a small slip of paper. With trembling hands, he started to unfold it. “‘Tis a poem.”

  Her eyebrow went up even higher. “Oh?”

  Lord Trevelan was going to recite poetry? Evangeline could hardly believe her ears. He had always been a very staid and stoic man. If he was capable of romance, this was the first sign of it he had ever shown.

  Trevelan cleared his throat and started to read aloud:

  Who will believe my verse in time to come

  If it were filled with your most high deserts?

  Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb

  Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts:

  If I could write the beauty of your eyes,

  And in fresh numbers number all your graces,

  The age to come would say this poet lies,

  Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces.

  So should my papers (yellowed with their age)

  Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue,

  And your true rights be termed a poet's rage,

  And stretched metre of an antique song.

  But were some child o
f yours alive that time,

  You should live twice in it, and in my rhyme.”

  When he finished, Evangeline didn’t know how to respond. “That was… very lovely, Richard.”

  “I didn’t write it.”

  “Oh,” she feigned surprise. From the very first line, Evangeline knew he was reciting Shakespeare. He needed to give her more credit. “Well, it was very lovely nonetheless.”

  “It was a Shakespearean sonnet.”

  “Oh, really. Which one is it?”

  “I don’t remember. Are you disappointed?” Trevelan pulled out a handkerchief, which he used to dab his sopping forehead. “It’s… it’s dashed hot in here, don’t you think?”

  Evangeline studied him with concern. “Would you like me to open a window?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. I, uh…” He tapped his walking stick against the floor three times, as if doing so would help him collect his thoughts. “Do you have any idea why I’m here, my dear?”

  Evangeline shook her head. “One can only guess, Lord Trevelan.”

  “Lord Trevelan?” He grumbled something in an inaudible voice. “You weren’t so formal with me a minute ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t trying to illicit an apology. The last thing I want to do is make you feel guilty, because I’m here to talk about matters of the heart. The last time I was here, do you remember what I said to you?”

  With reddening cheeks, she replied, “You asked me to marry you. How could I forget?”

  “Yes. And you remember your response?” When she opened her mouth to respond, Trevelan held up a finger. “Please, I’m not asking you to reiterate it. But I am hoping you’ll change your mind. You see, I’m afraid I cannot accept your answer.”

  Evangeline turned away from him. “I’m afraid you’ll have to, my lord, for I don’t intend to change my mind.”

  Her cold reply weakened his knees. For the first time, his walking stick was more than a decoration. He had to lean on it to steady himself. “Please, will you hear me out? Surely you can respect your father’s wishes? We had a spoken agreement, you know? It wasn’t so much of a formal arrangement, but he always expected us to wed.”

  “My lord, I--”

  “Hear me out,” he beseeched her, not wanting to hear any discouraging words just yet. He had to interrupt her, for fear that his confidence would not survive another blow. “Evangeline, you are the dearest person in the world to me. For some years now, I’ve longed to make you my wife. I’ve watched you grow from an outspoken child to a beautiful, obstinate young woman… and I mean that as a compliment. I love it when you speak your mind, my dear. I want a wife who isn’t afraid to express her thoughts.” He paused to take a breath. “And yet, to hear you reject me in such an outright manner… it’s so hard. I never thought I would have to live without you. I never want to live without you. I don’t think I could bear it. I hold you in the highest regard, and no other woman could make me happy. I love you, Evangeline Fremont.”

  Blinking back tears, Evangeline crossed the room and stood by the window. She thought she saw movement outside, and she was right. Jonathan and Nicholas were riding on horseback, heading toward the moors. If she didn’t know any better, she might have mistaken them for two gentlemen, out for an afternoon ride. Jonathan certainly looked like a gentleman.

  But at the end of the day, he wasn’t a gentleman. He was a servant who worked for her cousin. Her feelings for Jonathan Winters were self-indulgent and utterly nonsensical.

  “So, Evangeline.” Trevelan’s voice was fading into the background as she watched Jonathan ride. “I trust you understand what I’m trying to say? I want to make another offer of marriage. I want you to be my wife. I will, of course, do everything in my power to make you happy.”

  Her heart was dying to reject him, but her conscience made her pause. Evangeline closed her eyes and recited her mother’s words in her head.

  “You must do as you see fit, Evangeline. You should do what makes you happy, and do what you think is right.”

  Therein was the dilemma. If she did what made her happy, it wouldn’t be right. She could think of a dozen reasons to ignore her heart and conduct herself like a respectable young lady. All her life, she had wanted the kind of luxury Lord Trevelan could give her. Could she give up everything for a man who could offer her nothing but his heart? To choose Jonathan would be very out of character for her.

  And what if Jonathan wasn’t an option? What if he never returned her feelings?

  Behind her, Trevelan chuckled nervously. “I don’t know whether to feel encouraged or disheartened by your silence. It is impossible to interpret.”

  Evangeline turned toward him. “Lord Trevelan, I admire you greatly.”

  Taking a step toward her, he asked, “So, your feelings have changed? Have you agreed to marry me?”

