‘It is not for myself that I am worried. My dear girls, your dear sisters, have grown up accustomed to a particular standard of living which has led them to expect a certain kind of future. I only hope that I can maintain it on my frugal allowance, I would hate to see their chances of making a suitable match quashed because we cannot afford to attend all of the right entertainments.’
Hyacinth’s definition of frugal left a lot to be desired. ‘Surely I am allowed to have a future, too?’ Evie even managed to look winsome as she said this, but perhaps the wistful sigh was laying it on a bit thick. Her stepmother’s lips pursed again and it took her a moment to choke out a reply.
‘Of course, my dear. You know that I wish you every happiness.’ Just in case Evie changed her mind and threw them all out of her Mayfair town house. ‘But I am neglecting our guests.’
Hyacinth wandered off, leaving Evie alone hiding in the alcove and watching the festivities from a distance, as usual. Theirs was, at best, a very distant relationship. Even though they had lived in the same house for ten years, any conversation between them longer than five minutes was intolerable for Hyacinth. Her stepdaughter was merely a means to an end. If she had not had substantial ‘means’, Evie was in no doubt Hyacinth would have happily severed all contact between them as soon as her second husband was in the ground.
‘Their’ guests were either friends of Hyacinth’s or people Hyacinth was keen to befriend. Her stepmother was determined to climb her way into the upper echelons of society by whatever means she deemed necessary. Unfortunately, the upper echelons were less keen on welcoming the social-climbing widow of a merchant into their ranks, but Hyacinth still persisted. Tirelessly.
Evie had no interest in the higher echelons, or the lower ones for that matter. To them, as she was to practically everyone, she was invisible. As a result, she had not bothered ordering a new gown for her final appearance in London society. What was the point? Hyacinth’s seamstress despaired of her drab and plump stepdaughter.
Evie couldn’t blame her. Her unfashionably generous figure was a difficult canvas. In fine fabrics, it resembled a bag stuffed full of onions and heavy wool just made her wideness wider. As much as Evie hated to agree with Hyacinth about anything, she did agree with her stepmother’s often lamented assessment of her unfortunate appearance and the fact that one could not make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, no matter how much money one paid the modiste.
Seeing her standing alone in the corner of the room, her awful fiancé raised his glass in the air in a silent toast, but made no move to come towards her. She waved politely for the sake of the charade and did her best to ignore the rising bile in her throat.
It was difficult to find anything to like about Fergus. He was a selfish wastrel with excessive spending habits. He was also entirely untrustworthy—character traits which had made him the perfect choice. He desperately needed some money and she desperately wanted to be free of Hyacinth, but lacked the courage to tell her. As soon as she had realised that he had a small estate in the north, a good week’s drive away from London and in a part of the country Hyacinth would never visit, she tentatively offered him a bargain. On the verge of bankruptcy and with debt collectors hammering on his door, the Marquis of Stanford was delighted to accept.
The house, a place to live whilst she bought one of her own, far, far away from all the awful memories of Mayfair, was the most important part of their bargain. A house. On her own. To do whatever she wanted. No longer the nursemaid, pitied old maid or the source of the funds. Or the dutiful daughter who had promised her father to treat his second wife as she had her own mother. This house was a painful reminder of that vow which Hyacinth took every opportunity to remind her of. The north was a place where she hoped she could reinvent herself, be happy and finally climb out of her chrysalis.
She did not expect to emerge like a butterfly—butterflies were far too lovely an insect for Evie to aspire to—but she was quietly confident that she could perhaps be a moth. In the dark, when nobody saw them, moths still flew. In the north, without all of the responsibilities and reminders of London, there were hundreds of things that she was desperate to do. Yes, indeed, Evie had great plans for the future. And they very definitely did not include the Marquis of Stanford. Fergus could pickle his organs back in London after she was safely ensconced in the north, with her blessing. Quite frankly, she did not care if she never saw the dreadful man again.
Thus she would finally leave this house that held so many bad memories and would start a new chapter in her life. It was time to say goodbye to Miss Evelyn Bradshaw, eternal spinster, wallflower, over-generous benefactor and doormat. Evie had no idea what her future held, but one thing she was entirely certain of. When she drove out of Mayfair later, she was never, ever coming back.
