by Darcy Burke
“All right Harry. You’ve peeked. Tell me of these ladies.”
Harry chuckled. “I truly think you should take a gander yourself, but” he leaned in, “the Winston line is long and well established, with money but no title. In the Hurstine family, though, the father is a baron and one with money. Many believe he’s gone into trade to increase his wealth.”
Tristan caught his friend’s sneer at the end of the sentence. His gaze narrowed. “Trade? What a shame. Eliminates her immediately. Oh, the audacity!”
Harry frowned, Tristan’s sarcasm lost on him. “You know your solicitors could rule out such a match as inappropriate because of that.”
Tristan laughed. “Harry, my dear boy, trade may be the only thing that’ll help the snobby nobility. Land isn’t the means to an end anymore, my boy. Not when grain from the Americas is cheaper than home grown. No, no.” But Harry still had a look about him that made Tristan push. “What else about her?”
Harry’s brow furrowed. “There is a story, rumor, but you know how they go in these areas…”
“About what?” Tristan’s voice rose, aggravated. His stomach tightened. What on God’s green earth was he rambling about? If there was something else about her supposed unsuitability, he needed to know what it was.
His friend swallowed loudly and cleared his throat. “There was an episode, or so it’s been said, that she has a bastard. Or cares for one at any rate.” He shrugged.
Tristan frowned. The Ice Queen? A child? Her? She looked half-scared, half-frozen—too much so to allow intimacy. Thoughts of another man being close to her, touching her, made his skin prickle. A feeling of possessiveness overcame him, one he fought mightily to ignore.
“That is one of the most ridiculous accusations I’ve ever heard,” he spouted. It couldn’t be true, could it?
Harry smirked. “Who knows? Her father’s title might not be as high as yours, Tris, but he does have her dowry exceedingly high, perhaps because of her indiscretion. If rumors are true, and they appear to be, about two years ago a group of noblemen with a penchant for virgins roamed London. They formed a club of sorts to entice young lasses of good birth in ‘exchange’ for money or whatnot.” He shrugged, taking a sip of his liquor. “No women we’d know, of course, but those from lesser houses. Anyway, Lady Evelyn and her sister were named in the ensuing scandal. Don’t remember much of her sister, other than she’s not been seen since. Under the circumstances, it’s a surprise to see Lady Evelyn on the mart, but if she has child, she must give it a name.”
During the period Harry spoke of, Tristan wasn’t in England but enroute to India with the 64th. His time with them proved short once his abilities to easily learn foreign languages became known to his superiors. The change in his military status prevented his hearing news from home, and that suited him fine. Unfortunately, though, he knew of rogues who acted like those Harry spoke of. Greedy, wealthy men with too much time and money at their disposal. They were the type who became politicians and plotted the course of the Empire—regardless of its effect on men’s lives. It twisted his stomach.
That the stone maiden might have a past, one decidedly not filled with frivolity, had never occurred to him before Harry’s revelation. It might explain her reluctance to dance much. Oh yes, he had noticed her on the sidelines of the dance floors because he, too, had avoided dancing any more than custom dictated. The giggling young ladies and their marriage-minded mothers made him cringe. Plus, his nerves were often on edge. The sound of a glass breaking or the scrape of a chair being moved made him want to duck for cover or flee. Gazing from the sidelines, libation firmly in hand, he was infinitely more comfortable. Observe, detect, analyze–his military training ever present.
To learn the lovely Lady Evelyn possibly had a secret—a bastard child no less—didn’t discourage him a bit. In fact, it intrigued him. However, he wanted to return to his men, to…Afghanistan. He had a job, people who relied on him. The longer he remained in England, the more time wasted. He needed money and a wife. A generous dowry and marriage to a lady who appeared aloof and cold would do nicely. If Tristan convinced her to become his marchioness, his purpose here would be halfway fulfilled.
Marry the chit, bed her and leave her to care for the estate so he could depart England. A home he no longer wanted. A marriage made and consummated. An English wife, one who didn’t love him and he didn’t love. All so he could return to his job in the Middle East. Yes, his goal was set. Now to convince Lady Evelyn.
