‘He is certainly all man,’ May murmured appreciatively. ‘Just look at that swagger.’ Against her better judgement, Evie’s eyes drifted down to his open-hipped stroll, which bordered on decadent. Even his walk was exotic. Good heavens, she really had to find a new word. He was handsome. Perhaps if she wasn’t focused on Andrew, she might find him attractive in a more personal way. For now, though, the attraction was limited to his mannerisms, his fashion. She truly did admire his clothes. Even if she didn’t have her heart set on Andrew, admiring the prince’s clothes was all a girl like her could do. One only had to look at him, so confident, so handsome, so male, and then look at her to know she never stood a chance. She wasn’t the type who caught princes. She was too odd. London had taught her that in the most brutal way possible.
‘Miss Milham, good day.’ The Prince gave a short bow in greeting. ‘What a pleasure to encounter you.’ Evie was aware of Beatrice and May exchanging quiet looks. Her usually confident friends seemed daunted by his presence.
Evie dipped a curtsy. ‘Your Highness, may I introduce my friends? This is Miss May Worth and Miss Beatrice Penrose.’
He greeted each in turn, taking their hands and smiling at them, his eyes as warm and genuine as they’d been last night, proof that she’d been right. These rituals were mere politeness to him. They meant nothing. He asked how they were enjoying the weather and enquired about their errands, making small talk, doing the work of putting them at ease. He must do it all the time, Evie realised, watching the interaction. Everywhere he went, people were probably in awe of him, in awe of being in the company of a royal prince. Did he ever get tired of the effort?
Then he was talking to her and she forgot her speculations. ‘It’s quite fortuitous that I’ve run into you, Miss Milham. I was hoping to take you up on the offer to view your tapestry. I regret we did not get to speak of it more in depth last night.’
Evie blushed under the weight of Bea’s and May’s stares. They were wondering what she hadn’t told them. ‘You are welcome to view it any time. Someone is always at home,’ Evie managed. Beside her, May straightened, her posture becoming alert. That worried her. Apparently, May had overcome any self-consciousness.
‘Tomorrow,’ May interjected with a smile to the Prince. ‘You should come tomorrow to view the tapestry. Evie is always home on Tuesdays in the afternoon and the light in the tapestry room is very good around one o’clock.’ Oh, sweet heavens, May had invited the Prince to her house! Had, in fact, all but begged him to come over. Even for May, this bordered on mortifying. Evie was suddenly wishing the Prince had been a little more awe-inspiring.
‘May—’ Evie tried to mitigate her friend’s boldness. The poor man would feel trapped. ‘He might be busy.’
But the Prince took May’s boldness in his stride. He didn’t sound trapped. ‘One o’clock it is.’ He looked in her direction. ‘If that is acceptable to you, Miss Milham?’
May’s foot came down on hers under their skirts before she could think of politely refusing. Evie heard herself squeak, ‘One o’clock would be fine,’ before the Prince smiled once more and continued down the street.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Evie whirled on May the moment the Prince was out of sight. ‘You invited a foreign dignitary to my house! My house. You don’t even live there. Since when do you invite guests to other people’s homes?’
May gave a smug laugh, unfazed by the outburst. Evie was envious of that laugh, that confidence. Nothing bothered May, not even a flagrant disregard for the rules. ‘Since you started passing up perfectly good opportunities to spend time with handsome men.’ May pulled her into a quiet side street. ‘He was angling for an invitation and you were prevaricating with your generic responses. “Come over any time,”’ May mimicked.
‘I didn’t want him to feel coerced.’ Evie folded her arms over her chest in defence.
‘Oh, I assure you, he wasn’t feeling coerced. He was running wild and free with no fences in sight,’ May replied, blowing out a frustrated breath. ‘Evie, a handsome man who is also a royal, foreign prince wanted to come to your house. How many times do you think that happens, especially in West Sussex?’
‘To see a tapestry,’ Evie reminded her.
May was undaunted. ‘Who cares about the reason why? He’s still coming.’
