Between the Devil and Ian Eversea: Pennyroyal Green Series

by Long, Julie Anne

  “What are your interests and pursuits, Miss Danforth?” This came from Colin. It was a subject change, but his eyes held a promising sparkle.

  “Oh, I’ve become a bit of a wallflower, I’m afraid. I’m looking forward to learning what the natives of Sussex enjoy.”

  Colin recognized this as flirtation, she could tell. This one was a rogue, or once had been.

  “Colin likes cows,” Chase said abruptly, irritably. “Very, very much.”

  “Cows . . .” Tansy mused. “Well, I can think of few things more fulfilling than raising a bovine to adulthood,” she said.

  There was an astonished hush.

  Colin looked as though he was torn between thinking this was balderdash and wondering whether he cared whether it was or not, since it was precisely what he wanted to hear.

  “Miss Danforth, have you ever traveled to the East Indies?” Chase interjected. It sounded almost experimental.

  She swiveled her head toward him. “I haven’t had the pleasure yet, but I imagine working for the East India Company is so dashing. The two of you must be very talented. I hope you’ll tell me more about it during my stay.”

  She beamed at them.

  And everyone could see the moment when Colin and Chase surrendered to the big eyes and eyelashes and the smile and they glowed.

  There was another almost palpable hush.

  And then Chase and Colin began talking over each other about cows and the East India Company until the footman brought in the blancmange.

  Chapter 5

  “WALLFLOWER MY EYE!” OLIVIA said to Genevieve after dinner. She perched at the edge of Genevieve’s bed and rubbed her ankle. “So much kicking and poking going on beneath the table tonight! Will we need to edit our conversation forever while she’s here? ‘I can’t think of anything more rewarding than raising a bovine to adulthood.’ Honestly! And it’s not like she won’t see Ian at some point. We can’t disguise his existence forever. She may not find him in the least appealing when she does. She’s such a young thing, and Ian can be such a jade.”

  Genevieve hesitated. The ironic parting words of Tansy’s paid chaperone, “Good luck yer Grace,” echoed in her mind.

  She judiciously decided not to share this with Olivia. Not yet, anyway.

  “Well, we shan’t be sharing every meal with her. I think she’s charming. She’s alone in the world and I think she’s only trying to please. She’s just as charming to everyone, including me, and she’ll be that way to you, too, if you give her a chance.”

  Genevieve was magnanimous in happiness and love and prepared to be blinkered and loyal to a reminder of something her husband cherished from his past.

  “We shall see,” Olivia said to the mirror. Love had been less kind to her, and she would never trust easily again.

  AFTER A BRIEF dash to her room to pinch her cheeks and bite her lips and shake out her dress after sitting for dinner, Tansy ventured toward the ballroom.

  She arrived on the threshold just as an excellent orchestra launched into a reel. And suddenly it felt as though her heart had been lifted up and twirled.

  Lively music was very close to perfect happiness. Her life for so long had been full of movement, none of it particularly pleasant, none of it her choice. Tonight she would love to lose herself in one dance after another, like a butterfly flitting from flower to flower.

  She took another tentative step into the room.

  It wasn’t yet crowded. None of the faces she immediately saw were familiar. It was odd to think that by the end of the night they likely would be.

  She took another step into the room. A bit like wading into cool water and becoming accustomed to it, bit by bit.

  She took another step, smiling.

  And then she froze.

  Something terrible happened.

  Her breath left her abruptly, as if she’d been dropped from a great height. Her vision spangled. She gave a half turn and peered over her shoulder, as if expecting to see the assailant who had taken a shovel to her head and utterly scrambled her senses.

  She slowly, cautiously, turned her head again back toward ballroom. Toward that wall.

  Alas, she already knew it wasn’t a shovel assailant. It was much worse.

  It was a man.

  A disturbing, delicious heat rushed over her skin. The entire world amplified inexplicably. Suddenly everything seemed louder and brighter and she was terribly conscious of her limbs, as if they were all newly installed and she would have to relearn how to use them.

