by Gayle Buck
Mr. Sanders was not at all affronted, but instead grinned. He began counting under his breath and miraculously his steps evened out. Evelyn nodded her encouragement, wanting to laugh but not daring to do so. “Very good, Mr. Sanders. I do believe that with a little practice you will have it down perfectly.”
As the movement of the country dance separated them, Mr. Sanders threw her a grateful look. Evelyn smiled at him, thinking that the youthful gentleman was rather endearing. It did not occur to her that Mr. Sanders was actually several years older than herself.
When the set ended and Mr. Sanders returned Evelyn to her chair, her next partner was already waiting to take her out to the floor. For some time then, Evelyn was in a constant whirl as gentleman after gentleman claimed her hand for the dance floor. She laughed and parried their pretty compliments, enjoying herself tremendously.
Then she looked up to meet Mr. Hawkins’s eyes as she placed her hand in his, and the crowded ballroom appeared to recede, leaving just the two of them. In the silence, they regarded one another. Evelyn had never noticed how very like a dark pool of water his eyes looked. She felt as though she were drowning in their blue depths. She drew her breath, struggling against the odd feeling. “Mr. Hawkins, I—”
He drew her up out of her chair. “It is a waltz, Miss Dower.”
His quiet words sent a frisson along her nerve endings. Evelyn looked up at his face quickly, then away. She had danced the waltz before. She had danced it before with Mr. Hawkins. She did not understand why she should be so aware of him walking beside her, nor, when he turned and took her into his arms, why she should actually tremble.
It was the fault of that idiotic wager, she decided crossly. She was consciously aware of being ill at ease. It was dread of what he would demand of her that caused her heart to flutter in her throat so that she could scarcely speak. Of course that was what it was.
“Did you say something, Miss Dower?”
Startled, Evelyn met Mr. Hawkins’s eyes. She realized that she must have made some inarticulate sound. The color rose in her face. “It was nothing of any consequence, Mr. Hawkins.” She was acutely aware of his arm about her, that his hand pressed firmly against her waist, that she was held ever closer in the swirl of turns.
He smiled down at her, amusement lighting his eyes. “Are you frightened of me, Miss Dower?” he asked softly.
“What a question, Mr. Hawkins! Of course I am not.” Evelyn gave a laugh that sounded nervous even to her own ears.
That so greatly annoyed her that she threw a glittering glance of resentment up at him. She hissed in a low voice, “If you must know, I am wondering what you shall demand in payment of my wager.”
“I see.” Mr. Hawkins did not enlarge upon his reply, but merely squired her in another round of dizzying spirals about the dance floor.
The exhilarating feeling of floating proved a fine counterpoint to her anxiety. Evelyn could not stand the suspense, and breathlessly she demanded, “Well?”
Mr. Hawkins threw back his head and laughed. When he looked at her again, he acknowledged her offended tawny eyes with a shrug. “Forgive me for teasing you, Miss Dower. That was ungentlemanly of me. I have not decided what form the payment shall take ... yet.” His gaze lowered to her slightly parted lips and lingered.
Evelyn’s breath caught. It was almost as though he caressed her with that long half-lidded glance. Then his eyes swept up and caught her own. She averted her face to fix her eyes on the point over his broad shoulder. “You—you have the most disconcerting effect upon my good sense. I am inclined to give you a set-down each time we meet,” she said, forcing irritation into her voice.
“So I have noticed, Miss Dower.”
Evelyn looked at him sharply. His voice was wry, though with an underlying current that she could not quite identify. Of all her admirers, Mr. Hawkins was the most incomprehensible. She had sent him away with a finality that must have wounded his pride, and yet he had become one of her most faithful admirers. She had shown herself at her most hoydenish, and though he had been surprised by her wagering on the outcome of the race, he did not act as though he had developed a disgust of her. He was universally polite in address and gesture, but he had often astonished her with a teasing word or warmth of gaze.
Mr. Hawkins was an enigma. Reflecting, Evelyn thought that she did not care for such a gentleman. She was too unsure of herself when she was in his company.
“Surely I am not such grim company as your frown indicates, Miss Dower?”