‘I’m not interested in him that way,’ Evie explained patiently. ‘I’m interested in Andrew.’ She didn’t need to catch a prince, nor did she want to. Her sights were firmly set on Andrew Adair. Besides, what would a man like the Prince—a dashing, well-travelled, sensual man—do with a girl like her who’d never been out of England? It seemed an exercise in futility to even imagine it; a very warm exercise that she had no business entertaining in broad daylight on a village street.
‘Let me try, May.’ Beatrice stepped up. ‘Evie, dear, you can use the Prince as leverage. Men are competitive creatures.
‘Once Andrew sees another man interested in you, it will pique his own curiosity, especially if that man is a royal prince and a friend. Andrew will wonder what he’s been missing.’
‘And he’ll make the effort to find out?’ Evie supplied the rest. She beamed at her friends. Perhaps May’s plan was pure genius after all. ‘What would I do without you? I’m so glad you’re here.’ She paused and gasped as a sudden thought hit her. ‘You will come tomorrow, won’t you? Both of you? You’ll know what to say, what to do. You know what my father will be like. He’ll go on and on about King Arthur and all of his books far longer than is decent and my mother will be so overset about a prince coming to visit, she’ll spend the afternoon on the fainting couch or pestering the cook for perfection.’ Her parents were good people, but they were not social people. Entertaining was not their strong suit. ‘I can’t possibly face the Prince alone.’
There was no rush of assurances. She had the sense again that something was wrong. Bea and May exchanged another of those looks between them. They’d been doing that a lot today. May took her hand, her blue eyes serious. ‘We’d love to be there, but I’m afraid we can’t make it.’ She flicked a glance at Bea and Beatrice nodded. ‘We are leaving tomorrow for Scotland.’
‘Tomorrow!’ Evie protested. ‘But you’ve barely arrived?’ She looked at Bea. ‘What has happened? We were supposed to have two weeks.’
Bea’s hand went protectively to her stomach. When she pressed like that, catching the fabric so that it was flat against her body, her stomach looked larger, the pregnancy more advanced. ‘I’m showing sooner than expected.’ She bit her lip.
Evie felt immediately selfish. ‘I can let out some more dresses for you. We can do it this afternoon.’ She’d been altering Bea’s clothes for her since the spring, using her needle to keep Bea’s pregnancy discreet.
‘That’s sweet of you, Evie, but no.’ Bea gave a sad smile and shook her head. ‘My parents would be more comfortable knowing I’m safe in Scotland before any speculation begins.’ That was putting a polite trim on it, Evie thought. Beatrice’s parents were worried about scandal more than they were worried about their daughter’s safety.
Beatrice put a brave face on. ‘Besides, if I’m showing so soon the baby might be early, it might be twins. It will be good to be away and settled before too much longer.’ She meant before November, when the baby was due. Late autumn didn’t seem so far away when one looked at it like that. In less than four months Beatrice would be a mother. Alone. Evie glanced at May. No, not alone. ‘You’re going with her?’
‘Yes.’ May’s eyes met hers in a silent plea for understanding. Evie nodded. Beatrice needed May more now than she did.
‘I’m glad you’ll be with her.’ It was the truth. Beatrice shouldn’t be alone. If her family refused to be there to help her through the birth, then her friends definitely should be. She wasn’t sure how May had arranged it, but it did bring her a sense of comfort to know May would be the
re.
Beatrice reached for her other hand. ‘We are sorry to leave you, Evie. But I think May has set you on a path towards success.’ The words offered a new light to May’s bold gesture. It had been a parting gift. May had pushed her towards her future with the invitation to the Prince.
The import of that didn’t escape her. They weren’t the Left Behind Girls Club any more. Claire had Jonathon. Beatrice would have May and the new baby. Everyone was moving forward. For the first time since their childhood days, Evie was on her own.
Chapter Four
Dimitri strolled promptly down Evie’s drive at half-past one the next day, admiring the haphazard compilation of bricks and time that was the Milhams’ house. Definitely Elizabethan, he concluded, in its initial construction. He could make out the symmetry of the era in the roofline. He squinted up against the sun to take a more professional interest in the house. An archaeologist was part-historian, part-architect and part-expert in a host of other subjects as well. He picked out a few themes with his keen eye. There was a nod to early Georgian in the pediment above the front door.