  For heaven’s sake. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t seen handsome men before. She’d routinely managed the affections of handsome men with the skill of a puppeteer. And it wasn’t a result of being out of the game, as it were. Giancarlo, handsome as he was, had scarcely raised her pulse.

  What on earth was the difference here, then? Was it the way he held himself, as though the world itself was his to command? The faintly amused, detached expression, as if he intended to use everything and everyone he saw in it as his plaything, and make them like it? The sleek fit of his flawlessly tailored, elegantly simple clothes, which only made her wonder, shockingly, about what he looked like under the clothes? The arrogant profile? His delicious, nearly intimidating height?

  It was all of those things and none of them. All she knew for certain was that it was new, and suddenly she was as blank-minded as a newborn.

  Conscious that she was gawking, she forced herself to look in some other direction, which turned out to be, for some reason, up.

  The only thing of interest on the ceiling was the chandelier, so she feigned wonderstruck admiration.

  When she looked down again, the man was watching her. Clearly puzzled.

  Her heart kicked violently.

  His mouth tilted slightly at the corner, his head inclined in a slight nod, polite, a little indulgent.

  His gaze kept traveling across the room, idly.

  He’d skimmed her. As if she’d been a chair or a chandelier, or, unthinkably . . . a plain girl.

  For the second time in minutes she experienced the shovel sensation.

  A horrifying thought occurred to her: what if she wasn’t considered attractive in England? What if there was something about her features the English found comical? What if golden hair was considered passé? She felt as though the sword had suddenly been flipped from her hand.

  She nearly leaped out of her slippers when someone touched her elbow. She’d forgotten there were other people in the world.

  She whipped her head around again and found Genevieve next to her.

  “Oh, there you are! Good heavens, don’t you look beautiful! Do come with me, Tansy. We’ll have your dance card filled in moments, I assure you.” Genevieve looped her arm companionably through hers and pulled her determinedly away. “And please don’t feel shy. Everyone will be delighted to meet you, I promise you.”

  Tansy allowed herself to be led away, far away, from that man, and as she did, she aimed a smile radiantly, recklessly, across the room, into the crowd. The young man who happened to be standing in the path of it went scarlet, and then his face suffused with yearning and she knew, she felt, him watching her walk away.

  And as she and Genevieve wended through the ballroom, she sensed male heads turning, one by one, like a meadow full of flowers bending in a summer breeze.

  Before the night was over, she’d make that man take notice, too.

  GENEVIEVE LED HER through the crowd, making introductions to young men and young women. A gratifying number of eyes went wide; conversation was stammered; dances were begged. In short, everything was as it should be, and she began to relax and enjoy herself. Stingily, strategically, she gave away just one waltz to a randomly chosen young man, so that all of the others would wonder why she’d chosen him, before she told Genevieve, “All of this conversation has made me a bit thirsty.
Do you think we can visit the punch bowl?”

  She began heading in that direction before Genevieve could reply or effect another meeting.

  The man was still standing alone against the wall, observing the ballroom at large. Time seemed to slow as she approached.

  She watched as if in a dream he straightened, turned, and said, “Well, good evening, Genevieve. Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

  He was on first name terms with the duchess!

  Tansy’s heart was now pounding so hard it sent the blood ringing into her ears.

  Genevieve said, “Miss Danforth, I’d like you to meet my brother, Mr. Ian Eversea. Captain Eversea, since his promotion.”

  Her brother! The brother no one would expound upon!

  Ian. Ian. Ian Ian Ian.

  It wasn’t Lancelot, but it would do.

  His bow, which was graceful, seemed unduly fascinating. She suspected everything he did would be fascinating—yawning, scratching, flicking sand from the corners of his eyes when he woke up in the morning. She found it difficult to imagine him doing anything so very ordinary.

