Lady Eve's Indiscretion tdd-4

by Grace Burrowes

  Not that Dolan had been introduced to so very many duchesses.

  “Mr. Dolan, a pleasure. My daughter was complimenting your Georgina just the other day. If raising my five girls is any indication, your daughter will soon be turning your hair gray and breaking hearts. Deene, I’ll be expecting you for supper Tuesday next. The numbers won’t balance if you decline.”

  She murmured her good days in such dulcet, cultured tones Dolan could almost forgive her for being a damned duchess.

  “I’d heard you were driving out with the woman’s daughter. I wouldn’t mind having the daughter of a duke for Georgina’s aunt.”

  Deene had recovered himself thoroughly. He aimed a stare at Dolan that felt uncomfortably pitying. “Dolan, there is more to choosing a wife than the benefit she brings you and your bogtrotting relations.”

  “And do you number your sister’s only child among those bogtrotting relations, Deene?”

  They’d descended to insults that hit dangerously close to tender places, and lowered their voices accordingly. As Dolan watched his brother-in-law’s handsome face, he reflected that learning to trade insults like a true English gentleman was not an accomplishment to be proud of.

  “You had best hope your Goblin never finds himself running against King William. I would not want to have to explain to my niece why English bloodlines are superior to all others, even as they relate to lower species.”

  Dolan smiled, so English was that insult.

  “Perhaps you’re right, my lord, at least when it comes to running fast. Shall we part on this cordial note between enthusiastic horsemen, or go another three rounds?”

  For one disturbing moment, something bleak flickered through Deene’s eyes.

  “Good day, Dolan. Please give my compliments to Georgie and tell her I asked after her. You have my thanks as well for the flowers you keep on Marie’s grave.”

  “Good day, Deene.”

  On that civil—and puzzling—note, they did part, though Dolan felt the need for a quiet place to sit and reflect on the entire conversation before administering the week’s verbal beating to his solicitors.

  Marie had loved her brother. It was probably accurate to say that upon being forced to marry Dolan, her brother was the only person she’d loved. Dolan could acknowledge that he and Deene had both loved Marie in return, though of course in quite different ways.

  And yet, for the one moment when bleakness had flickered through Deene’s eyes, Dolan would have sworn that they also shared another emotion where Marie was concerned, an emotion more burdensome than love.

  Dolan had to wonder on what grounds the marquis might be entitled to feel guilt where his sister was concerned—if indeed that had been guilt Dolan had seen flickering in Deene’s handsome blue eyes.

  * * *

  “Eve Windham, what on earth can you be poring over in here when any sane creature is outside on such a glorious day?”

  Louisa sat herself—uninvited and unwelcome—right beside Eve on the small sofa.

  “I’m making a list, if you must know.” Eve set the list aside, though she’d hardly kept her aims secret from her sisters.

  “Of?” Louisa, having the advantage of greater reach, helped herself to Eve’s scribblings. “These are names of men.”

  “My sister is a genius.”

  This provoked a grin as Louisa perused the admittedly short list. “These are single men, but what a group you’ve gathered on your paper, Eve. Trit-Trot; Sir Cleaveridge Oldman, better known as Old Sir Cleavage; Harold Enderbend, known to his familiars as Harold Elbowbend.” Louisa continued to study the list, her grin fading. “These are your white marriage knights, as it were?”

  “They are a start.” Though it had taken Eve all morning to come up with even a half-dozen names.

  “Scratch Trit-Trot off your list. Joseph says he gambles excessively.”

  Eve took up the paper and did as Louisa suggested, but it was no great loss. Trit-Trot would bow and blather her witless in a week.

  Cleaveridge would not keep his hands to himself.

  Enderbend was a sot whose drunken wagering would bankrupt them in a year.

  Eve nibbled her pencil. “Can you think of anybody else? Mind you, this is strictly in the way of contingency planning.”

  “We should ask Jenny. She notices things. This discussion will require sustenance.”