That pediment was likely the most recent addition to the house’s eclectic architecture. From the state of the front gardens, the latest generation hadn’t paid much attention to the external state of the house. He strode along a gravel drive where flowers grew in wild anarchy alongside, having long ago given up any adherence to the limits of the beds they’d been planted in. There were no boundaries here, none of the order of the organised, ornamental gardens of Kuban, modelled on the tamed excellence of Versailles. There were no pruned hedges or carefully shaped bushes. Yet, the look suited the place much better. Many back home would disagree with him, would give such wild nature a disparaging glance. He found it charming, a peaceful haven. He wondered what the Kuban nobility would do if he replicated such a style at his home.
The housekeeper answered his knock and he stepped inside, his senses taking it all in with the astute eye of an archaeologist trained to look for patterns and behaviours: books stacked on consoles in the hallway, books lining shelves in every room the housekeeper took him past, some books lying open. The interior matching the exterior perfectly. The occupants of this house had far more important priorities than landscaping. They lived an internal life of the mind.
‘I’ll let Miss Milham know you’re here.’ The housekeeper left him in a cheery yellow sitting room, where more books populated the walls and a small, cosy cluster of furniture upholstered in yellow-and-rose chintz resided in the wide bow of the windows.
A housekeeper. Dimitri smiled at her departure. No stodgy butlers here. A housekeeper had received a Prince of Kuban and had no true notion of who had just walked into the house. He liked the novelty of that anonymity. Everyone fussed over him as if he were more special than the next man. But here, in the Milhams’ household, he sensed he might be able to move past that. Andrew’s words drifted back to him: She’s not rich enough. The Milhams did not keep a full complement of staff, perhaps for multiple reasons. Perhaps it was financial, or perhaps they understood every servant was another responsibility, one more acquired burden, an anchor against freedom. Dependents were both a blessing and a curse.
‘You came.’
He turned, catching the sound of surprise in Evie’s voice. She looked cool and fresh in a white summer muslin sprigged with tiny blue forget-me-nots. Blue was definitely her colour. It brought out the auburn highlights in her hair, turning it more chestnut than brown. They’d not been obvious at the assembly. Dimitri smiled. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t?’ He spoke the words without thinking, the teasing, flirtatious response coming easily to his practised wit. This was how urbane princes interacted with women. He was curious as to how Evie Milham would respond. How would his hypothesis play out now that they were alone, away from a crowd where she felt self-conscious? He told himself it was no more than simply his usual ‘excavation’ of a person, of taking their measure, yet a part of him was on edge, wanting her to make a certain response, wanting her to come alive for him.
She blushed a little, but she did not shrink from being direct. ‘I didn’t want you to feel trapped. I feared May pushed the appointment on you.’
‘I wouldn’t miss it.’ He was touched. She’d been advocating for him. She’d been trying to protect him. It was a very small protection to be sure. In a life spent protecting others he simply wasn’t used to it being the other way around. ‘Many people would not hesitate to use any means necessary to capture a prince’s time.’ He probed carefully. It was true. One woman had followed him to the privy and locked the door.
‘I think you’ll find I’m not like most people.’ Another sort of woman would have made the line into a not so cleverly veiled invitation. Not Miss Milham. Was that a warning? A hint of regret? Why ever would she want to be like others?
He was counting on her assessment to be correct. ‘I find the “usual” holds little fascination for me.’ His own voice was low, issuing a private invitation of his own, his eyes holding hers, daring her not to look away. He should not wish for such a thing. Nothing but trouble could come from it. But he couldn’t stop himself from wanting it anyway. Come to life for me, Evie Milham. I know you’re in there. Don’t be afraid.
There it was. Her steady gaze, her answer. She did not look away. He gestured to the wall of books, looking for a subject to put her at ease. Now that he had her this far, he didn’t want her intimidated. ‘Have you read all of these?’
‘Some.’