  Up close his face was a bit harder, a bit scarier, and more beautiful. Cheekbones and jaw and brow united in an uncompromising, faceted, diamondlike symmetry. His mouth was elegantly sculpted. His eyes above cheekbones as steep and forbidding as castle walls were blue, amused, ever-so-slightly cynical. He was older than she’d originally thought. He was even larger than she’d originally thought. He had shoulders that went on for eons. And he was able to look at her without scarlet flooding his cheeks, unlike so many other young men.

  All of the things she felt in his presence felt too large to contain, too new to name. And it was this, perhaps, she’d been waiting for her entire life.

  Could this be the balcony man?

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Danforth.”

  His voice was so baritone, resonant, she fancied she could feel it in the pit of her stomach, like a thunderclap. Aristocratic. Warm but not too enthusiastic. Good. Fawners could be tedious.

  And she would see what she could to amplify that enthusiasm.

  It occurred to her then she hadn’t spoken yet. She steeled herself to dazzle.

  “I hope you’ll call me Tansy.”

  Funny. Her voice had emerged sounding surprisingly small.

  He smiled faintly down at her. “Do you?”

  The English all seemed to find this amusing.

  To her shock, she could feel a fresh wave of heat rushing into her cheeks. He was likely looking at a literally scarlet woman.

  She tried a radiant smile. It felt unnatural, as though suddenly twice the usual number of teeth were wedged into her mouth.

  What was the matter with her?

  “My friends do. And I hope we will become friends.”

  “Any friend of my sister’s is a friend of mine.”

  Said with pretty, impartial gravity.

  And the faintest hint of what she suspected was, again, amusement.

  Genevieve made a small sound in her throat. Tansy glanced at her curiously. It sounded almost like skepticism. Perhaps a warning.

  “We’re on a quest to fill Tansy’s dance card with the most splendid dancers, Ian.”

  It sounded very like Genevieve didn’t want to include Ian in that number.

  “I’ve been a bit of a wallflower, I’m afraid.”

  Tansy lowered her gaze demurely. Which gave her a clear view of his hands. Big hands, long straight fingers. A prickle of interesting heat started up at the back of her neck. “I’d be honored if you would dance with me, Mr. Eversea.”

  Very, very bold of her. Quite inadvisable, and yet, she could blame it on American manners, and she knew no English gentleman would be able to refuse.

  She suspected that hadn’t been Genevieve’s intention at all, for whatever reason, but even so.

  She looked up again to find Ian exchanging an unreadable look with Genevieve and mouthing words. They looked like: Must I?

  The. Nerve.

  “It would be my honor and privilege if you would share a waltz with me,” he said solemnly, but with a glint in his blue eyes, which he probably thought was devastating.

  The fact that it was devastating was beside the point. So devastating she nearly forgot he’d just been insufferable.

  As nearly as insufferable as she’d been.

  “I shall look forward to it greatly, Mr. Eversea,” she said just as gravely, as Genevieve towed her away again.

  Chapter 6

  MISS DANFORTH WAS DANCING a quadrille with Simon. The young man looked dumbstruck by his luck, and frequently stumbled over his own feet. Ian would warrant young Simon had danced that particular reel a hundred times in his life if he’d danced it once. Miss Danforth smiled radiantly at him each time he stumbled, as if he’d done it on purpose for her entertainment.

  Ian frowned faintly.

  His sister appeared at his elbow.

  “Good evening, again, Genevieve. Did the dancing exhaust your husband?”

  She rolled her eyes. She was so confident of her husband’s vigor that insults and jests regarding his age rolled off her. “He was pulled into an impromptu meeting. Something regarding an investment he’d like to make.” She paused. “It’s thoughtful of you to be . . . kind . . . to Miss Danforth, Ian.”

  He smiled a slow, grim smile. “So thoughtful of your husband to warn me not to corrupt her.”

  “Oh. Did he?” She didn’t sound surprised, however. “You can see where he might be sensitive on the topic, however.”

