As she watched his broad shoulders disappear into the crowd, Evleen wanted to cry, Wait. Come back. I didn’t mean it. How terrible that she had allowed her pride to guide her feelings. She didn’t know how she could feel any more miserable, as well as guilty, besides. She should simply have admitted to him she couldn’t waltz, but she’d wanted to appear perfect in his eyes. But how foolish. Such vanity. She shouldn’t give a farthing what Thomas thought of her.
But aside from all that, even if she were skilled at waltzing, she should be searching for a rich man with a title, not a poor second son.
I’ll get over him, she thought, as a lump rose in her throat. I must.
At last the orchestra played music for a country dance she recognized, and she realized she could dance to that. Even so, she was sorely tempted to sit here, safe in this sheltered corner, until the ball was over. But she wasn’t a coward and she wasn’t a quitter. She returned to stand by Lydia, who had earlier informed her a young lady must not stray far from her chaperone unless dancing. The orchestra struck up another country dance, which she knew she could do, and when a young blade asked her to dance, to her relief, she found she actually enjoyed it. It was hard to know how to handle her silly fan, though. She observed the other young ladies and noted how they would flutter their fan, occasionally bringing it to their face, peering coyly at their partner over the top. Such silliness. Not me, not ever, she thought, and kept her fan to her side, occasionally raising it to let it rest on her right cheek. The gloves, too, were annoying. How she wished she could strip them off.
She was pleased that no waltzes or quadrilles had played for a time. She had been dancing every dance, with several different partners, when a florid-faced man of fifty or so, with a paunch and drooping eyelids, came up to Mrs. Trevlyn, eyed Evleen, and asked to be introduced.
Lydia demonstrated once again she could smile when the need arose. In fact, she appeared quite delighted. “This is William, Lord Corneale, Evleen,” she said eagerly, signaling his importance by raising a significant eyebrow as she further commented, “Lord Corneale owns one of the largest estates in England and is recently widowed.”
The older man bowed low to Evleen, all the time raking her body with lust-filled eyes. “Charmed to meet you, Miss O’Fallon. Where has a lovely girl like you been hiding?”
Evleen dipped a curtsy. After all that had gone wrong this evening, she was relieved she didn’t fall over. “I am delighted to meet you, sir.”
Lydia assumed a simpering smile. “If you’re wondering why her speech sounds a bit strange, Lord Corneale, our Evleen is fresh from Ireland. She’s the sister of young Patrick, who is now heir apparent to my brother-in-law’s estate. Just imagine, he was hidden away in Ireland all this time. Aren’t we lucky we found him!” She turned fond eyes on Evleen. “And of course his darling sister.”
Evleen almost laughed aloud. What could be more insincere than Lydia attempting to show her delight that her husband was no longer the heir? She wondered what Lydia was planning. It appeared she wanted to pawn Evleen off on this odious man, but how could that be? Lord Corneale was obviously a first son, apparently rich as Croesus. Surely Lydia would want to snare him for one of her daughters. The answer was obvious. First son or no, this man with the lascivious smile was just too odious.
“Would you care to dance, Miss O’Fallon?” asked Lord Corneale.
“Why, of course, I would be delighted.” Such hypocrisy. She would rather be in Ireland digging potatoes than dance with this man.
Soon they were on the dance floor, she reluctantly on Lord Corneale’s arm. He danced tolerably well, she’d give him that, but up close he had a musty smell about him, rather like an old tomb. She could hardly wait until the dance was over. When it was, she was starting off the dance floor when he quickly asked, “Would you care for a stroll in the garden, Miss O’Fallon?”
By the Saints, no. “Why, I...” Hmm, what could she say? As she searched for a suitable excuse, she lifted her fan to rest upon her right cheek.
His eyes lit. “Very good.” Before she could think what to do, he took her arm and started to guide her from the dance floor.
She protested, “Lord Corneale, I didn’t mean...” but he didn’t seem to hear.
“Nothing like a stroll in the moonlight,” he stated with great enthusiasm, and led her out the side doors to a balcony, where a wide expanse of formal garden lay below.