Chapter Twenty-one
The quiet question disconcerted her. Evelyn found that she had been staring at him and she looked away, thoroughly embarrassed. “On the contrary, Mr. Hawkins. I fear it is I who is not being particularly good company,” she said, managing a credible smile. “I do apologize, sir. It is a perfectly lovely evening, is it not? The Woodthorpes always arrange grand entertainments when they are not caught up in hunting and other such sport.”
“It is plain that you do not share the same interest in sport, Miss Dower,” said Mr. Hawkins, apparently quite willing to follow her lead in conversation.
Evelyn relaxed, laughing a little ruefully. “No, I fear I do not. It is a great disappointment to Pol—Miss Woodthorpe, but she remains fast friends with me despite my most glaring fault.”
“I had noticed that the lady was most knowledgeable. My cousin was quite impressed with Miss Woodthorpe’s horse savvy. In fact, I believe that he has called on her several times since discovering that she is a kindred spirit,” said Mr. Hawkins, throwing Evelyn a quick penetrating glance.
“Viscount Waithe?” Evelyn looked around for the viscount. She had vaguely wondered at his less assiduous attentions of late, having become used to his lordship’s appearance nearly every afternoon in Queen Square. She located the viscount, who was at that moment seated beside Miss Woodthorpe, and from what she could discern before her view was blocked by the passing of a dancing couple, the two were in deep discussion.
Evelyn chuckled softly. Of course they were talking about horses, for she was certain nothing was closer to either heart than equines. “I am not at all surprised. It was only a matter of time before they discovered one another.”
“You do not mind it. Miss Dower?” asked Mr. Hawkins quietly, still looking at her quite keenly.
Evelyn was surprised. “Why should I mind, Mr. Hawkins?”
His mouth turned upward at one corner. He met her puzzled gaze with an odd expression in his own eyes. “Many young ladies would resent losing an admirer to another young lady, no matter how friendly she was with that lady.”
“Resent Pol? Of course I do not. As for Viscount Waithe, I counted him as more a brother than an admirer. But you shall not tell him that, if you please,” said Evelyn.
Mr. Hawkins’s smile broadened. The watchful expression in his eyes had disappeared. “Be assured that I will not, Miss Dower.” He casually introduced another topic.
The set ended swiftly after that, and the orchestra indicated that there would be a short intermission for refreshments to be served.
Mr. Hawkins escorted Evelyn off the floor. They chanced to encounter Miss Sparrow and her betrothed also leaving the floor. After the couples greeted one another, Miss Sparrow said, “I am simply parched. What of you, Evelyn? Will you gentlemen be so kind as to find us refreshments?”
“Of course,” said Mr. Hawkins, his expression as polite as ever. Mr. Fiddle pronounced himself quite ready to be of service to the ladies. Mr. Hawkins and the excellent Mr. Fiddle left the ladies in adjoining chairs to fan themselves.
Miss Sparrow leaned toward Evelyn, her hand up before her mouth. “My dear, has Mr. Hawkins said anything to you?”
Evelyn stared at her friend in surprise. “Whatever should he say to me, Abigail?”
“Oh, you can be so frustrating, Evelyn. You must know what I am referring to. Why, it is quite obvious to the dullest intelligence that Mr. Hawkins is smitten with you,” said Miss Sparrow.
Eve
lyn felt heat rising in her face. “Mr. Hawkins is one of several admirers, Abigail. I do not think—”
“Pray do not think to put me off, Evelyn! I shan’t be diverted, I promise you.” Miss Sparrow regarded Evelyn’s rising brows with a sigh. “You may as well divulge it all to me, for at least I am your friend, and not like some others I could mention who have expressed their scarcely concealed curiosity to me.”
Evelyn was taken aback. “What are you talking about, Abigail?”
Miss Sparrow had the grace to look abashed. “I do not gossip, truly I do not, but one cannot help hearing what others say to one. And of late ... I do wish you would rid yourself of that frown, Evelyn. It is not so very bad, after all. It is merely being said that Mr. Hawkins is being particularly attentive to you, and I think it is quite true. He does not waltz with anyone else, and he has not done so since he arrived in Bath. Then you were seen with him at Ned Woodthorpe’s race. I know that your maid was with you, but still it appeared to some to be an indication. And the way he has of quietly discouraging some of the other gentlemen has made me wonder whether—I am sorry if I have trespassed, Evelyn.”