  She was teasing him. Mostly. He tried to work up righteous indignation, but it was difficult to remain self-righteous when it came to Genevieve. Especially since she was so happy with the duke that she all but walked about glowing like a medieval saint.

  And also because he wasn’t exactly proud of cuckolding the man with his former fiancée.

  He sighed. “I’m not a corrupter of innocents, Genevieve.” The implication being that the duke’s erstwhile fiancée had hardly been an innocent, and had been rather complicit in the whole episode.

  Genevieve made a noncommittal sound.

  And said nothing for a time.

  And then, “She’s very pretty, Miss Danforth,” she said carefully.

  He sighed. “I suppose she is. Then again, so many women are, to my everlasting gratitude.”

  And, he was certain, Miss Danforth was quite accustomed to being called pretty, quite taken with herself and quite accustomed to wielding her eyelashes and big eyes to get what she wanted from men. Yet she was the veriest child, for all of that. The blushing. The blinding smile. The awkward conversation. He had seen it before, a million times it seemed, and now it distantly amused him, and when he wasn’t in the mood to humor it, it irritated him. It posed no challenge. He had no use for it.

  “How very blasé you are, Ian.”

  “Yes,” he said simply, not in the mood for a lecture.

  He looked about for his brothers, or his cousin Adam or someone who could be persuaded to sneak up to the library to join him in draining his father’s brandy decanters in order to make whatever dancing ensued more interesting for them. He didn’t see any of them. He supposed he’d have to settle for ratafia in the short term.

  “I wish you trusted me, Genevieve.”

  “I wish I did, too,” she said lightly, with a playful little tap of her fan.

  And it wasn’t until then that Ian was certain that she didn’t. Not really.

  It stung a bit, but he supposed he ought not be surprised. He hadn’t earned his reputation as a rogue by not applying himself to the task.

  “Falconbridge is charged with finding a match for her,” his sister said. “Preferably a titled or at least spectacularly wealthy one. Those were the terms of her father’s will.”

  �
�Dukes are hardly thick on the ground, though, are they? Though the Duke de Neauville’s heir is of age, and could use a wife, no doubt. As all heirs do. I’ve spoken to him at White’s. Fine manners. Not too much of an ass. He’s perfectly inoffensive.”

  Genevieve laughed. “I suppose one can do worse than perfectly inoffensive.”

  He shrugged. “My felicitations to Miss Danforth and the poor devil she does marry. Speaking of which, here comes your poor devil.”

  But Genevieve had stopped listening to him, because she’d already seen her husband moving across the crowded ballroom, aiming for her like a ship aims for shore.

  HAVING ABRUPTLY ABANDONED Genevieve for the punch bowl, he gave a start when he saw a pair of eyes peering through a tall potted plant. He leaned closer.

  “Oh, good evening, Miss Charing.”

  “Good evening, Captain Eversea.” Miss Josephine Charing’s china-blue eyes blinked. She was a pretty, garrulous young lady with a big heart and a brain comprised primarily of feathers and air. She was lately engaged to Simon Covington.

  “Is aught amiss? It’s not like you to hide in a corner.”

  “It’s what you do, isn’t it, Mr. Eversea? When too many girls want to dance with you.”

  “Er . . . I may have done, on occasion,” he said carefully, a bit startled. “Sometimes one just likes to take a bit of a rest.”

  “It’s challenging to be beautiful, isn’t it?” she said with an air of wistful authority.

  “I suppose it is.” He was amused. And he was fairly certain Miss Charing had been at the ratafia a bit too enthusiastically. “Why are you behind the plant? Is something troubling you?” He regretted asking immediately. Confidences were the bailiwick of his cousin Adam Sylvaine, the vicar. But Adam wasn’t here. Feminine confidence in particular invariably panicked and baffled Ian. The things women fussed over!

  “Is someone troubling you?” he added, almost hopefully. He could easily dispatch any rogues who might be a little too free with their hands or words. He almost hoped that was the case. He was feeling restless and irritable and wouldn’t have minded taking it out on someone who deserved it.