She was in for it now, she decided. Might as well go along and be polite, although how he could have thought she wanted to step outside with him, she would never know.
They walked down a flight of stone steps to the garden below, started their stroll down a path barely lit by moonlight. “This is my favorite time of year for a garden,” he remarked. “The daffodils and snap-dragons are magnificent, would you not agree, Miss O’Fallon?”
“I can hardly see them in the dark,” she answered bluntly. She was growing leery. As they strolled along, his breathing came faster and faster. Could it be his excitement over daffodils and snap-dragons? Ha! She thought not. They passed a fountain, beyond which the path wound into a patch of darkness surrounded by high shrubbery. At the darkest spot, he halted. With a grunt, his arms went tight around her and pulled her close. Before she could utter a word, his wet, slimy lips pressed hard against hers. Ugh! She pounded his shoulders with her fist but to no avail. She was suffocating. At last, desperate for breath, she shoved at him hard and managed to back away from him.
“Just what were you doing?” she demanded in a shaking whisper.
“Why, kissing you, my dear,” he answered equitably, “just as you wanted me to.”
“I wanted you to?” she asked, dumbfounded. “Just how did you decide that?”
“You said it with your fan, my sweet.” He reached for her again. “Give me credit for knowing the signals.”
His lips were about to descend upon hers again, but she managed to break from his grasp and duck away. “You are mistaken, sir,” she gasped. Wanting only to remove herself as far as possible from this disgusting man, she started down the path but halted when she heard a tittering, followed by hastily retreating footsteps.
Had they been seen and overheard?
She could have wept with dismay. Naive though she was concerning the rules of the ton, she strongly suspected that getting caught kissing a strange man in the dark corner of a garden constituted a major infraction. Even ignorance of the waltz would be a minor transgression in comparison. She shuddered to think what would happen if this got back to Lydia.
As she started back along the path, she reflected upon what a horrible night this had been, beginning early when she discovered not knowing how to waltz was akin to social suicide. Then she had insulted Lord Thomas who would probably never speak to her again. Then her ignorance of the language of the fan had led her to signal the wrong message to Lord Corneale. All unknowingly, of course, but who would believe her? She doubted any of these stiff-rumped members of the Polite World would give her the benefit of the doubt.
And then the ultimate disaster—she and Lord Corneale had been discovered. She could only pray that whoever had seen them would not spread the news.
Sick with worry, Evleen reentered the ballroom. She remembered the fan, still clutch in her hand. Fan language indeed, she thought with deep irony. Resisting an urge to toss the lace-and-ivory root of her problems in the nearest waste receptacle, she wondered if there was a fan message for please, God, get me out of here. Let me go home to Ireland, and soon.
Chapter 14
Lydia knew.
They all did. At the end of the evening, Evleen sensed Lydia’s displeasure as they climbed into the carriage. She could tell from the thin, tightened line of Lydia’s lips and the way her sharp nose kept twitching. Charlotte and Bettina had tiny smirks on their faces and kept casting Evleen furtive little glances. Amanda kept her eyes averted, as if she couldn’t bear to watch the unpleasant scene that was sure to come.
“Well!” said Ly
dia the moment the groom closed the carriage door. “I can hardly believe what I just heard, Miss O’Fallon. When I think how your latest misstep will dishonor this family, I am scandalized and utterly appalled.”
“What have you heard?” asked Evleen, sounding but slightly curious. Above all, she must maintain her calm. Also, she must keep the skepticism from her voice because she very much doubted Lydia Trevlyn was truly scandalized. It was not difficult to read the woman’s mind. Behind all that forced indignation, she was no doubt gloating over the social downfall of this Irish upstart she so very much resented.
But whether Lydia was scandalized and appalled or not, this was a horrible moment and Evleen wished she were anywhere but here.
Lydia proceeded to describe her shock when she heard—she would not say from whom—that Evleen had been seen in the garden wantonly kissing Lord Corneale.
