Part 1
Chapter 1
“Where both deliberate, the love is slight:
Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight?"
Christopher Marlowe
Half Moon Street
London, England
April 1884
“Who?” Evelyn Preston’s jaw sagged in an unbecoming fashion before she snapped it shut and nearly screeched through her clenched teeth. “You want me to marry whom?”
“Now dear,” her mother responded while calmly spreading jam on her morning toast. “You know Lord Hindon. His father, the earl,” a small smile played on her lips, “owns a shipping office here in London and in Liverpool. You met him last fall in New York as well, don’t you recall? He and the earl visited us there when the earl was investing with your father.”
“Yes, I’ve met him.” Evelyn countered. “Indeed, I’ve met him several times. But I don’t know him.” Evelyn had known for most of her life that the choice of husband would never be her own. She had accepted the fact without argument. What she had not anticipated was that the time would come so quickly or that the choice made for her would be a man she barely knew.
For Mrs. Preston, to be certain, such an engagement would be a triumph when news reached New York. Her daughter would become a countess when the current earl had the courtesy to pass on. Other Society matrons, each one who secretly prayed for such a title for their own daughters, would be green with envy.
Her father, however, who had pampered and spoiled her through her entire life had promised her a man she could like and respect and she had believed in his assurances. All the faith and trust she had placed in him to see to her future happiness seemed to have been wasted. Blast it, Eve had assumed that her parents would at least ask her opinion of the intended groom.
“So just like that you pick a man out of the crowd for me?” Evelyn’s hands knotted in her napkin as a sickening dread settled in her stomach. “Just like that it’s done without even mentioning it to me? Without letting him ask me? Without asking me if I even like the fellow?”
“You seemed to like him very well at the last three balls we’ve attended,” Mrs. Preston commented. “You liked him well enough to attend the opera with him. You even danced with him twice at the Fernel dinner last week.”
“You practically accepted that second dance for me, if you recall.”
“Kindly mind your tone, Evelyn,” her mother chided.
Eve ignored the reprimand and surged on. “And if you were so certain that I fancied him, then why not ask me?” She turned to her father for support. “Da!”
“Evie, darlin’ girl,” Lelan Preston sat forward taking her hand. “I asked your mother whom you had favored over the past months, she told me and I checked them all out. Hindon is the one I choose based on several factors and it is done.” He rose, kissing her cheek and patting her hand.
“Several factors?” Eve sputtered. “What factors?”
“Family and expectations. Also, as I promised, he is young…”
“He’s nearly forty!”
“…he’s presentable and of good character. He has had a hand in his father’s shipping interests and therefore should be capable of looking after ours. He will do well for you and you for him. Be happy now.” Preston patted his older daughter’s cheek affectionately. “You’ll have everything you and your mother have always wanted.”
“What I have wanted? Whom I favored? I don’t favor anyone! And I never wanted to come here in the first place! You know that!” she yelled pushing back from the table. “Da! You promised to find me someone I liked! I trusted you! Well, you can’t make me do it!” Evelyn turned and raced from the room almost snarling when she heard her mother mildly comment to her father, “That’s a fine Irish temper you’ve given your daughter, Lelan.”
Evelyn nearly ran into her sister, Katherine, as she charged into the foyer. “I’d be careful going in there if I were you, Kitty, you might just find yourself married off before you can blink.”
“Evie! What happened?”
Leaving her sister openmouthed, Evelyn grabbed the front door handle and wrenched it open. Bixby, the butler, stared at her aghast. “But, Miss, your hat…”
Evelyn grabbed one from the bench near the door. “I’ve got the damn hat, Bixby!”
There was a rage boiling up in Eve. A fine rage the likes of which London had seen in few women and certainly not in any of their own ladies of Quality. Evelyn Preston, however, was not an English lady of the ton. She was an American and her father Irish. The combination made for an unusually volatile temper and she was about to display it to the whole of London.
Slamming the door of her family’s rented townhouse on Half Moon Street in the fashionable Mayfair district, Evelyn glared back at the butler who opened it again behind her and frowned on her with clear disapproval. He closed it again with deliberate softness as she stomped down the steps. Evelyn slapped the ridiculously large hat her mother had insisted she buy on top of her head. She stomped down Half Moon Street, heading nowhere as anger and frustration flooded her. Muttering curses under her breath against her hat, her parents and the whole of England, she continued to stalk along readjusting the tilting millinery every few steps with no regard to where she was heading.
Yes, Eve internally acknowledged with a grunt as she clumped along, she had come to London accepting that the basic ideal held by the matrons of New York’s social register, though perhaps never admitted aloud, was that the greatest measure of ranking among the matrons of Knickerbocker Society is not Fortune or Family but whether they are able to engage their daughters to marry into the nobility of a foreign country. Gaining an English title, for example, for their American offspring enabled any New York Society lady to rise exponentially in the eyes of the other matrons.