  “I--” Her hands were shaking, so she hid them behind her back. “I think you would make a wonderful husband.”

  “A wonderful husband to you?” Trevelan asked, raking a hand through his hair. If he needed to plead for a definite answer, he was prepared to drop to his knees.

  Clenching her hands as tightly as she could, Evangeline gave him her answer. “Yes, to me. I will marry you, Richard. I can think of nothing I would want more.”

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Jonathan would never forget the moment when he heard the news. He had just returned from a ride with Nicholas, and when they returned to the house, they were greeted by Lady Anne. Her eyes, somber and fretful, fell on Jonathan.

  “Evangeline is marrying Lord Trevelan.”

  He actually winced when he heard those words. They were just five little words, but they filled him with more anguish than he’d ever known. The death of his parents, the loss of his hand—nothing in his life had caused him such pain. That morning, he had awoken with the highest of hopes. A few hours later, his heart was in his stomach, swimming in despair.

  To add insult to injury, Trevelan and Evangeline emerged from the house after Lady Anne, arm-in-arm, with smiles on their faces. Evangeline’s smile was a bit forced, but he didn’t care. How could she do this do him? Did she care nothing for him? Had he been a fool?

  Suddenly, all eyes were on Jonathan, though he had no idea why he should be the center of attention. He was just a servant, after all—a servant who dared to dream too big.

  “W-well… congratulations, sir,” Nicholas said, stepping forward to shake the viscount’s hand. His felicitations were as unnatural as the smile on Evangeline’s face. “I hope you will both be happy.”

  Evangeline tore her eyes away from Jonathan, settling them on Nicholas instead. “Thank you, Nicholas. Your blessing means so much to me.”

  “I must be the luckiest man in the world,” said Trevelan. “My Evangeline is so dear to me. She’s the sweetest, most beautiful girl in the world, and I never thought I’d be so fortunate as to…”

  When Trevelan started to ramble on about Evangeline’s many qualities, Jonathan had heard enough. He grabbed the horses by the reins and pulled them to the stables, a bit too forcefully. Bucketsnout, an old gray mare, whinnied at Jonathan and gnashed its teeth.

  “I wish you’d bite off my head,” Jonathan whispered to the horse. “You’d put me out of my misery.”

  When the horses were in their stalls, Jonathan walked several paces away and stood near the entrance to the stables. He punched the door a few times, landing blows that might have hurt his hand if the pain wasn't overshadowed by his deep, emotional anguish. He would have punched the door a thousand times if the pain could have absorbed a bit of his grief.

  Leaning forward, Jonathan rested his forehead against the wooden door. If not for his anger, he might have wept. “Evangeline… I loved you,” he whispered. “I don’t know what I should do. How could you be so heartless?” He ran his hand along his face, groaning into his fingers, sighing into his hand. “Didn’t she care for me at all? Damn, damn, damn.” Each time h
e cursed, he banged his head against the wall. “You think you’re so clever, Jonathan Winters? Well, you should have seen this coming.”

  Good God, he was talking to himself!

  “I must be losing my mind,” he said with a shudder. “I guess love really can make men go mad.”

  He stood by the door for several minutes, lamenting his situation. Why had he allowed himself to fall in love with a girl who would never have him? He should have been more sensible. Sure, they had shared a few moments, but what did it matter? She was a lady of quality, and he had sunken too far on the social ladder. His parents left him with nothing, and he was lucky to have a penny in his pocket. He was poor and plain, and he was missing a hand. Worst of all, he’d spent a year of his life begging on the streets. Why had he expected her to consider him, when he had absolutely nothing to offer her?

  If he really thought about it, Jonathan couldn’t find fault in her decision. Accepting Lord Trevelan’s proposal was the right choice, he feared. Jonathan wanted Evangeline to be happy, and how could she be happy with a man who had nothing? She wasn’t the sort of girl who could turn her back on the privileged life she was used to. She would never be the modest wife of a working man. As much as he loved her, he wasn’t blind to her faults. Evangeline Fremont was a very spoiled girl.

  When Jonathan left the stables, he was met with an image that deepened his distress. Evangeline and her fiancé were still in front of the house, looking like a proud couple. Trevelan held onto her like a trophy, and Evangeline didn’t seem to mind. Nicholas, his best and oldest friend, was standing arm-in-arm with the handsome Lady Anne.

  Everyone had smiles on their faces—everyone but him. Would there ever be any happiness in his life?

  Not with these people, whispered his conscience. You shouldn’t count yourself among them. Accept your place in life. You are not worthy of their company.

  Jonathan slipped into the house, headed to Nicholas’ bedchamber, and pretended to shine some shoes. He used to be an expert at looking on the bright side. Every time something bad happened in his life, Jonathan always rebounded. When his parents died, he thought they were in a better place. When he found out he was destitute, he appreciated every penny. When he had to enter the army without a commission, he tried to think of it as an adventure. When he lost his hand, he told himself he was lucky to be alive. Even when he had to beg for food, the goodness of people always cheered him up. No matter what happened, Jonathan Winters never felt sorry for himself.