“You look at a mess like a boy looks at green vegetables on his plate,” Bess teased. “I will have it tidied up in a flash My Lady, do not worry yourself.”
“I was only thinking that I should sell some,” said Evelyn. “Then I could buy a more fashionable dress.”
“Do you think The Duke will not like you well enough in one of these?” Bess asked, hands on her hips.
“Lord Ashwood, you mean,” Evelyn said.
Bess huffed. “When you are married you will have the means to purchase any dress you choose. No need to sell these off.”
Married. The word turned Evelyn equal parts excited and fearful. She had known the sort of marriage she would have had with her late fiancé: a companion throughout life. Their relationship was an easy camaraderie – predictable. She could imagine the marriage she would have, if her brother had his way, with the aging Lord Ashwood. Brief, uneasy, and dutiful. But what would a marriage to The Duke be like? Challenging, frustrating, breathtaking. Yes, she could picture it. Evelyn had nothing to offer but herself and he had his choice of young debutantes. She was being ridiculous. She had to put him out of her mind. The sound of his laughter carried up the stairs, rolling through her like a warm stream.
“Bess?” Evelyn asked, voice small.
The old woman poked her head in from the side room, where Evelyn’s clothes were kept.
“I have changed my mind,” Evelyn said. “I will go down now. Please help me dress.”
“Right away, My Lady.”
~.~
The men were playing at billiards in the gaming parlor. This was one game where Frederic could best The Duke, for the latter lacked the ability to predict the trajectory of the balls before they were hit. The green covered table was one of the last things her father had purchased before his death and it was a prized possession, a rarity even in the wealthier homes. He had taught both of his children the rules of the game and they had taken to it with gusto.
“Ah, Lady Evelyn,” The Duke said, turning at the sound of her slippered footsteps with the billiard cue in his hand. “Care for a game?”
She glanced at Frederic. Her brother looked sober, but miserable. His face was contorted in an uncomfortable grimace and a sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. He had seemed ill of late.
“Your Grace, are you attempting to weasel out of a losing game?” she taunted. “I shall play the winner.”
The Duke’s smile was open and easy, unlike her own tremulous attempt at it. She was torn in her emotions, wanting at once to embrace him and to hide from him.
“Then you will be facing your brother, I am ashamed to say.” Pemberton bent back over the table and surveyed his situation. “I should have stuck with cards.”
“He is dreadful, Evelyn,” Frederic said, with a rare gleeful grin. “Really quite embarrassing in a man of your quality.”
“Bah,” The Duke waved an unconcerned hand. “Coming from the man who will ride naught but an ancient pony. What will you do when that poor Peanut dies?”
“That is not the same thing at all!” Frederic protested. “And her name is Peacock.”
He almost seemed her brother of old. Together they both seemed better version of themselves, The Duke less self-important and Frederic… well, sober. Evelyn tucked herself onto the sofa beneath a window, a comfortable cushion laid out with pillows. The dark wallpaper and the mahogany floors gave the gaming parlor a masculine feel, but the sofa was distinctly feminine with its floral brocade and velveteen pillows. Frederic had not been jesting at Pemberton’s expense; The Duke was truly wretched at billiards. When the ball ricocheted away from his intended net for the fourth time, Evelyn took pity on him.
“May I offer a few suggestions?” Evelyn asked. She stood and brushed her skirts down over her thighs. “I see my brother is in no hurry to improve upon your playing.”
Frederic rested his stick on the ground and leaned his weight on it. “Oh come now, let me have something! Is it not enough that he bests me at lawn games, cards, and chess?”
“It is too pitiful, Frederic, have a heart!”
“With some instruction I could perhaps manage to prolong the suffering of all players,” The Duke said good-naturedly.
“We will have to hide the table when our guests arrive,” said Evelyn, tugging the cue from Pemberton’s hands. “Or your billiards’ catastrophes will be the talk of London!”
The Duke covered his face in mock shame. “I will never be able to face Society again! Oh, the gentleman’s plight!”
