Viscount Can Wait, The EPB

by Tremayne, Marie

  Taking a breath, she stepped backwards to release Caroline. “I’m fine. Tired, but fine. Really. I just had a melancholy moment, that’s all.”

  Caroline’s eyes gleamed with compassion. “This whole, sordid endeavor must be so difficult for you. For so many reasons.” Her friend squeezed Eliza’s shoulders kindly. “I will see you at the party tonight. And you are welcome here any time you tire of receiving your many callers.”

  Eliza grinned wryly. “My callers are not nearly as interesting as you are.”

  “Not yet,” her friend answered with a laugh.

  Eliza felt much improved on the carriage ride home. It was very silly to let herself get too caught up in her thoughts. All she could do was attend these burdensome events—the luncheons, the parties, the balls—in the hopes of finding a man who could somehow be acceptable. A man Reginald would have deemed worthy.

  With refreshed clarity, she decided to write Rosa another letter before departing for that night’s event. Her daughter had already penned four letters—with assistance from Clara, she was sure—detailing the daily happenings in and around Lawton Park. These included matters of great import to the little girl; everything from creating a tasty new dessert with the cook to the playful scampering of her favorite woodland squirrel was discussed with the stilted phrasing and colorful language of a child. The thought of her daughter’s enthusiastic retellings caused her to beam with joy, a welcome respite from the rules and seriousness of the season.

  Her lips were still curved in a smile when she entered Carlton Place, the Earl of Ashworth’s London residence. Slipping the fashionably beribboned bonnet from her head, Eliza hummed a tune as she reached for the tidy pile of calling cards on the silver tray in the entry hall. But the song abruptly died in her throat, her face freezing upon reading the name imprinted on the card at the top of the stack.

  Viscount Evanston

  She stared in disbelief, blinked, then stared some more. It appeared that Thomas had decided to seek her out after all.

  Eliza chided herself for being silly. He was probably stopping by London on his way up north for business with the cotton mills, or he had chosen to pay a visit before leaving for supper at one of his clubs. Perhaps it was simply a social call.

  Or perhaps he is seeking a new widow.

  A frisson of alarm raced through her. Jumping to this conclusion put her in danger of flattering herself and it was most definitely untrue . . . but what if it wasn’t?

  Her fingers toyed with the folded corner of the card—top left corner, an indication he had visited her residence in person. Thomas’s likeness stole into her mind’s eye. How her heartbeat had quickened each time he’d glanced in her direction. How her pulse beat faster now with the remembrances of shared jokes, pressed hands, that singular stolen kiss. . .

  Eliza bit the inside of her cheek in gentle remonstration. No, this would not do. Not when she was here to find a man who was precisely the opposite of Evanston in every way. He was a scoundrel whose penchant for women and brandy outweighed every other reasonable consideration. And if he were interested in her? It would be an interest of the most sordid kind. It would be . . . what was it he had called it the night of her engagement?

  Insatiable curiosity.

  Hadn’t her father been clear on this before she’d been wed? And William after him? She was not to entertain the viscount during the season. As much as it irked her to be told what to do, she knew her brother meant well, and it spoke volumes of Thomas’s character that his own best friend would warn her away from him. Stability, reliability, dependability . . . Thomas had proudly shunned these values many times over, and thanks to the ladies of the ton and their thirst for gossip, she was all too familiar with the details of his various exploits.

  And Eliza refused to be exploited.

  She trod unhurriedly up the carpeted steps to her bedchamber, lost in thought. If only she could hate him, or even better, feel indifferent . . . it would be much easier to maintain her distance. But Evanston had sought to be present for her family, to assist after the carriage accident as a good friend would. He had been there for her brother, and had even succeeded in lightening some of her darkest days. His attention had included her daughter, as well, which she especially appreciated given that he was not overly fond of children.

  Despite this, she was no fool. Her fascination with Evanston was simply that. However, the attraction was subdued by knowing that her father was likely watching her from the afterlife, disapproval hardening his gaze, and that neither of her brothers—dead or alive—would permit Evanston to add her to his long list of delights. Even if there had been times when she’d longed to delight him.