He was going to have to work harder. He wanted to assure her his title meant nothing. He was as ordinary as the next man, at least he wanted to be. No one needed to stand on ceremony with him. He’d never get to know her secrets otherwise, secrets he had no business knowing, no need to know.
‘Which ones? Which ones have you read?’ He grinned. It was a preposterous question. There were over a hundred books right in front of him. He plucked a book at random from the shelf. ‘How about this one? A History of the West Country by Pieter von Alpers? He’s not even a good Englishman from the sounds of his name.’ The comment made her laugh and that was what he intended.
‘He’s Dutch.’ Evie smiled, letting it light her face. ‘Sometimes it helps to see one’s own history through the eyes of another. My father says it brings new perspective. But, no, I haven’t read that one.’
She was starting to relax. He could see now that she wasn’t shy as he’d first thought, but merely wary. This was a learned behaviour, acquired at some point. This was her attempt to protect herself. From what? From whom? He tucked the new piece of information away.
Evie ran her hand over the book spines on the shelves, coming to stop on one of them. ‘I’ve read this one.’ She handed it to him. ‘He has an especially interesting interpretation of early Saxon history.’ He smiled appreciatively. Evie Milham was a historian. How intriguing. He didn’t meet many women who were or who would admit to it.
‘Like father like daughter? I’d like to meet your father some time. I could use a local historian’s help on my project. I was surprised Andrew didn’t include him in the initial circle of investors for the site. By the way, is he joining us today?’ Was anyone joining them? He could hardly believe someone wasn’t chaperoning and yet it appeared the Milhams’ casual approach to living extended to their daughter, who was apparently allowed to meet men unattended. He thought it seemed somehow disrespectful of them to leave her alone no matter how honourable his intentions were.
‘Are you worried for your reputation?’ There was a shade of worry in her eyes that was entirely sincere. Other women would have delivered the line with a flirty laugh. He knew plenty of those women. But Evie Milham was not one of them. She was genuinely sympathetic. ‘Shall I call someone?’ She was flustered again and it was his fault. In an attempt to honour her, he’d managed to insult her.
Dimitri chuckled, trying to put her at ease. He’d not m
eant to upset her any more than he’d meant to insult her. ‘Are you worried for yours?’
‘You’re here to view a tapestry, not ravish me.’ Evie scoffed. He heard the hint of sorrow, or was that resignation, again?
‘Are you sure about that?’ he teased, although he wasn’t sure it was entirely a joke on his part. Evie Milham was ravish-worthy, with her glorious hair and that carefully guarded smile, especially when she wasn’t doubting herself, when she was letting her real self out to play as she had when they’d discussed the history books.
She smiled, but there was a shadow in her eyes now. ‘I’ve had years to be quite sure of that, Your Highness.’ He understood. She thought he was embarrassed to be alone with her, maybe even ashamed to be seen with her. The realisation gave him pause. Where had she ever acquired such a belief about herself? Was this where the wariness came from? He would have to work harder to put her at ease, to convince her she had nothing to fear from him.
‘Call me Dimitri. Please,’ he urged, refusing to remark on that shadow for fear she would see any encouragement he offered as pity. ‘We’re a thousand miles from Kuban. I hardly feel like a prince this far from home.’ He liked it that way. The further from Kuban he got, the easier it was to forget he was a prince, the easier it was to live simply, to be a man only, not a title he’d acquired by an accident of birth. If only others felt that way too. Unfortunately, they were all too keen to remind him of the chasm that separated him from other men.
Evie took the invitation as he’d hoped. ‘All right, then, Dimitri, the tapestry is this way.’ She led them through a warren of hallways to a gallery that ran the length of the back of the house. The tapestry was easy to spot. It was of considerable size and hung in the centre of the left wall in a large glass frame. Even with the glass protecting it, Dimitri could tell it was of fine and authentic quality. He stepped towards it, unable to resist doing anything else, drawn to the vibrant hues of blue, red and orange. ‘This is remarkably well preserved...’ he breathed in real appreciation, letting his eyes roam the story of the tapestry. ‘Arthur’s wedding to Guinevere, if I’m not mistaken.’
AWAKENING THE SHY MISS Page 3