And, yes, she accepted with an audible screech of frustration, that her mother, Mrs. Lelan Preston of 5th Avenue Manhattan, a cousin of the noble Astors, had followed the example of other ladies in the highest societies of New York, Philadelphia and Boston who had brought their daughters overseas to barter them and their wealth for a title and prestige. Most aspired for the rank of duchess for their daughters, of course, but regrettably, there were simply not enough dukes of marriageable circumstance in all of England to make every mother happy. An earl or marquis might do in a pinch.
Following suit, Mrs. Preston had ferried Evelyn and her sister Katherine, across the ocean to London to be presented to Queen Victoria and to serve for the Season as debutantes of the ton. The Preston girls were possessed of beauty and charm and a small link to the nobility - their father was the second son of an Irish viscount - helped somewhat to establish them in that fickle society. However, what had truly opened the doors to them in the end was that they were possessed of the title heiress.
Once it had been accurately ascertained that Evelyn and Katherine were the offspring of the Lelan Preston, of shipping and railroad fortune, doors throughout the city were flung open in welcome. The ton could not imagine letting such wealth stay in America. After all, old titles often needed an infusion of new wealth.
So much to Eve’s chagrin, for the last three months, the two Preston girls had been paraded from dinner to ball to house party, courted by the most eligible bachelors – young, old, rake and recluse – Society had to offer. Proposals had been so plentiful that some whispered the sheer number to be simply indecent. Eve had heard that gossip easily since it had clearly been spoken loud enough for her to overhear.
The proposers quickly discovered, however, that the girls themselves were not the ones to propose to, but rather their mother and father. Their mother to ascertain if the proposer’s title was worthy and their father to negotiate the price of said title.
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And finally, yes damn it, she now cursed aloud as she rained profanities down on everything she could think of, Evelyn and her sister Katherine both conceded that they would have little to say regarding whom they would wed. Given the wealth from which they were sprung and the society from which they hailed, they understood the responsibility for choosing a proper mate had never in actuality been in their hands. Evelyn had always regarded their mother’s ambition for title with amusement and tolerance. At the same time, she trusted that their father would find for them a husband who was reasonably young and attractive, of good character and intelligent enough not to mismanage the incredible fortunes which would one day be theirs. It was a promise that Lelan Preston had made to them at the start of their journey and Evelyn had trusted him enough to carry it out.
A wave of disbelief swept over her again as she recalled her father’s role in this travesty. Yes, travesty! Her beloved Da who had done little but indulge her and spoil her since birth! This man, whom she trusted in all things. Tears of frustration burned her eyes. Eve angrily dashed a hand across them raising her face to the sky searching for understanding.
Why would he do this to her? Her heart cried out just as she walked straight into a wall - or what felt like a wall - the force of which sent her to the cobbles, painfully on her backside and palms before she had chance to take a breath. Her skirts flounced back to above her ankles, her hat deserted her once again.
Brushing off her hands, she turned to reach for the offensive thing as a large male hand scooped it up. Her eyes rose to meet an amused olive green gaze.
Chapter 2
Just like that, for the first time in her life, her breath was taken away.
Strange, Eve had always thought that it was just an expression one’s breath being taken away. “Oh my,” she whispered, her hand fluttering to her breast where her heart was suddenly pounding fast and hard. “Oh, my Lord.” Ripping her gaze from those compelling eyes was the hardest thing she had ever done in her life, but she did. She closed her eyes taking several deep calming breaths though it did little good against the rapid tattoo of her heart. She opened them again.
With her characteristic boldness, her eyes started at the feet that were planted in front of her and up the long, muscular calves and thighs that were molded in crisply creased gray trousers. Her gaze slid past his narrow waist, up his broad chest and finally rested on his face. Her eyes became a caress as they followed his eyes, his brow, the plains of his cheeks and unfashionably clean-shaven jaw before coming to rest on his lips. They were firm but full and currently tilted up at one corner in a half-grin revealing white teeth that contrasted against his swarthy complexion. That lopsided smile prompted her heartbeat to race even more.
Why, he was so beautiful! She’d not realized that a man could be so. And she’d never before imagined that a man's lips could appear so…so tempting! She wondered what it would be like to kiss him. Eve knew she should be shocked by the thought and just as quickly realized that she was not.
Francis MacKintosh stared down at the young miss sprawled at his feet. She had come to his attention just minutes before when he was stepping out from his grandparent’s townhouse on Half Moon Street. A shrill female voice and a slamming door sounded from down the street calling his interest. He had identified the source of the disturbance as this young woman waving her fist at a butler as he closed the door to a townhouse just four doors up toward the park. If the volume of her voice alone had not caught his attention, the sheer energy and ire that radiated from her body would have done so just as quickly.
As she had forged down the street in his direction, her preposterously large brimmed, ornate hat, which should have perched daintily on her coiffure, slipped from one side and then to the other, then to the front and then the rear as she caught it again and again crushing it upon her head with a vehemence that might have vanquished lesser millinery.