  She squeezed her eyes shut until a bloom of brightness spread across the field of darkness, then opened them to banish him altogether. A futile undertaking. How on earth was she supposed to endure the rest of the season if he insisted upon invading her life? If only he weren’t so . . .

  Charming . . . Attractive . . . Clever . . .

  Infuriating.

  A notch formed between her brows as she ran her thumb over the smooth surface of his calling card. It was probably best if she didn’t acknowledge his call, as she did not wish to encourage his visits while she was here on her own. Caroline hadn’t been wrong before. When you were dealing with Thomas, a friendly conversation could easily turn into seduction.

  Eliza snapped open her beaded reticule, slid the card into its hidden depths, and took a deep breath. She was ready to prepare for yet another evening’s festivities and if luck was on her side, Evanston would learn to keep his distance.

  “Come back here, darling.”

  Tugging on the bellpull, Thomas glanced over his shoulder at the woman beckoning to him from his bed, her body half-covered by the filmy drape of a sheet. As for the other half . . . well . . . it reminded him why he liked attending the season so very much.

  Isabella was the widow of the unfortunate Earl of Ipswich, a man who liked to eat. Had he not enjoyed the practice so very much, perhaps he might have managed to escape the particular canapé that had done him in, or maybe he could have taken the morsel in three bites rather than the one he had attempted. At any rate, Lord Ipswich had met his maker, and his countess had met Evanston soon after, now three years in the past. She always paid him at least one visit when he was in London, and she worked diligently every time to make it worth his while.

  Right now, she was being very diligent indeed, sliding the rest of the sheet aside to entice him from across the room. His eyes skimmed appreciatively over her bared skin, but he’d had all afternoon to enjoy her charms and there were other obligations to attend to this evening.

  “Sorry, love,” he said. “But I have a dinner party in Belgravia that I must be at soon. It’s time for you to leave.”

  A soft rap at the door signaled the arrival of his valet, and he cracked open the door. “Draw a bath, please. And ready Lady Ipswich’s carriage.”

  With a sharp nod, the valet was on his way. Evanston closed the door and turned to see that Isabella had taken the hint and was modestly wrapping herself with the sheet, her full lips puckered in a pout.

  “You don’t waste any time in getting rid of me, do you?” she complained.

  Thomas smiled and crossed over to the bed, planting a kiss on the top of her caramel-colored hair. She swatted him away.

  “You act as if this is something new,” he replied, retrieving her undergarments from the floor where they had been tossed earlier and handing them to her. She ripped them from his hand in a fit of temper and his smile widened. “I do enjoy our time together, but all good things must come to an end.”

  Sliding her chemise over her head, she scoffed. “Or you could marry finally. Have you ever considered that?”

  Evanston paused in the act of retrieving her dress from a nearby chair, and he rotated to view her in astonishment.

  “Marry?” he asked. “Marry you?”

  The countess raised her eyebrows defiantly bu
t refused to meet his eyes, applying her focus to the task of tugging on her stockings. “Perhaps. Would that be so bad? I thought we rather enjoyed each other’s company.”

  He stared at her, nonplussed, then uttered a loud and sudden laugh. Shrugging on a cobalt satin robe, he cinched the belt tightly about his waist and shook his head in amusement.

  “Have you been mistaking our visits as some kind of courtship?” he asked. “Forgive me if I had a different impression altogether. I assumed any woman who would engage in a relationship that occurred solely in a bedchamber would understand exactly what was going on.”

  The glare she shot at him could have turned a lesser man into stone. “Of course, I understood. I was only thinking—”

  “Your first mistake,” he interrupted. “Your second mistake was thinking that I am even remotely interested in marriage.”