* * *
The journey north had been interminable. Never a good traveller, Evie had spent the duration of the five-day trip either ill or on the cusp of being ill. Fortunately, Aunt Winnie, who had always been a force to be reckoned with, had insisted that the journey be broken up with restorative overnight stays at strategically placed coaching inns so that they could regain some of their equilibrium. She and Aunt Winnie retired to their room every evening after supper and Fergus enjoyed the taprooms until the small hours. Judging by the sorry state of him most mornings, Evie wished she had had the foresight to supply him with his own coach.
It had been dark by the time they finally arrived at Fergus’s Yorkshire estate and although she was wilting with exhaustion, Evie had been pleasantly surprised by the place. She had expected neglect and dilapidation, but the Palladian manor house was anything but. They were immediately greeted by an ancient butler who appeared totally astounded to see them. Fergus swiftly ushered Evie and her aunt into a well-appointed drawing room while he spoke to the butler and housekeeper alone. Soon a fortifying tray of tea was brought to them which they sipped while their rooms were prepared and luggage carried in. Too tired to explore the house or to socialise, Evie had retired as soon as she was able and her vile fake fiancé and carriage left to settle in the local inn.
* * *
Several hours later, Evie found herself wide awake and staring at the strange ceiling more than a little overwhelmed. She had done it! Quiet, plain, invisible Evelyn had done the unthinkable and escaped. Two hundred miles of relentless road now separated her from her awful stepfamily and the life she had once led. It was like having the weight of the world lifted off her shoulders and everything she had dreamed of, so despite the lateness of the hour and the unfamiliarity of her surroundings, Evie felt giddy with success. Sleep would be impossible now, yet it was still far too early, or late depending on your point of view, to wake the servants. There was nothing to stop her exploring the house, though. If this place was to be her temporary home, she might as well find out where everything was.
* * *
Finn wearily finished brushing down his horse and then led it into the stall. He was not angry that there had been nobody waiting in the stables to greet him because nobody had expected him tonight. As far as the staff were concerned, he was supposed to be staying overnight in York and travelling back tomorrow. It had been a last-minute decision to travel home this evening. The noise in the inn and the over-familiarity of the crowded occupants had become cloying and he had needed to escape. Almost two aching hours later and he still did not regret that decision. It might well be two in the morning, but at least he could sleep in his own bed, as far away from people as was humanly possible.
Outside the kitchen door, he pulled off his boots. Stowers, his butler, was too old to be getting out of bed in the small hours and Finn knew that if he got the first whiff he had returned early, the faithful old retainer would insist on attending to him. As he had expected, the house was shrouded in darkness and not a single lamp was lit to ease his way, but he did not bother lighting one. He knew the layout of the place so well he c
ould probably traverse it without incident in his sleep. At the foot of the stairs, something caught his eye and he peered down the hallway. A weak strip of light bled out from under the closed door to the small library. Odd. Perhaps the servants had forgotten to extinguish the light.
The door swung open silently on its well-oiled hinges and the sight beyond rendered him temporarily speechless. A strange woman stood in front of the roaring fireplace, staring into the flames and smiling. Whilst that was shocking in itself, the glow from the fire rendered her billowing nightgown almost translucent and awarded him the wholly unexpected, but not wholly unwelcome, view of her voluptuous figure beneath. It was almost a perfect hourglass. A deliciously rounded bottom, a nipped-in waist and, if he was not mistaken from this odd angle, a magnificent bosom. The sort of figure that would earn her a small fortune as a tavern wench. To torture him further, she bent down to throw more wood on to the flames and the thin fabric moulded to her behind like a second skin, highlighting the way those hips flared and then tapered as his eyes travelled down a shapely pair of legs. After two hours on the road, this unexpected stranger was indeed a sight for sore eyes. Aesthetics aside, she still had no place being where she was.
‘Who are you?’
Copyright © 2017 by Susan Merritt
ISBN-13: 9781488021114
A Marriage of Rogues
Copyright © 2017 by Margaret Wilkins
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