Eugenia bit her lower lip, her large green eyes meeting his. “He is a good friend of mine,” he said. “Come.”
Brendan watched Mortland across the room, his stomach twisting. Although Mortland stood in conversation with Frederick Llewellyn, a guarded expression entered his face as he watched Brendan approach. When he saw Eugenia, his green eyes widened. He nodded dismissively to Llewellyn.
As Llewellyn moved away, Mortland’s gaze settled on Eugenia. He turned to Brendan with a raised eyebrow. “Town has been quite peaceful in your absence, Trentham. And who is this?”
Brendan curled his fingers into fists, wanting to smash the cool expression from the man’s face. “I’d like to present my ward, Miss Eugenia Hawthorne. Eugenia, the Duke of Mortland.”
As Eugenia executed a graceful curtsey, Mortland’s bright green eyes grew wary. He raised a hand to smooth his golden hair. “Your ward, Trentham?”
“You must agree that the emeralds suit Miss Hawthorne. Apart from her distinctive coloring, I believe she favors her mother. Do you not think so?”
Sensing entertainment, a small crowd gathered.
Eugenia chewed her bottom lip, her eyes huge in her pale face.
“I don’t believe I remember her mother. A relative of yours, Trentham?” Mortland snapped.
Brendan placed a protective hand on Eugenia’s arm. “Not mine, no.”
The murmur amongst the onlookers grew louder as more joined them.
“Are you my father?” Eugenia suddenly asked in a quiet but deliberate tone. Deathly silence fell around them.
Mortland took a step back. “What devilry is this?”
“You might answer Miss Hawthorne, Mortland,” Brendan said coolly.
“I have to say the young lady bears some family resemblance, Duke,” Llewellyn said. “She is far prettier than you, however. Puts me in mind of your cousin, Lady Genie.”
Mortland stood as if paralyzed. “This is a disgrace, Trentham. You are beyond the pale.”
“A disgrace, indeed,” Brendan said sharply.
Mortland turned on his heel and strode through the ballroom as guests scattered. A rumble of chatter followed him to the door.
Eugenia gazed up at Brendan, her eyes awash with tears. She walked away through the crowd as a waltz was called.
Brendan strolled after her and, as the orchestra struck up, took her arm. “I promised you the first waltz.”
“Lady Smyth said I must not waltz,” she said breathlessly.
“Old cat. Some women will want to see you fail because you are beautiful.” Brendan swept her out onto the floor. “Raise your chin, Eugenia. Let people think you don’t care.”
He hated to see her lips tremble and feared for a moment that she would pull away from him. But she did not, and Brendan spun her over the floor, finding her slim body graceful in his arms.
“I feared he wouldn’t acknowledge me. But you knew it, did you not? You are not on good terms with the duke.” Frowning, she held herself away from him. He hated to see the disillusionment in her eyes. “There’s some bad history between you.”
“Yes.”
Her fascinating green eyes turned cool. “Then did you gain your pound of flesh tonight?”
Her words cut him to the quick. “You have been reading Merchant of Venice I see. I understand your feelings, Eugenia. But you shall know the whole of it soon.”
Fire lit her green eyes. “I want to know it now.”
“Trust me for just a little longer, my dear. Don’t concern yourself too much with the duke. Enjoy the ball. Dance with all those young men who cannot take their eyes off you.” He turned her on the floor, his hand firm on her slim back. “One of these men could be your future. That makes all of this worth it, surely?”
“Does it? Then I shall enjoy myself, my lord,” she said, coolly composed, any sign of tears gone. “I agree there are some handsome men here tonight.”
Brendan was not as pleased with that remark as he ought to be. He eyed her carefully. “Good girl.”
The music stopped. Eugenia’s hand on his arm, he escorted her to Chloe. He bowed and left them.
As he made his way through the ballroom, friends came to applaud his action, their curiosity palpable. “Mortland’s had it coming for years.” Lord Steel slapped him on the back.
Eugenia had been hurt. Despite the many endorsements, he questioned if he could have handled it better. She was too clever not to suspect there was more to it. If he’d hoped to shame Mortland and banish the bitterness in his own heart, it hadn’t worked, for he just felt hollow. He straightened his shoulders. What he’d begun he would finish.