Evelyn looked away from Miss Sparrow’s anxious look. “Oh no, I am glad you have told me. I had no notion that my name had become linked so closely with Mr. Hawkins.” She swung around again, her eyes quite bright—but with what emotion Miss Sparrow could not have said. “Did you say that Mr. Hawkins has been discouraging some of my admirers?”
Miss Sparrow now wished that she had never said a word. “Not precisely discouraged. I should not have said that. I-it is only that I have observed on one or two occasions that Mr. Hawkins has—has intercepted a gentleman and spoken quite civilly to him. Then it would strike me a few evenings later that the gentleman would no longer be in attendance on you.”
Miss Sparrow most definitely recognized the expression that now narrowed her friend’s eyes. She said hastily, “It is nothing but conjecture, Evelyn, truly. I do have an active imagination, you know that I do.”
“So, apparently, do those others you spoke of, Abigail,” said Evelyn evenly. She saw that her friend was quite distressed at the reception of her disclosures. Evelyn smiled brightly. “Do not concern yourself, Abigail. Of course you were right to alert me to the gossip. Now I may be more circumspect in my dealings with Mr. Hawkins.”
The gentlemen returned with lemonades, and Miss Sparrow accepted hers with an air of relief. The two couples spent a few minutes in idle conversation, and all the while Evelyn held on to her smouldering temper.
She knew that Mr. Hawkins’s gaze rested thoughtfully upon her several times, but she gave no indication of it. She spoke animatedly and laughed with a naturalness that surprised her and which she knew must cloak her true feelings. She did not know that the overbrightness of her eyes gave her away.
The orchestra struck up again, indicating the short intermission was over. At once, Evelyn was approached by Viscount Waithe, who bowed to her in solicitation of her hand. “Of course, my lord. I would be delighted,” said Evelyn warmly, and promptly moved off with him, her head held high.
Mr. Hawkins stared after the lady, his expression unreadable. He had perceived almost the instant that he had come back with Miss Dower’s lemonade that she was in a towering temper. He wondered why it appeared to be directed at him, for he had not been behind in absorbing her slitted glances when she had thought he would not notice. Mr. Hawkins turned his head to regard Miss Sparrow.
That lady, with a prudent regard for her own self-preservation, had risen hastily and importuned her betrothed to take her out onto the floor. “For it is above all my favorite dance,” she said.
“But I thought the quadrille was your favorite,” said Mr. Fiddle.
Miss Sparrow cast a rather hunted look at Mr. Hawkins’s sardonic expression. “Oh, what does it matter which is my favorite, Mr. Fiddle, when I am able to dance with you.” Much gratified, Mr. Fiddle proudly led off his wonderful lady.
Mr. Hawkins was left behind with his speculations about what Miss Sparrow could possibly have said to Miss Dower concerning him. This business of courting the lady of his choice was utterly fatiguing. One moment he seemed to be making progress and the next moment he had lost every inch of ground.
Mr. Hawkins’s eyes fell on the empty glasses left by the ladies chairs. Lemonade was not precisely what he had in mind, he thought grimly. Turning on his heel, he went in search of a refreshment that was a bit stronger.
As soon as the viscount and Evelyn reached the floor, her store of witty chatter disappeared. She danced silently, almost absently. Viscount Waithe attempted several conversational gambits, to which she made answer in monosyllables or not at all.
Viscount Waithe had noticed how his cousin’s eyes had followed him and Miss Dower onto the floor, and it slowly dawned on him that there could have been something more in that than casual observation. The viscount was not used to being ignored so thoroughly, and for the sake of his own ego he finally decided to press the issue. “Miss Dower, have you and Peter had a falling out?”
Evelyn raised her eyes quickly, shocked.
Viscount Waithe was startled by her response. He had not actually thought it was true, but now as he looked down into Miss Dower’s face he was utterly certain that it had been so. He said earnestly, “You mustn’t believe everything that is said, ma’am. I assure you that Peter is as near to being a saint as it is possible for a mere mortal to be. He would never do anything to cause the least pain to anyone.”