  That Louisa wasn’t laughing at Eve’s project was both reassuring and unnerving. While Lou rang for trays—plural—another footman was sent off to retrieve Jenny from the gardens.

  “We’re trying to find Eve a white knight husband, but it’s rather difficult going,” Louisa explained to their sister. “We need a fellow who will leave her in peace but be attentive and civil. He must be goodlooking enough to be credible and have all his teeth.”

  Jenny took a seat in the rocker and frowned at the list. “He must be able to keep Eve in the style to which she has become accustomed.”

  Before the tea trays had arrived, Eve’s sisters had concocted a list not of eligible husbands, but of the characteristics such a man must possess.

  He must like to travel—preferably to foreign parts for extended periods.

  He must be mild mannered, but a man of his word.

  He must be affectionate enough, but not too affectionate.

  It wouldn’t hurt if he already had an heir.

  Nor if he were devoid of relatives who would be curious about the nature of the marriage.

  Such an effort her sisters put forth to secure Eve a list of appropriate possibilities, and yet nowhere on their list were the things that might have made a white marriage bearable:

  He must be kind.

  He must be that rare man who could befriend an adult woman.

  He must be loyal—faithful was a ridiculous notion under the circumstances.

  And it really, truly would not hurt matters if he loved horses, either.

  “Eve has left us.” Jenny made this observation when Louisa had laid siege to the sandwiches and cakes an hour later.

  “I’m thinking,” Eve said, which was not a lie. She was thinking of never seeing Franny’s foal grow up, never bestowing a name on the little fellow, or petting Willy’s velvety nose ever again. Never again kissing the only man to make her insides rise up and sing the glories of being a healthy young female…

  “Jenny has come up with a capital notion. You must marry this portrait painter everybody is raving about. I forget his name, though he and Joseph are cordial.”

  Eve forced herself to attend the topic, more because her sisters left unsupervised would have her betrothed to the fellow without her even being introduced to him.

  “Elijah Harrison. He has a title,” Jenny said, “but he doesn’t use it. He’s mannerly and quiet, also very talented and an associate member of the Royal Academy, one of the youngest so far.”

  Louisa got up to brace her back against the mantel and cross her arms. “He’s also mostly to be found dozing among the ferns at the fashionable entertainments.”

  Jenny set the list aside, her chin coming up. “He must work during daylight hours and has not the luxury of sleeping until noon every day; moreover, he’s a marvelous dancer.”

  Oh-ho. Louisa’s lips quirked up, as did Eve’s. “Jenny is smitten,” Lou pronounced. “S-m-i-t-t-e-n. We must strike his name from your list, Evie. Alas for you and My Lord Artist.”

  Eve resisted the urge to join in the teasing. Jenny showed her hand so rarely that Louisa was probably right in her surmise.

  Louisa was right a maddening proportion of the time.

  But drunks and painters?

  Eve looked at the list again. “Perhaps we should ring for a fresh pot.”

  Jenny looked relieved, Louisa determined, and though the list of requirements grew longer, the list of names did not.

  * * *

  “Are you suffering a bilious stomach, Deene, or have you taken to glowering the matchmakers into submission?”

  Kesmore’s qu
estion caused Deene a start, for the man had given no warning of his presence.

  “And when did you take to lurking among the ferns, Kesmore?”

  “Perhaps I’m lurking among the shy, retiring bachelors. It isn’t like you to be demonstrably out of sorts, Deene, particularly not in company with the fair flowers of Polite Society.”

  No, it was not, which sorry state of affairs Deene laid directly at Lady Eve Windham’s dainty feet. “Cleaveridge is all but drooling on his partner’s bosom.”

  “What a lovely bosom it is, too. Moreland’s women are a pretty bunch.”

  This casual observation from a man who appeared to have no interest whatsoever in bosoms pretty or otherwise—save for that of his countess—made Deene want to stomp across the dance floor and pluck Eve from Cleaveridge’s arms.

  “She’s up to something.”

  “The ladies usually are. We adore them for it, and in polite company refer to it as a mysterious feminine quality.”