He smiled at the thought.
***
Evelyn laughed. “Miss Albright, please!” She couldn’t stop laughing. Mary stood again, trying to walk, holding the nanny’s hand. The toddler wobbled on her unsteady feet and tumbled with a chortle. Evelyn was thankful they were on the soft green grass behind the house. The sun shone brightly on this warm spring afternoon. A cool breeze wafted through the trees, soothing Evelyn. Making her forget her father’s demands and the fact that this afternoon there was yet another event for meeting and socializing with most of London’s elite.
Spending time with little Mary was much more enjoyable. Evelyn could forget about the constant demands of propriety and the unspoken accusation in knowing eyes when she was with her.
“Evelyn!”
Evelyn turned in her chair and saw Sarah racing across the patio, well ahead of the butler who’d yet to announce her. Evelyn laughed anew as the butler harrumphed in disapproval and turned on his heel to leave.
Sarah was so young and gay, Evelyn tried to remember whether she’d ever been that way herself. But after that fateful night, she was a ruined woman, the light in her life temporarily dimmed. A memory of being in the dark, mired in a sea of faces and male voices. Hands roving across her bare skin, touching her breasts, pinching them so she screamed. Terrible, terrible things, but then the light brightened again when Mary came…
No such darkness marred Sarah’s innocence and joy.
“Oh, look! Oh, Miss Mary, aren’t you the big girl,” Sarah exclaimed, bending down to the toddler’s level. She took the child’s hands and helped the girl stand again on her short, chubby and shaky legs.
Sarah turned her pretty face toward her friend. Although it wasn’t healthy for Sarah to be outside without a hat or parasol to keep freckles and color at bay, she wouldn’t hide from the sun. She said to Evelyn, “You must be so proud of her.”
Evelyn smiled and nodded. “Of course. My Mary will change the world.” The babe tumbled and giggled as she lost her feet, but Sarah caught her. “Well, once she’s mastered walking.”
They all laughed, and the nanny stepped forward to collect Mary, bobbing a curtsey to Evelyn. “It’s time for Miss Mary’s nap.”
“Of course.” Evelyn stood and kissed the child’s head. “Sleep well, little one.”
Mary’s face crumbled as Miss Albright carried her away and she realized they were going without Evelyn. She banged her little chubby fists against the nanny’s shoulders and began to wail. It tugged at Evelyn’s heart as she heard the woman’s soothing tone, trying to calm the babe on their way into the house.
Sarah took the chair next to Evelyn and poured herself a cup of tea from the porcelain service laid out on the table. Adding some sweet cream, she stirred the tea and settled into her seat, eyeing Evelyn. “So, I take it that you were planning to slip into Huntington’s party wearing that?”
Evelyn closed her eyes. She knew what her friend was up to. Perhaps if she feigned a headache…
“Truly Evie, your father will be most upset if you refuse the lawn games today.” Sarah slid a slice of lemon sponge cake off the platter and took a bite. “I mean, isn’t Lord Huntington a close friend of your father’s?”
Reaching for her own cup, Evelyn answered tightly, “Yes, one of his dearest.” She slumped back in the chair–well, as much as the corset would allow. Her morning dress had layers of petticoats but no bustle. “And he has a son, an eligible one hunting for a bride. My father hopes him for me.”
&
nbsp; “All the more reason for you to go.” Normally Sarah’s grin was contagious. But Evelyn couldn’t smile. A memory, dark and morbid, hovered in her mind. Her breath caught, but she shoved the specter aside.
“As much as I’d like to go, I feel I should remain with Mary today.” She set her teacup on the table.
“Oh no you will not,” Sarah exclaimed, her smile vanishing. She leaned in. “You need to go. To please your father for one thing–and you’ve got a little girl who depends on you. There will be many men there besides Lord Huntington’s son. Perhaps Lord Wrenworth will be there.”
A shiver passed through her. Tristan. He was eligible, even told her he was looking for a wife. But still, marriage, to be touched again…Her ears started to buzz, and the air became heavy —suffocating.