  They stared at each other in the dim candlelight of the bedchamber, Isabella having finally fallen silent. It was too bad, really. He had enjoyed their arrangement, but now it obviously would not continue. Thomas could forgive many things of his paramours—fits of temper, jealousy—but one thing he could not move past was the erroneous expectation of love. It was one of the reasons he preferred widows to debutantes . . . there were usually no messy emotions involved. Usually.

  He moved to grasp the doorknob and stared at her in unsmiling courtesy. “I’ll send a maid up to help you dress.”

  And with a twist of his hand, he escaped into the hallway and, more importantly, away from the needy countess.

  Stepping carefully down from their carriage, Eliza and Caroline took a moment to admire the shining spectacle that was Lady Humphrey’s well-appointed Belgravia town house. The evening was unseasonably warm, a balmy breeze doing little to provide relief. Eliza glanced down at her beautiful cerulean gown, made heavy by its puffed sleeves, skirts, bows and other gleaming ornamentation, then took a moment to blot her face with a lace handkerchief before joining the gathering. It was a bitter kind of irony that the season should occur in the summer months when ladies and gentlemen were expected to wear layers upon layers of their most decadent finery. Unlike some, she was rather sensitive to the warmth.

  The pair journeyed forwards to pay their respects to the bedazzled hostess, swathed in silk and jewels, then made their way inside. Light cascaded down from sparkling chandeliers to illuminate the massive floral displays crowding the tables—roses, peonies and lilacs artfully arranged with bits of greenery added for contrast. She paused near a large vase, leaning forwards to inhale the luscious fragrance, then rose to smile at her friend, who was doing the same.

  “The peonies are my favorite.”

  Caroline released a breath. “They’re marvelous.”

  “Preferable to the smell of London in the heat, for certain,” Eliza said with a laugh. Her expression changed upon noticing an unfamiliar man glancing furtively at her from the far end of the hallway. He was well dressed with a neatly trimmed moustache and light brown hair. His conversation halted as his eyes met her own. Caroline followed her gaze.

  “Are you acquainted with him?”

  Eliza shook her head. “Not at all,” she answered. “He was staring as if he knew me, though.”

  “Perhaps he simply wants to know you.”

  “Nonsense,” she scoffed. “Don’t be silly—”

  The man’s conversation partner, a distinguished-looking older gentleman with graying whiskers, turned to view them, and his face lit with recognition.

  “Lady Caroline! What an unexpected pleasure!” he crowed, approaching them eagerly to bow in greeting. The mysterious man followed closely behind. “I’ve been thinking about you. Why, I received a letter from your father just last week.”

  Caroline lowered into a curtsy, visibly irritated by the man’s words. “Lord Latimer, perhaps you will be so kind as to tell me how the duke fares, as I’ve not heard from him in months.” She clamped her lips shut as if she regretted the comment, but her expression gave no hint of apology.

  “What she means to say,” interrupted Eliza hurriedly at seeing the surprised looks of the gentlemen, “is that it can seem like months when a cherished family member travels at length.”

  The older man relaxed and chuckled in agreement, while the younger smiled and eyed Eliza in keen evaluation.

  “Why yes, I suppose it could seem like months,” blustered the older man to her friend. “But chin up, dear girl. Nothing would bring him home faster than the announcement of your impending nuptials!” Caroline stared while he smiled and continued, ignorant of the turmoil his words had caused. “And who, pray tell, is your lovely companion?”

  With a tiny sigh, Caroline composed herself and gestured politely to Eliza. “Allow me to introduce Lady Eliza Cartwick, sister to the Earl of Ashworth. Lady Eliza, this is Baron Latimer, good friend to my father.”

  Lord Latimer’s smile faltered, then died, when he realized who Eliza was, and she felt herself tense, anticipating the familiar stumbling reaction to her family tragedy. Surely there would be some awkward attempt at conversation, perhaps a poorly phrased question regarding the deaths of her husband, father and brother. Instead, he plastered a bright smile upon his face and bowed in her direction.

  “My lady, it is an honor to make your acquaintance. You look—” Latimer’s gaze traveled down her form, as did the man’s next to him. “Why, you look much younger than your years, I am sure!”