Evelyn’s eyes fell. “I know that. Mr. Hawkins is the perfect gentleman.”
The viscount was at something of a standstill. He could not imagine what could have put such an expression into the lady’s eyes if it had not been an argument of some son. However, it couldn’t have been a quarrel, or otherwise Miss Dower would not have asserted so calmly that she agreed with him about his cousin.
“I am useless at this, I am afraid,” said Viscount Waithe. He caught Miss Dower’s glance and held it with the appeal of his charming smile. “Won’t you confide in me? Are we not good enough friends for you to do so?”
Evelyn hesitated, torn by her inclination to do just that and her pride, which would not admit anyone to the humiliation that she felt. She finally shook her head and with a wavering smile said, “Thank you, my lord, but I think it would be best if I did not say anything to you. It—it is something rather lowering to my self-esteem, you see, and I would prefer to work it out for myself.”
With blinding clarity, Viscount Waithe thought he knew the cause of her despondency. She was obviously in love with his cousin and had shown it to Peter, either through word or glance, and had been rebuffed.
The viscount saw it all. He had always been aware of the polite barrier that his cousin held between himself and the world. He counted himself fortunate that he was one of the few people that Peter had let come close. Lady Pomerancy and Sir Charles were two others who shared that intimacy, but Viscount Waithe suspected that there were very few others. His cousin was well liked and pleasant and had a wealth of acquaintances, even some who believed themselves to be close friends, but Viscount Waithe did not think that Peter himself thought of more than a dozen or so individuals as true friends.
Miss Dower was apparently not one of those individuals.
Not very long past, Viscount Waithe had thought himself to be deeply in love with Miss Dower. Enough of those feelings remained, though more in the guise of warm friendship, than he had anticipated, and her obvious distress pained him. “Miss Dower, if there is anything that I can do, anything at all, pray call upon me,” he said.
Evelyn was touched and astonished by his sincere offer. “Thank you, my lord. I shall remember that.” She smiled up at him, determined to make up for her lack of manners. “I noticed earlier that you were seated with my friend, Miss Woodthorpe. I suppose that she has told you about the perfectly stunning hunter that she bought last spring?”
Viscount Waithe smiled, admiring Miss Dower’s s
trength of spirit. He knew well that she had no interest whatsoever in hunters, but he was willing to allow her to lead him into safer conversational waters. For the rest of the dance, they chatted amiably on several topics. When the music ceased and Viscount Waithe returned her to her chair, he was able to leave her with some feeling of having done some good toward repairing her lowness of spirits.
Evelyn found that the next set on her card was reserved for Sir Charles. Surprisingly enough, when she read the gentleman’s name it caused hardly a flutter. Her thoughts had reverted to what she had learned about Mr. Hawkins.
Sir Charles presented himself. His dark gaze was deliberately appreciative of her appearance. “You are lovely as always, Miss Dower. I would have rushed to your side before now if I had been able to push my way through the admiring press, but alas, one must be fair to one’s competitors.”
Evelyn bestowed a smile upon the gentleman as she gave her hand to him. “What nonsense, sir. I hope that I know better than that.”
Sir Charles was somewhat taken aback by her lack of blushes at his exquisite periods, but he recovered almost at once. Lowering his voice, he asked, “I hope that you received my humble billet?”
Evelyn nodded, and the smile that entered her eyes went far toward alleviating his slight sense of pique. “Yes, and I truly thank you. Your poetry is wonderfully romantic. What lady could possibly resist such soulful sensitivity?”
“My fairest lady, I had not dared to hope that you would perceive me half so well,” he said, smiling down into her unusual eyes. Really, she had the most beguiling eyes, like molten gold, he thought.
She was saying something to him, a question of some sort. Still entranced by his thoughts, he replied absently, “Of course, lovely lady. How could one withstand the pleading of such brilliant jewels? Miss Dower, have I told you that your eyes are—”
“Oh thank you. Sir Charles!”
Her exclamation shook him out of his reverie.