Eugenia had joined the dancers for a quadrille. Barraclough was the recipient of her charming smile, having beaten the other young bucks to the punch. Brendan first feared she might flee, but she had a good deal too much pluck for that.
He discovered Chloe alone for a moment and joined her. She raised her brows. “It did not go well? I saw Mortland leave.”
“Merely round one, Clo.” He was not going to leave it there. Yes, he wanted revenge, and he would get it. But he would fight for Eugenia as long as there was breath in his body. Perhaps because he had not been able to do that for Anne. Brendan sighed. He hoped that Eugenia would agree. She was a surprisingly strong-willed young woman who was quite capable of telling him to go to the devil. He hoped to see this through before that happened.
***
When Eugenia waltzed for the first time, she’d wanted so much to enjoy every moment with Lord Trentham’s arms around her, sweeping her over the floor. But she was angry with him and, worse, doubted his motives. She’d lain awake last night, fearing this evening would be a test of her resolve. It certainly proved to be. Although the duke’s refusal to acknowledge her, as disappointing as it was, had not surprised her.
She ignored the spiteful whispers of two young debutantes in the ladies’ withdrawing room, thick with the scent of various perfumes. Pinching her cheeks, she bit her lips and tucked a silk rose more securely into her hair then emerged, determined to enjoy herself as she’d told Lord Trentham she would.
Eugenia quickly mastered the art of flirting like the other young debutantes around her in their white muslins. She employed her fan and laughed at the men’s attempts at humor and brushed away their overly fulsome praise. One lord ogled her with hot eyes and said he wished to dance with her again. With Lady Beale’s warning about etiquette ringing in her ears, she’d made sure she was unavailable when he approached. It became easy because she didn’t care a fig for any of them.
While she’d begun to question what lay behind Lord Trentham’s actions, she could not believe ill of him. When he’d taken her in his arms for the waltz, she’d wanted to draw close, not pull away. Feeling very much alone without him beside her, she had smiled until her face ached. She was told she was unusual, refreshing, lovely. When she laughed and flirted, her partners seemed to take delight in her banter, promising to call on her and take her driving in the park.
As the end of the evening drew near, Lord Whitridge, who was not much older than she was, claimed his waltz.
“Call me Freddie. Everyone does.” Smiling, the lanky, fair-haired gentleman took her in his arms. “I have never set eyes on such beauty. Your face, your eyes, your graceful figure are beyond compare,” he declared with passion as they began to dance. “You are a goddess.”
“You should not say such things, my lord.”
He grinned. “Am I too effusive? One cannot be. If one views a beautiful painting, one must fully express how it moves one. The poets have the right of it. How well they describe the effect of a snowcapped mountain or a perfect rose. It applies to all that is beautiful, does it not?”
She smiled. “That is not the same, as you well know.”
“Ah but your beauty stirs the emotions so it begs description.”
“I have no intention of encouraging you, my lord.”
“Then I’ll let Byron say it for me: She walks in beauty, l
ike the night. Of cloudless climes and starry skies…”
“Oh stop, please!” She looked around, afraid they drew even more attention to themselves.
He continued undaunted. “Perhaps you grow tired of empty compliments? I mean every word, Miss Hawthorne. I am your slave.”
“If you go on, I shall either lose my breath or forget the steps. Let us enjoy the waltz.”
Freddie swept her expertly over the floor until the dance ended. “I must see you again, Miss Hawthorne.”
“Let us speak of other things, my lord. Have you been in London long?”
“I’m down from Oxford and shall be in London for a week or two. Say you’ll come riding with me tomorrow.”
“Lord Trentham has not yet obtained a suitable hack for me to ride.”
“Then walk with me in the park. Bring your maid if you wish to observe the proprieties.”
“The sky is very cloudy tonight. I believe it might rain.”
He had an infectious smile. “You toy with me heartlessly, Miss Hawthorne. Say yes.”
She’d wanted to visit the park. Why not with this amusing man? His flowery compliments were playful and inoffensive after the sly looks and blatant suggestiveness of some of the other men. “Very well. But I shall have to ask for Lady Beale’s permission.”