“That is completely wrong,” protested Evleen in a deadly calm voice. She tried to explain the true circumstances, but Lydia was bound to believe what she wanted to believe, and her efforts were hopeless, as she knew they would be. Charlotte and Bettina were equally set in stubborn disbelief. Evleen could explain until dawn and her words would fall on three sets of deaf ears. How I want to get home, she thought, desperately trying not to let them see how upset she was, and how ashamed, even though she’d done nothing wrong. Although she seldom cried, she planned to retreat swiftly to her bedchamber the minute she got home. She would crawl into bed, pull the covers over her head and let the tears flow. Mustn’t let her feelings show now, though. “So what do you intend to do?” she asked, pleased her voice was not shaking. “You can send me back to Ireland, if you like. The way I feel now, I would be happy to go.”
Her question further antagonized Lydia. “If it were up to me, I would send you back in a second, but it’s not, is it? Since Lord Trevlyn appears to have a fondness for you, far be it from me to even suggest you leave.” She released a weary sigh, as if the heavy burden of Evleen’s deplorable conduct lay entirely on her shoulders. “I shall strive for tolerance, though God knows how sorely stressed I am. You come from a backward country. Naturally you do not know how to conduct yourself in Polite Society. What a pity that you never learned your manners—”
“Or your morals,” Charlotte interrupted with feigned indignation.
“Or how to dance the waltz,” added Bettina with a giggle.
Evleen fought back a rush of bitter resentment. Why hadn’t they warned her she should know the waltz and all the other dances? Why hadn’t they offered to teach her? But such questions would be useless to ask. She was the intruder, thrust upon them. They had not wanted her in the first place. Most assuredly, they did not want her now.
By the time they arrived home, Evleen felt thoroughly desolate and heartsick. She planned to say a quick goodnight and hasten to her bedchamber, but before she could, Lydia declared she would say a final word. Forced to stand in the grand entryway, Evleen concealed her tears, clutched her fan, and grimly listened to Lydia’s final admonition.
“We shall do what we can for you, but it’s difficult at best to work with a girl who simply does not have the correct background. You cannot dance, politely converse, or even hold your fan correctly. You cannot sing, paint, or play the piano. In other words, you have no talent to speak of, which is a most deplorable lack, and, I think, an impossible situation for a young lady looking for a husband. Worse, though you claim otherwise, your morals are questionable. And you think you can be a member of the ton? Well, I think not.”
As her two older daughters looked on, barely concealing their enjoyment, Lydia sternly advised, “You had best stay out of sight the rest of the Season. If you cannot, if you must accompany us, please keep your mouth shut, and, as much as possible, just sit in a corner. I must admit, you’re not a bad looking young woman by half. You’ll never find a husband in the upper ranks of our society, but perhaps... well, I cannot promise, but despite your deficiencies, you might find a husband of a lesser class. A well-to-do merchant, perhaps, or a vicar, or an officer in the navy or military, provided he’s not a first son.”
“Or a second,” said Charlotte.
“Or a third or a fourth,” Bettina added with great amusement, and they all, except Amanda, joined in her laughter.
Despite her misery, Evleen could almost laugh at the outrageous fate Lydia predicted for her. “I shall bear that in mind, Mrs. Trevlyn,” she said solemnly, and with as much dignity as she could gather, left for her bedchamber.
“At least she didn’t dance with Montague,” Charlotte said when Evleen disappeared from sight.
“Poor Montague,” Bettina exclaimed. “Did you see how embarrassed he was when he found out she couldn’t waltz?”
“Had to lead her off the dance floor,” Charlotte said in disgust. “He could hardly wait to get rid of her. And to think, I was—well, I hate to admit this, but I confess I was slightly worried Evleen might try to steal Montague’s affections.”
“Hardly likely,” said Lydia Trevlyn, “All that worry was for naught, although I shall confess I, too, thought the girl might be a threat.” After a pause, her tightened lips relaxed into a broad smile. “But I most certainly was mistaken, wasn’t I?”