Fascinated, he had watched her as she approached – or actually stomped – up the street without even a maid in attendance. Unusual that. No debutante he knew of would have dared to walk a public street alone. Whether she was aware of that social faux pas or not, within moments he could hear her faint expletives drifting up the street toward him that would surely oust her from Society’s good graces if they were to be heard by another. As she approached, they articulated into creative and fluent curses against parents, men and the whole of England. She was clearly in a pique that wasn’t to be quashed merely by the strict rules of etiquette if she felt no need to contain such vocal disparagements against her neighbors.
A grin tugged at one corner of his mouth as he recalled her creative language. Clearly no London lass with that mouth! Her long, mannish strides had marched her straight toward him, without pause or hesitation, cursing at the ground and sky without awareness of her surroundings.
She had walked right into him before he’d even had the chance to realize two things. One, that for all his notice of her, she hadn’t seen him. And two, because of that, she didn’t intend to stop.
Bending to retrieve her hat, Francis stared down at the lady before him. His attention shifted from her aura of ire as a new awareness developed. By God, but she was extraordinarily lovely! The absence of her hat revealed dark blond hair that shone with honey gold highlights in the sun and a face kissed by the sun and angels. Her features were smooth, her skin creamy with just a spot of color high on her cheeks that gave away her temper. Full, pink lips held a quirk of innocence that belied the words recently poured from them. Her green morning gown – hardly appropriate wear for an outing - was the very height of fashion and molded to every curve of her willowy figure.
Lovely, he thought. A vision of beauty and temper. He was drawn to both in a way that was disarming and inappropriate for a Tuesday morning stroll in Mayfair.
Francis watched her arresting bright green eyes make a quick study of him and physically felt where they settled. His lips tingled suddenly surprising him. Lust blossomed and his heart raced as her tongue darted out to wet her lips. There he was in the middle of the street squatted on his haunches before the most entrancing girl he had ever seen holding a most ridiculously large hat. Lusting as he had never lusted in his life. Staring as if he had never before seen a female.
And being stared at as if she had never seen a man.
It was but a moment and yet an eternity before he could summon the wherewithal to put together a coherent sentence.
“May I assist you, lass?” His voice was deep and husky with a touch of an accent Eve couldn’t immediately identify.
She blinked. “Well, I suppose so.” Eve recovered herself and took the bare hand he held out, but the lightning that passed through their contact startled her so that she snatched back her hand as if burnt and fell back on to her rear once more. She stared up at him in wonder. Well, that had never happened before!
Puzzled, she took his hand again intrigued now by the unusual electric warmth of his touch and rose to her feet, shaking her skirts out until they fell back to her ankles. Rubbing her tingling fingers together as he released her, Eve felt a burst of annoyance that he should affect her so and yet look merely amused in turn. She held out her hand. “May I have my hat back?”
Francis nearly chuckled at her surly tone, unable to rein in the pure delight that chased through him as he watched her. Clearly her fall had not diminished her temper. “You mean this hat?” He turned it over in his hands. “It’s an intriguing piece of millinery.”
“Honestly, it’s hideous, I know, but I’m supposed to wear the damned thing because I’m outside and heaven forbid we should go outside without a damn hat.” Enthralled by her ire and a bit startled yet charmed by her candor and use of language, Francis watched her fling her arm back up the street.
“Well, by all means then, let us put the hat back on.” Still smiling, he carefully set the hat up atop her loosely styled hair, settling it into place. “Have you no hat pin?”
“No, I lost it yesterday afternoon.�
� She was still mulish in her response. “It’s fine, may I pass now?”
“Pass?” the insanely good-natured man chuckled again.
“Yes, you know? Pass? As in go by.” She made a walking motion with two fingers and pointed down the street.
Never had Francis been so captivated in his whole life and, considering his long-standing opinion of ‘ladies’ as the spawn of Satan, was quite intrigued by his attraction. “Lass, you’re walking unchaperoned and unescorted. You could be accosted by any ruffian on the street. Please, allow me the pleasure?” He cocked his arm at her. “May I be of service?”
“And you may be a ruffian yourself,” she pointed out with a shake of her head. “I don’t need an escort. I just need my hat to stay on my head.”
“Lass, what a charming creature you are. You are smart-mouthed and saucy, very intriguing.”
Evelyn stared up at him, strangely pleased by his comment and bemused by the novelty of her response. Normally she didn’t care a fig what anyone thought of her. It was a quality that tended to terrify new acquaintances or at least put them off her company, yet this man only waited with a genial half-smile and sparkling eyes. His dark hair lifted away from his brow in the breeze. Her fingers itched to reach out and touch it. He did not follow the current mode of heavily pomaded hair, a fact which Eve appreciated. And as attractive and well-dressed as he was, he didn’t show any of the scorn that many in this high-tiered society had shown when faced with one of her frequent faux pas. In fact, he actually seemed to…like it? Fascinating, indeed, she thought, barely noticing as an elegant town carriage came to a halt next to them.
The accompanying footman jumped down as the door swung open and a deep male voice commanded firmly from inside, “Get in, Evelyn.”
A Question of Love Page 1