“Capital! Then Lady Beale and the weather allowing, I will call at three o’clock!” Freddie squeezed her hand. “I count the hours.”
She joined Lady Beale, who watched Freddie walk away through the crush. “Lord Whitridge! I do declare, every debutant in the room is looking daggers at you, Eugenia.”
“Freddie has invited me to walk with him in the park tomorrow. Should I go?”
Lady Beale frowned in his direction. “Take your maid and don’t stray from the paths.”
“He seems a nice gentleman. I don’t believe he would do anything to hurt me.”
“Perhaps not.” She raised an eyebrow. “But do as I advise, my dear. And enjoy yourself.” She smiled at another man approaching. “Ah, here is Mr. Thundercot. How do you do, sir? Have you met Trentham’s ward?”
“No. I am eager to do so, Lady Beale. May I partner the young lady for the last dance?”
Mr. Thundercot, a sharp-featured gentleman, led Eugenia onto the floor. When the musicians struck up, so did his questions. “Are you a blood relation of Lord Trentham?”
She shook her head.
He raised his thin brows. “What is the connection?”
“A distant one.”
“That’s very mysterious. Perhaps you are a relative of Lady Anne?”
“Did you know Lady Anne, Mr. Thundercot?”
“Not well. Such a sorry end, to die at the hands of footpads on the streets of London.”
Startled, Eugenia stared at him. She gathered her wits. “Yes, one should feel safe going about one’s business in Town.”
“I quite agree. During the daylight hours, one knows the areas in London to avoid. But to be robbed on your way home in your coach from a ball! Why, it’s a warning to us all. It was those beautiful gems at your throat they wanted. Didn’t get ’em, though, obviously. If such an awful thing should happen again, I advise you to hand them over. Otherwise, they’ll shoot you as they did poor Lady Anne.”
“So very dreadful.” Was Lady Anne struck down before Lord Trentham’s eyes? Eugenia’s knees shook, and she missed a step.
“I beg your pardon. I have upset you. It is indeed sad. Bad ton of me to recall it. I am sorry.” Mr. Thundercot tightened his lips and they danced in silence until the music slowed.
“You look distressed, Eugenia. Was something said to upset you?” Lady Beale asked when Eugenia returned to her seat.
“Mr. Thundercot told me how Lady Anne died.”
“Oh dear. How foolish of him. What precisely did he say?”
“That she was shot by footpads when returning home from a ball.” She put her hand on the emeralds. “They tried to steal these.”
She patted Eugenia’s hand. “It’s a while ago now.”
“Lord Trentham must miss Lady Anne most dreadfully.”
“It was a frightful business. Ah, here is Brendan now. I believe it is time to leave.”
Eugenia said little during the carriage ride home. She couldn’t push the thought of Anne’s brutal death away. Fortunately, Lady Beale filled the silence with the latest gossip she’d gleaned during the evening. Eugenia was surprised there was anything said that did not include her, the bastard child of the Duke of Mortland.
Like prodding a bruise, her thoughts returned to the tall, golden-haired duke, recalling his stiff stance, his unapproachable manner. She saw nothing of herself in him except for his coloring. He emanated power. A man used to getting his own way. His expression had clearly shown his thoughts; how dare such riffraff as she, disturb his unruffled existence. She hated him. Had he forced himself on her mother? It was just as well she didn’t know; she might be tempted to murder him. Men had feet of clay. The duke, her papa, who would sell her to the highest bidder, and even her great-uncle, who had placed her mother in service. In some way, Trentham, too, had also used her, although she didn’t know why. Any romantic dreams she might have cherished, foolish as they had been, were dashed. She would prefer never to marry than to be at the mercy of a selfish man.
“You are very quiet, Eugenia.” Lady Beale remarked as the carriage drove through the dark London streets. “Did you enjoy your first ball?”
“I did, thank you. Lord Glover was most amusing. He made me laugh.”
“He’s a widower in need of a mother for his four children. He comes from a good family. Does he not, Trentham?”
“He’s in Dun territory. His wife would be treated like a governess.”