  “I am sure I look exactly my number of years, as I am only one-and-twenty,” replied Eliza evenly with a bow of her head. It was a fact of some annoyance that people often questioned her age, believing a widow with a daughter ought to be older somehow, but she was determined to remain courteous. She smiled cheerfully at the gentlemen.

  The baron stared back at her in apparent dismay. “Yes, well . . . this man is Sir James Landry, my neighbor in the country.” He rested his hand on the man’s shoulder, and Landry tipped his head.

  “I am pleased to meet you, Lady Caroline,” said the man, extending his hand forwards to claim her fingers in greeting. His attention quickly shifted to Eliza. “And what a pleasure, Lady Eliza.” He similarly clasped her hand in introduction, but seemed slightly more disinclined to release it. It was unnerving, but not altogether unpleasant. At last, she slid her gloved fingers from his.

  “Do you both reside in Hampshire?” she asked.

  “Yes,” answered Landry. “Are you familiar with the area?”

  “I’ve only recently moved away.”

  The baron chimed in. “Ah, I’d heard you had returned to your brother’s estate in Kent.”

  Eliza stiffened. It was not the first reminder she’d had here in London that her life was the subject of gossip in the ton. As usual, she worked to show it had little to no effect on her. Some days, this apparently being one of them, took more effort than others.

  “Is that what you heard? Well, I suppose your sources are well-informed.” She threw a sideways glance at Caroline, who already looked prepared to bolt. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

  The ladies curtsied and turned to leave, but Landry leaned forwards to touch Eliza’s elbow. She glanced up at him in surprise to find inquiring, blue eyes.

  “Could we speak again later?”

  Eliza tipped her head. “Perhaps.”

  A small tug from Caroline and the pair merged into the crowd in Lady Humphrey’s expansive drawing room. Her friend issued a disbelieving laugh.

  “I don’t think the baron was trying to offend us. Nonetheless, he was quite effective.”

  “He didn’t even know he was doing it. I can’t be offended at that.” Eliza sighed. “It was terribly uncomfortable, though.”

  Caroline’s auburn hair gleamed red in the candlelight as she surveyed the noisy gathering. “Was it the baron’s remarks, or your handsome new admirer that you found so discomfiting?” she asked nonchalantly.

  The corner of Eliza’s mouth quirked upward in amusement. “Did you think him handsome?”

  �
�He had a rather impressive moustache.”

  “Has that become the standard of an attractive man?” Eliza asked absently, her mind drifting, unwittingly recalling the strong square line of Thomas’s jaw, the tempting curve of his lips. She couldn’t help but think an excess of facial hair would only serve to obscure his natural appeal, although she couldn’t deny that the moustache suited Landry.

  Realizing her friend had yet to answer her question, Eliza brought her attention back to the present moment.

  “Caroline?”

  “Yes, sorry, I . . .” The girl was focused on something across the room. After a moment’s pause she asked, “You don’t suppose that’s your Viscount Evanston, do you?”

  Eliza suddenly felt cool from head to toe, as if someone had poured ice water over her body. She couldn’t be certain if it was caused by dread or excitement as she craned her neck to squint through the mass of guests.

  “Surely not. Why I—”

  But indeed, there he was. Impossible to miss since he was so much taller and more handsome than every other man in the room. Not to mention he was surrounded by a veritable swarm of beautiful women, as was typical. Young, old, married, unmarried . . . all of them available to him, she was sure.

  Inwardly, she took a moment to curse him. He had not wasted any time inserting himself into her social affairs and she knew that his presence would be a distraction, regardless of whether he intended it to be or not.

  Eliza clutched Caroline’s hand in her own and forced a cheerful expression. The last thing she wanted was for either Thomas or her friend to think something was amiss. “Actually, I do believe that is Evanston, although he certainly is not my viscount, to which the collection of ladies besieging him can attest,” she said with a tinkling laugh that she hoped sounded natural. “Shall we go make ourselves known?”