Evelyn held the cue between her fingers and demonstrated a hit. The ball rolled with vigor into the pocket. Pemberton applauded.
“You hit too hard,” Evelyn said, handing it back to The Duke. His fingers brushed hers as he took it, and the look he gave her said it was intentional. For just a moment she couldn’t breathe. Then she caught her thought. “There is more to it than force, Your Grace. Finesse is required, and a sense of timing.”
“Next you will tell me I ought to keep my eyes open when I hit,” he said. “I cannot just aim the stick at the place I wish it to go and hope for the best.”
“Probably not,” she said with a laugh.
“Should I keep my eyes open as well?”
“That would be a start.”
The Duke attempted another shot. It went as haphazard as ever, but this time did not ricochet off the walls of the table and threaten to leap across the room. It rolled to a limp stop a foot from the net.
“Well, that is an improvement.” He handed the cue back to Evelyn and took her seat beneath the window. “Show me how it is done. A little brother and sister rivalry.”
Frederic cocked his head at Evelyn. She considered him a moment, his face red and sweating; then nodded. They played until the servants came in to light the lanterns, as darkness had crept in without their notice. Both Everings had won their share of games.
“And that is six for the fairer sex,” said The Duke. He clapped his hands and stood. “And four for poor Lord Evermont, bested by his sister.”
“You have no room to brag,” Evelyn chided. “You were too frightened to face me at all!”
“And that decision proved to be one of my best,” The Duke said. “No, I shall keep my dignity intact for another day at least, thank you.”
Frederic’s mood had turned dour as the evening progressed. He had loosened his cravat and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, but still beads of sweat collected at his temples and in his hair. Pemberton clasped Frederic’s shoulder and took him aside. Despite the rain’s increasing volume, Evelyn could just hear them.
“Are you well, Frederic?” The Duke asked, his wide brow creased with concern. He glanced over his shoulder. Evelyn turned away in a hurry, attempting to look busy. “You look ill. Should we cancel our plans? I do not wish to overburden you, if you are unwell.”
Evelyn tidied the gaming parlor. She could have gone ahead to the dining room, but her curiosity was peaked. If her brother had felt ill, why had he not called for the doctor, nor told his friend of it before the man came to visit?
“If I could just have a drink stronger than watered down swill at dinner, I would be fine.” Frederic spat the words. “My mood is erratic. I feel joyous, then low, then furious, with no more reason for one emotion than the next. I feel mad, George.”
“You are not mad,” said The Duke. “It will pass. It is a drinking sickness, I have seen another man go through much the same thing, but far worse. His was from opium.”
“I cannot keep food down.” Frederic pressed the palm of his hand to his forehead. “I do not want Adele to see me like this. We should call this whole thing off.”
Evelyn agreed. Though, if the woman saw Frederic in such a state perhaps she would be frightened off once and for all. She rolled the three billiard balls into a row against the low rail. The red ball bore a dent from The Duke’s efforts to learn the game. Thumbing the battle scar, Evelyn listened with bated breath for The Duke’s reply.
He si
ghed first. “We cannot, my friend. The invitations have been sent and it took all of my weight to persuade anyone respectable to attend. If you squander this chance, I do not know if there is anything I can do to help you. Evelyn will be doomed to spinsterhood.”
“Blast it all,” Frederic said. “I knew you would say it, but still. Blast.”
“We will manage.”
“I pray for a shred of your confidence, Pemberton.”
Frederic turned and stopped as if surprised to see Evelyn still present. There was a unique ability, Evelyn thought, among brothers to forget entirely the existence of their sisters.
“It was a mess in here,” Evelyn said. “You were not going to tidy it up.”
“Heaven help any man who marries you, Evelyn,” said Frederic. “One thing out of place and I swear, you flitter about it. It will drive a man mad.”