* * *
The next morning, while Thomas was still floating in that murky, semi-conscious state between deep sleep and wakefulness, his first thought was that something, he could not think what yet, was bothering him. The first thing he remembered was that he went with friends to Boodle’s after the ball last night. A rare occurrence. Ordinarily, he had no interest in gambling—a total waste of time and money, as far as he concerned, but... ah, yes, he remembered now, he was trying to keep his mind off Evleen because... now he had it, she had rejected him last night.
I do not care to dance with you, Lord Thomas.
What a blow to his pride. Never in his life had he been so rudely dismissed. Come to think of it, no young lady had ever addressed him in such a manner. Wide awake, Thomas swung his legs to the floor, sat up on the side of the bed, ran his hands through his wavy dark hair, and pondered. Had he said something wrong? Done something wrong? No. As always, he’d been a perfect gentleman, The fault was hers, not his, and why he, a man secure within himself with no need to feed his vanity, should be concerned about what some little chit from Ireland thought of him, he had no idea. His life was in good order. He had no need of her, or any woman.
Only...
A sense of loss suddenly assailed him. Somehow, for some reason he could not begin to fathom, he had thought she held a modicum of affection for him. Fool that he was, he had assumed she experienced the same joy he’d experienced on the trip across Ireland. Never had he enjoyed a journey more. Conclonomaise... The Whispering Arch... had she forgotten that special look that passed between them? It was a look full of unspoken desire, of tacit attraction, or so he thought. More likely, he had been mistaken. That message of desire he’d read in those sapphire blue eyes was naught but a product of his wishful thinking.
But what about that kiss in the carriage the other night? Could it have been only his imagination that she had returned his kiss, and more than willingly? He didn’t think so.
But you’ve got to stop thinking about her.
Whatever he thought, it didn’t matter. The girl was seeking a good match, as was every girl, so who could blame her. Face it, he was not a good match and never would be. For the first time in his life, he felt a deep resentment he’d been born a second son. If only he were Montague. He knew that if he were, he would lay his wealth and title at the feet of Miss Evleen O’Fallon.
Thomas went to the window, assailed by a terrible sense of bitterness as he gazed at the gardens below.
He was not Montague, he was a lovesick fool, and it was time to return to Tanglewood Hall and see to his horses. Why wait? He would leave today, as soon as he said his farewells.
Downstairs, he encountered Penelope at the breakfast table, just finishing eggs and ham, and in a fine mood.
“Good morning, Thomas,” she said, beaming at him. “Did you enjoy the ball last night?”
“I most decidedly did not,” he grumpily replied. “Just coffee,” he said to the maid as he sat down. “I shall be returning to Tanglewood Hall today.”
Penelope regarded him carefully. “I thought you planned to stay a while.”
“My horses—”
“In good hands, as you very well know what with your groom and stable boys.” She cocked her head. “It’s something else, isn’t it?”
“You’re being absurd again.”
She ignored him. “Could it be Miss O’Fallon? Oh, my word.” Her eyes went wide. “It is, isn’t it? And after what happened last night... oh, dear.”
Had something bad happened to Evleen? An uneasiness stirred within him, but he cautioned himself not to so much as blink an eye. “Really?” he asked with great casualness, “what about last night?”
“You cannot believe what happened to the poor girl. It seems she didn’t know how to dance, not even the waltz from what Montague told me. And then, as if that weren’t enough, there was some ugly business involving that awful Lord Corneale...”
When Penelope finished, Thomas smashed his fist to the table, causing his sister to jump and dishes and silver to rattle. “That randy old goat,” he declared, near-choking with indignation. “There is no way in the world she would have willingly kissed him. There’s got to be an explanation.”
“No doubt there is,” Penelope said soothingly. “I, myself, would rather kiss a toad than the infamous Lord Corneale. Come to think of it, the man resembles a toad. But why are you so angry?”
“I’m not angry in the least.” He ordered himself to calm down. If he didn’t, Penelope, with her keen perceptiveness, would guess the truth, if she hadn’t already. He watched as her face lit. Too late. Could he not have one single secret from this perspicacious female?
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