“Evelyn! Evelyn, please!” Sarah’s seemingly distant voice called to her in panic, and she grabbed Evelyn’s wrist. “Look at me. Look at me.”
With a concerted effort, Evelyn breathed deeply, pulling in air in long drafts and worked to calm herself. The blood racing through her veins slowed and the bees in her ears dissipated. Sarah stared into her eyes.
“They will not be there,” her friend said softly.
The ghosts. The specters. “What if he is?”
“Evelyn, Evelyn, it is during the day. A lawn party with many of our friends—”
Friends? Where were these people two years ago? When the darkness and pain descended?
Sarah must have read her mind.
“You are safe.”
Evelyn cringed. The specter and her beau. Pain and sorrow. Betrayal. One stole her. The other abandoned her. Fear snaked up her spine, her nerves tingled, and horrors from the past threatened…
“Unless you plan to wed Sir Shining.” Sarah grinned.
It broke the spell. Whitshire. The theater. Yes, two nights ago. Evelyn snorted. “He is Sir Sidney.”
“Yes, but he is terribly bald for his age,” her friend teased.
“Sarah.” Evelyn laughed, the thought of Sidney and her marrying actually broke through her fear, too funny to fathom. “No, I will not wed him.”
“Wonderful! Then let us get you changed. You are my chaperone and I yours. So time for us to get you into a lovely gown.” Sarah stood, tugging Evelyn’s arm.
Evelyn gave in and rose, regretting it instantly. Sarah was her only friend and the only one who knew what happened. Well, as much as Evelyn could remember. The night of horror. Being ruined changed her life forever.
***
The Huntington lawn games, held on their estate grounds in Grosvenor Square, attracted many of the ton. Croquet and Graces, along with archery for the more competitively inclined awaited the participants. A vast picnic was set on tables near the bricked patio–enough food to feed an entire village in India or Afghanistan, Tristan grimaced. The extravagance was overwhelming for a British spy who had mingled among the poor in other countries. As his thoughts distracted him, a wooden mallet struck a wooden ball, making a sound almost like that of a gun. His gut tightened as he looked around for a weapon and cover. However, he overcame his fear before making a fool of himself.
Breathing deeply, he relaxed his limbs and assumed the casual posture of the men around him.
“I dare say, ol’ man, quite a showing,” Harry piped up next to him. He smiled and shoved a crystal cup into Tristan’s hands.
“Thank you.” He took a sip. Within a second, he spit the liquid out as though it tasted of camel piss, splattering it on the finely cut lawn.
Harry laughed. “Tea, Tris, tea. All I could find.”
“Fucking tea?” he seethed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Bloody well warn me next time.”
“By all means, yes.” Harry shook his head. “You’d better watch yourself, or they’ll be questioning your reliability with the amount of whiskey you inhale. No one will let their daughter marry a drunkard.”
Perhaps he did down too much, but, frankly, that was no one’s business but his own. Alcohol kept the demons at bay or at least drowned their taunts. But, unfortunately, Harry was correct. While he kept his drinks to a minimum, or thought he did, if his drinking ever got out of hand, his courting would be cut short–title or no title. Damn!
Harry stared at him.
“What?”
“Lord Farnsworth returned from India last year,” Harry began, his brow furrowed. “You remember Edward, right? Didn’t he leave with you?”
“Yes, he did, but service separated us. Why?”
Harry’s voice dropped. “He returned but a shadow of a man. Jumps like a frightened rabbit, like you appeared about to do. Constantly peering about, quite odd. Set to marry Lord Smithington’s daughter and did so, but, from the rumors, it isn’t good.”
Yes, the glories of war…If he’d seen half of what Tristan had witnessed, it was amazing he came back alive. The air before him began to cloud, there was a smell of smoke and a distant whine, like the faint wailing of a woman. He blinked hard, tensing. Not now! Breathing deeply again, he grappled for control, only vaguely aware of Harry as he watched, concerned.
Gritting his teeth, Tristan snorted. “Rumors? You seem to be up on the on dits, lad,” he accused his friend with a smile.