Frederic and The Duke headed toward the dining room and she followed. The Duke was dressed in fine, expensive clothes. He wore them in his intentional, mussed way. If Evelyn had to bet, she would put money on him spending just as much time creating his disheveled look as most men did crafting a perfect one. Vain man. She wondered if he did that just to bother her, knowing she wanted nothing more than to straighten his cravat, even out the collar, and smooth his rumpled shirt. Of course she would never do that. She would tell him…Oh bother. She felt a blush climbing up her neck at her thoughts, and then he was at her shoulder.
“Your brother tells me you would like to a host a hunt, Lady Evelyn,” The Duke said, taking a sip of the watered wine her brother had called swill. He curled his lip in distaste and Frederic gave him a look that said, ‘you see?’
Evelyn sat up a bit straighter. “Yes, I would, Your Grace, if you please. I have been training Diadem for hunting and it would be a perfect test for her. Just a lawn meet to being the season, if a willing hunt master can be found.”
“Diadem? That is the mare from the match race, is it not?” The Duke asked. “It will be easy enough to find a hunt master looking to train his young hounds before the season truly begins.”
“It is, yes.” She frowned. “She will not race again. She cannot stay sound under intense training.”
“That’s a shame. She is beautiful. But she has taken to hunting?”
“Very much so!’ Evelyn said, nodding. “She has a natural talent for it, but I have yet to see how she will handle herself with the hunting crowd. It is a different thing entirely to have other horses running beside you and hounds baying at your feet. She may lose her head.”
“With you as her rider? I doubt that. Well, it sounds as though you have your hopes pinned on this hunt,” said The Duke. “I would hate to disappoint you.”
Frederic snorted dismissively at their conversation. “Lovely. Horses.”
~.~
Chapter Four
The guests began to arrive the following week. The Duke had brought an army of servants with him, enough to bolster the ranks of Evermont’s skeleton staff into a respectable showing. Together, the servants new and old had opened the disused sections of the manor. It had taken the entire week to set the guest rooms to rights, removing the white sheets that protected the furniture, throwing open the windows to let in fresh air, and dusting the cobwebs from the ceilings. The floors gleamed and the furniture smelled of polish. The hum of activity recalled Evelyn to her childhood. Her mother had been an eager and attentive hostess before her illness, and her father had been an indulgent and gracious host until her death. After that, the Evermont manor had been a family only affair.
Now, it buzzed like a hive in springtime. Though the sky was a constant and even shade of grey, the house was lit with fireplaces and lanterns, all casting a warm glow. The kitchens worked with fervor and the smells of bread and stew scented the air, masking the scent of old cigar smoke and dust. Evelyn, Frederic, and The Duke waited in the entry hall, dressed in their finest. Pemberton was a perfect gentleman. He knew every guest’s name and greeted them as old friends, with a familiar handshake and an inquiry after their families or their health.
Only three days. She only had to play the hostess for three days; a day for the guests to settle, the day of the lawn meet, and the day of departure. Still, much could go wrong in so short a time.
“Good evening, Lord Ashwood,” said The Duke.
Evelyn snapped her attention to the present. The Duke shook the hand of a man much plumper, shorter, and older than he. Frederic introduced the man to Evelyn. Lord Ashwood’s greeting was far too exuberant to sit comfortably with Evelyn, and she wondered how far Frederic had assured him of their eventual betrothal. She shot her brother a glare. It went ignored, however, for the next person to walk in the door was a woman of uncommon beauty.
Her hair was strawberry blonde with just a touch of red and her eyes were a deep, chocolate shade of brown. The cut of her dress was the height of fashion and impeccably tailored, displaying her figure to great advantage. All of the eyes were on her, men and women alike. Evelyn prayed this was not one of the debutantes her brother had arranged to entertain The Duke. She could never compete with this.
“Miss Adele Bouchard,” Pemberton announced as the woman batted her fan in a coquettish flourish.
Frederic had gone red, his usual shade of late. His mouth opened and closed. Evelyn took pity on him.
“How wonderful to meet you at last, Miss Bouchard,” Evelyn said, striding over to the woman and taking her by the arm. “I have heard the most wonderful things about you.”