  Deene turned to study Kesmore amid the shadows under the ballroom’s minstrel’s gallery. “With the exception of your recently acquired countess, I’ve yet to see you adoring a human female since you mustered out, Kesmore. One hears rumors about you and your livestock, however.”

  “My livestock are lining the Kesmore coffers sufficiently to launch my daughters in style when the time comes. You insult the beasts at your peril.”

  Though Kesmore’s voice was mild, Deene had the sense the man was genuinely protective of his pigs. This ought to be a point of departure for much raillery between former officers who’d served together under Wellington, but it was instead an odd comfort.

  A man could apparently do worse than be protective of the woman who’d rejected his very first marital proposal… though Deene doubted Kesmore was actually jealous of the boar hogs courting his breeding sows.

  “Cleaveridge does have an unfortunate tendency to stare at the wrong parts of a lady’s person, doesn’t he?” Kesmore kept his voice down, though as Deene watched Eve’s progress through the concluding bars of the dance, he wanted to shout at Cleaveridge to turn loose of Lady Eve.

  At her final curtsy, Cleaveridge bowed to precisely that angle most convenient for ogling and even sniffing at Eve’s breasts.

  “Deene.” Kesmore’s hand on Deene’s arm prevented him from starting across the ballroom. “Enderbend is making a charge from the punch bowl.”

  “All of his charges start and end at the punch bowl.”

  “Perhaps Lady Eve is on a charity mission to dance with all the hopefuls who will never graduate to the status of eligibles.”

  She was on a mission to part Deene from his few remaining wits, making a strategic retreat the only sane course. “I’m off to play a hand of cards. Care to join me?”

  Kesmore gave him an unreadable look. He had Deene’s height, though Kesmore’s coloring was dark, his build heavier, and somewhere in the middle of Spain his features had lost the knack of smiling.

  “Take this.” Kesmore shoved an empty glass against Deene’s middle and limped away. Deene could only watch in consternation as the crowd parted before Kesmore with the hasty manners shown a man condemned to limp for the rest of his life.

  Consternation turned to outright surprise when Kesmore offered his arm to Lady Eve and left Enderbend looking like a besotted fool at the edge of the dance floor.

  Lest Deene be caught wearing the same expression in public, he did withdraw to the card room.

  * * *

  Eve could not have been more surprised when her most recently acquired brother-in-law, Joseph, the Earl of Kesmore, informed her she’d agreed to take some air with him at the conclusion of the quadrille.

  She should have refused, particularly with Mr. Enderbend looking so eager for his dance—and flushed, and red, and savoring quite noxiously of spirits. Eve caught a whiff of Enderbend’s breath and accepted Kesmore’s unexpected offer.

  In addition to being Louisa’s spouse, Kesmore was a neighbor. In the settled countryside of Kent, this meant that even prior to his marriage he could be accounted a family friend. He rode to hounds with His Grace at the local meets. He attended the assemblies and balls. He made calls and returned them, particularly at the holidays.

  Eve would not have said he was her friend, however.

  “I am capable of dancing, you know.”

  “I beg your lordship’s pardon?”

  He glanced down at her, his expression amused without anything approaching a smile lightening his saturnine features. “If you’re making some sort of penance for yourself out of dancing with the dregs, Lady Eve, you must include me on your card. Waltzing with a cripple has to rank with partnering the sots and lechers among the company.”

  He was gruff. Widowers, even widowers who did not limp, might be gruff, but this was… needling.

  “If I refuse a gentleman a dance without cause, then I must sit out the rest of the evening, my lord. What purpose is there in attending such a gathering, if not to dance?”

  Another glance, somewhat measuring. “What purpose, indeed?”

  Eve realized her rudeness too late. “I apologize, my lord, but do I surmise you choose not to dance rather than that you cannot dance?”

  His expression softened, making him look for a moment almost wistful. “With the right woman, I dance well enough, as your sister can attest. Shall we avail ourselves of the terrace?”

  The ballroom was stifling, the noise oppressive, and supper had only just been served. “Thank you. That would be lovely.”