Harry raised an eyebrow, a cocky half-grin on his face. “Well, he shrugged, “what can I say? A maid or two love to tell me the latest.”
He stared at Harry. A carefree man, with a rebellious curl of blond hair falling on his forehead and shiny brown eyes, he had no title to gain as fourth son. But his good looks and friendly attitude got all the women’s attention. Tristan absently wondered why his friend’s bedroom activities didn’t surprise him. Is this how he would have been had he stayed? Mindlessly enjoying London’s gaming, gentlemen’s clubs and whores?
Afghanistan’s gleaming gold desert appeared briefly before him, along with the veiled face of Aatifa. Her eyes glistened when he left her the last time. The last time—when he’d promised to return. He did return, only it had been too late—
“Tris!”
He blinked. The desert cleared from his view, replaced by sunny skies, a green lawn, the laughter of people playing games and the clink of crystal and china in the background. Spring was in the air—birds chirping rather than camels baying. Tall trees, their new leaves waving in the breeze and the smell of fresh grass and flowers in the air replaced dry arid air blowing the dirt around and rocky cliffs in the distance. He shook his head, forcing himself to focus on the here and now. London. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice his momentary distraction. Good, he thought, straightening his shoulders. It was time to take care of the business at hand. Marry a British woman, sire a child and return to the East to find his betrayer.
Following that last somber thought and lacking any brandy, he was able to focus on the scene before him.
Harry continued to discuss the various couples at the event—who was who, whether any matches were on the verge of happening or whether any lady had her cap set for someone in particular. So far, no one excited Tristan. That dismal thought circled in his head until he turned to his right. Off in the distance, at one of the croquet games, stood two ladies he recognized. The lovely Sarah and her friend, the ice queen, Evelyn.
They were shaking with laughter, Sarah covering her mouth with one hand, Evelyn more reserved but displaying a telltale flush. The man next to them, a tall, lanky brown-haired fop, in Tristan’s opinion, grinned and bent to move his ball with his hands rather than his mallet. When he stood, he too laughed, facing Evelyn. From years of observation work in the military, Tristan saw the man had eyes only for Evelyn.
When she returned the idiot’s smile with a small one of her own, a snake of jealousy slithered down Tristan’s spine, coiling in his stomach. His hands clenched, but Tristan stood still, watching, his mind working fast. He’d not given Evelyn much of his time, but the more he learned about her, the more he wanted to take her to wife. Young, pretty, of a good house, titled, and with a rich dowry, Evelyn would f
it his plans well. Therefore, he needed to claim her. But then his mind stuttered at the thought.
Claim her? Like a racehorse? Or like an Afghanistan princess bride? Hell, this was England and the blasted nobility! He needed to court Evelyn, woo both her and her father to his cause.
He watched as the buffoon, with the biggest grin on his face, circled Evelyn’s tiny waist with his arms as she bent to swing her mallet at the ball. Anger seized Tristan. How dare she allow another man so near her? He’d decided she would be his, and this was the perfect time to claim her and kill her would-be suitor in the process if necessary.
Chapter Five
Unaware of Tristan’s intent, Evelyn placed her mallet near the ball, ready to strike, when two sturdy male arms belonging to Andrew Huntington surrounded her. The viscount of Duke Huntington’s estate grasped her hands, adjusting the position of one of them.
“Take the handle like this,” he said loud enough for all to hear.
She froze in his arms. For a second, she shut her eyes, willing herself to relax. She’d known Andrew for most of their lives because their fathers were close friends. But the feel of his chest against her back, his arms and hands making direct contact, nearly sent her into a hysterical frenzy. Visions of another embrace flashed through her mind, and it took all her effort to ignore the past and remain in the present. Andrew wasn’t her enemy. But when his hands guided her own in swinging the mallet, it was difficult to remember that.
“And swing like this,” he continued, propelling her mallet. The strike against the wooden ball, sending it through the next set of arches successfully, resulted in a polite round of applause from those nearby. “Marvelous,” he congratulated her, and released his hold.