“Please, call me Adele,” the woman said. Her smile wide and guileless, showing even white teeth and cupid bow lips. “You must be my dear Frederic’s sweet sister, Lady Evelyn.”
“Did Frederic call me sweet?” Evelyn asked. “He must have been in a rare mood.”
Frederic at last managed to produce words, threatened by the thought of Evelyn steering the conversation. He hurried up beside them as Evelyn led Adele, the last of the guests, from the room.
“Miss Bouchard!” he barked. It was too loud by half and the woman winced. He tried again. “Please, Adele, may we speak before you go to your rooms?”
She frowned, and Evelyn thought she would refuse him, but she relented with a pert nod.
“I cannot wait to get to know you, Evelyn,” said Adele, seizing Evelyn by the arms and kissing her cheeks in the manner of the French. “I hope we will be as dear as sisters!”
Frederic drew Adele to a private corner of the room. Evelyn fought the desire to eavesdrop, and was saved from temptation by The Duke’s voice beside her ear.
“A moment alone at last,” he said, in that low purr that made her shiver, bone deep. “The guests have been seen to their rooms and we will have some time before they are recovered from their travels. Five in all, though I expect ten more for the lawn meet, to ride in tomorrow.”
Evelyn gestured to where Frederic and Adele were cloistered beside a bronze statue. Their conversation had grown heated judging by the flurry of gesticulations from Adele. Frederic’s voice rose in booms; then dropped to a whisper.
“She is beautiful,” she said. “I can see now why Frederic is besotted with her beyond all semblances of good sense and reason.”
“An exceptional beauty,” The Duke agreed, annoyingly. “She is, to my surprise, as besotted with him as he is with her.”
“She does not seem to feel kindly toward him at the moment.”
The woman’s French accent had grown thicker, thick enough that Evelyn could not have discerned the words even if she had been eavesdropping. Which she was not.
“They had a row of sorts, before Frederic left London.” The Duke shook his head before she could ask. “I do not know what it was over, and Frederic would not tell me. It has been tearing him apart. He only left the city because she demanded he do so.”
“I hope they do not argue the whole visit,” said Evelyn, fretting. “That will ruin things.”
“All will be well, Lady Evelyn. Do not worry.” He placed his hand at the smal
l of her back, a familiar, intimate gesture that brought heat to her skin. Evelyn sidestepped out of his reach.
“Your Grace,” she began.
“You do not wish to marry Lord Ashwood,” he said, over her protests. He cupped her cheek and she leaned into the touch, unable to stop herself from the show of weakness.
“I do not know him. He may be the best husband a woman could hope for.”
“Nonsense. He is not the sort of man a woman like you should be with,” The Duke said, dismissing the man with a wave of his hand.
“And who should I be with, Your Grace?” Evelyn pushed his hand away from her with sudden vehemence. How dare he presume to give her orders? He was not her father, nor her brother. “To you, this may be a game. To me, it is my entire future. Please, Excuse me.”
~.~
It was easy enough to avoid The Duke. With the house full to bursting with guests and staff, there was always someone to spend time with, and if that failed, she hid in the stable. She could not decide if she was hiding from him out of anger or out of fear she would not be able to keep her wits around him, but the result was the same. On occasion she had seen him passing down a hall and watched him, unseen, with a painful sort of longing in her chest.
Frederic was pleased at her attention to Lord Ashwood, something she threw herself into mostly to irritate The Duke. She had sat with Lord Ashwood for tea. They had played a game of chess. She had listened to him read aloud from his favorite books. He was a polite old man and the epitome of a gentleman. The conversation never grew stale. Once, she would have been content with a marriage of friendship, but having glimpsed something of the realm of passion she now longed for that spark. That dangerous thrill she felt when The Duke touched her, or caught her eye across the room.
The Duke’s Wicked Wager - Lady Evelyn Evering: A Regency Romance Novel (Heart of a Gentleman Book 2) Page 6