“And Mr. Blakeley was pleasant,” Eugenia said. “He paid me pretty compliments.”
“Now, Blakeley is not exactly top drawer, but that could work in your favor.” Lady Beale cast an inquiring look at her brother. “Blakeley is comfortably off, is he not?”
“Too keen on gaming, as was his father. The Season has just begun. But it’s a good beginning for Eugenia.”
His voice sounded flat. His objective had been realized, had it not? Even though she knew not what lay behind his desire to embarrass the duke, he had certainly achieved it, as well as introducing her in the process.
“Lord Whitridge, Freddie, and I are promenading in the park tomorrow,” she said, eyeing him.
He frowned. “Heir to a dukedom and still up at Oxford. That young cub shouldn’t be taking you about.”
“Well I like him,” Eugenia said, “and I look forward to more of his company.”
The carriage drew up outside the townhouse.
Brendan turned to her in the foyer. “Come into the library, Eugenia. I’ll put the emeralds away.”
“Then I’ll say goodnight.” Lady Beale climbed the stairs. She paused, a hand on the banister. “Well done, Eugenia!”
“Thank you, Lady Beale.”
“Bah! Call me Chloe.”
Lord Trentham’s fingers at her nape still unsettled her as he removed the necklace. Eugenia supposed her feelings for him were unlikely to change in an instant, if ever. Somehow, she must harden herself. “Why did you approach the duke at such a big affair? Might we not have arranged to meet him somewhere less conspicuous?”
“Sit down, Eugenia. You deserve an explanation.”
She sank into the deep leather chair as he took the one opposite. “I wanted to steal a march on the duke. I didn’t want him forewarned, as he’d be able to dismiss you out of hand and put word out that you were an impostor. Now that your entry into society has been witnessed and your resemblance to him noted, nothing he might do or say will carry weight. He can deny he is your father, but few will believe him.”
He might have at least warned her! She studied his handsome face. There was a tick in his tense jaw, and pain lurked in his blue eyes. “Why is this so important to you? It has been from the first, hasn’t it?”
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He nodded. “Two years ago, while I was away visiting my estates, Mortland and my wife left a ball together in his coach. She was wearing the emeralds. When they left the Mayfair environs, cutthroats held up their carriage and robbed them. Anne was killed.”
Drawing in a breath, Eugenia looked down at her hands clasped in her lap. “I’m so sorry,” she managed to murmur.
“Immediately afterward, the duke left for France. A few months ago, on hearing of his return, I visited my father-in-law in Canterbury to promise him that I would make Mortland pay.” His voice was curiously devoid of emotion. “Anne’s father has never recovered from the scandal and the loss of his beloved daughter.” When he rested his hands on the arms of the chair, they tightened into fists.
“Fighting never solves anything.” Eugenia resisted mentioning that Lady Anne must have agreed to leave the ball with Mortland. They were not going home to Mayfair. Was it a tryst? His reasons to hate Mortland became clearer. And she was the pawn in his revenge. Her disappointment turned to misery. “You achieved some measure of revenge tonight, making me wear the emeralds. How did you get them back?”
“I recovered the jewels before a fence sold them on.” He looked so bereft leaning back in the chair, his cravat undone, his long black-clad legs spread over the Oriental rug. She fought the urge to draw close and comfort him. “I never wished to hurt you, Eugenia. I can honestly say that I wanted to help you from the first. And I will, if you’ll let me.”
“I’m not hurt. How can I mourn something I never had?” She’d never truly believed the life he promised would be hers. His avowal in some way warmed her, but failed to reassure her. Despite his confidence, she felt nothing good could come from this.
His eyes darkened. “You shall rise to your proper place in society. Have no doubt of it.”
She had no proper place. She might marry a man who’d be prepared to overlook she’d been born on the wrong side of the blanket, but then she would be beholden to him. Men could be cruel. She refused to be indebted to anyone, except this man. Despite everything, she loved him, yes…loved him, she admitted in that moment with a throb in her heart. There was no satisfactory outcome to be had. He did not love her. Earls did not marry bastards. He should have left her at Woodland Farm.
The Earl and the Highwayman's Daughter Page 9