  He paused by the punch bowls to fetch them each a drink, then led Eve from the ballroom to the torch-lit terrace where two other couples were in desultory conversation by the balustrade.

  “Shall we sit, Lady Eve?”

  “Nothing would be more welcome.”

  She chose a bench against the wall of the building, one more in shadow than torchlight. Kesmore held their drinks while Eve arranged her skirts, then came down beside her with a sigh.

  “I am not an adept dancer, mind you, but prior to my marriage I was damned if I’d sit about with the dowagers as if longing for my Bath chair. So I learned to stand and aggravate my deuced knee and grow blasted irascible as a result. Apologies for my language.”

  “His Grace can be much more colorful than that.”

  Kesmore peered at their drinks. “Suppose he can. Would you like the spiked version or the unspiked one? I warn you, I’ll poison the nearest hedge with the unspiked one if that’s the one you leave me.”

  Eve resisted the urge to study him more closely but found his lack of pretense a relief. This was the man who’d captured Louisa’s heart, though nobody had quite figured out how.

  “May I have one sip of the spiked variety? A lady grows curious, after all.”

  This earned her another of those amused, unsmiling expressions. He passed over a glass, which allowed Eve to note the earl’s hands were bare. “Slowly, my lady. Our hosts are gracious with their offerings.”

  She slipped off her gloves and took a drink from the proffered glass.

  “Merciful… My goodness. How do you gentlemen remain standing?”

  He passed her the other glass, though she just held it while the burn in her vitals muted to a rosy glow.

  “Some of us don’t remain standing, at least not much past midnight. One has to wonder what you were about, Lady Eve, to stand up with Enderbend this late in the evening.”

  He sounded almost as if he were scolding her, which was a considerable margin beyond a passing spate of gruffness.

  “My choice of dance partners should be no concern of yours, my lord.” She spoke as gently as she could, telling herself Kesmore’s leg was hurting him, and he’d very likely been dragged to the evening’s gathering as a function of Louisa’s continuing loyalty to her unmarried sisters.

  “I am not concerned, exactly. One more sip?” He held up his glass of punch.

  “Perhaps one more.” It was a lovely, fruity concoction, and his lordship had spok
en nothing but the truth regarding their host’s hospitality, for the punch was cold, even at this advanced hour.

  And yet it warmed nicely, in small sips.

  Eve pondered that contradiction while she took yet another sip.

  “I apologize if it seems I chide you for your choice of partner, Lady Eve, but I have little to do at these engagements save observe the company in all its folly. I cannot think you harbor any serious attachment to these buffoons you stand up with, and yet you are comely, well dowered, and of marriageable age. Also very consistent in your behaviors.”

  He was leading up to something, so Eve let him natter on. If she was going to be subjected to some avuncular lecture, she might at least enjoy his punch while she did.

  “I note you allow I’m comely.”

  “Quite, though you hardly use it to your advantage, which I also note to be part of your pattern. Though I am loathe to pry, I am a gentleman, and I account myself at least on friendly terms with Their Graces, so I will be blunt: Are you in need of a friend, Lady Eve?”

  She stared at her drink—his drink, what remained of it—and tried to puzzle out what he was asking. “Everybody needs friends.”

  Did Kesmore have friends? She’d never had occasion to wonder. She suspected Louisa was his friend—an odd and vaguely disquieting notion.

  Did Deene have friends? As the punch brought a little sense of relaxation to go with the warmth coursing through her veins, Eve tried to recall if she’d ever seen Lucas out among his fellows, riding in a group in the park or sharing the top of a coach with a few other men at some race meet.

  Kesmore took the drink from her hand. “I will regard your answer as a ladylike affirmative and presume to offer myself in that humble capacity. Let’s sit a few more minutes before we subject ourselves to the company inside once more.”

  While the couples ten yards away continued to chatter, and the throng in the ballroom started up a waltz, Eve wrinkled her nose at her unspiked drink and tried to fathom what on earth could have prompted Kesmore’s peculiar offer.