A Duke For Lady Eve (Belles 0f Christmas Book 5)

by Kasey Stockton

  Sanders shot Alverton a look above Mrs. Rowe’s head. Guilt slithered into Alverton’s gut like an unwelcome snake. Whatever could he do to force these women to leave? They were ruining a perfectly good holiday. Perhaps if he suggested an outing…

  “Miss Rowe,” Alverton said, distancing himself from the young, simpering miss with use of her formal name. “Have you been to see the marvel which is called Stonehenge?”

  Widening her eyes, she shook her head. “I have not, your grace. It would be marvelous if we could—”

  “It is much too cold and wet for a venture such as that,” Mother snapped. “We must remain here until the roads have cleared some and the carriage does not promise to freeze us solid.”

  “Did you not freeze on your journey to Chesford Hall?” Alverton inquired, tilting his head in feigned innocence.

  Mother would have none of that. “Shall we have some music?” she asked instead. “Cassandra has a lovely voice.”

  Miss Rowe’s voice could not be as lovely as Lady Eve’s. No, not Lady Eve. She was merely Miss Evelyn Trainor.

  Alverton’s gaze trained on the roaring fire and an equal degree of heat rushed to the back of his neck. He had been mortified when Evelyn disclosed her secret. Utterly and supremely mortified. What had she thought? That by snagging his attention as a lady, he would be inclined to look past the inferiority of her birth and her dishonesty? It did not matter what she had said in her own defense. She’d lied about her own name. How was he to know what else she’d lied about?

  Perhaps she’d meant for the facade to carry on forever.

  Well, she needn’t have. She’d have only needed the facade to hold up until the wedding vows were exchanged.

  “Your grace, I should very much like to sing for you if you wish.”

  Alverton looked up to find Miss Rowe standing directly in front of him. Her flawless, pale complexion was only ruined by the use of rouge upon her cheeks, just like her mother’s, and her light blue eyes were clear, her blonde curls brought back and arranged just so. She was the perfect candidate for a duchess. His mother was right. She had the decorum and the grace to appear the duchess, and the training to withstand the rigors which came along with the duty.

  But Miss Rowe was not her. Miss Rowe was not the woman he imagined spending his days with. She was not the woman he had thought about incessantly over the last week. He would never marry Evelyn Trainor. He could not. But the woman he had begun to fall for, the imaginary Lady Eve, he still held onto the idea of that woman.

  There was no way around it. Lady Eve had set the standard by which he would judge every woman hereafter. Which was such a shame, really.

  Because Lady Eve did not exist.

  “You may play,” Alverton said with a flick of his wrist. The coy smile Miss Rowe delivered was both nauseating and obnoxious. He turned on his seat to face Sanders, who had patience sufficient to manage ridiculous young ladies. Perhaps if Alverton had younger sisters, he too would remain calm and unbothered.

  Miss Rowe began warming her fingers up on the pianoforte on the far side of the room, sending her cat-like smile Alverton’s way periodically. He could sense her predatory nature and the way she viewed him as prey. But he would not succumb to her artful tactics.

  “Perhaps we ought to prepare to return to London, Sanders,” Alverton said, inspecting the cuff of his sleeve.

  A harsh chord sounded on the pianoforte and he glanced up to find Miss Rowe’s wide, panicked eyes on him.

  “A fortnight earlier than planned?” Sanders asked, his eyebrow raised.

  Alverton shrugged, ignoring his young cousin as she began to play. “I have found that all which initially drew me here has flagged and nothing could possibly keep me here any longer.”

  “Nothing?”

  Alverton read the meaning in his friend’s tone. He was likely referring to Evelyn, as he had made comments regarding her since their initial meeting in the lane. Sanders himself had found unlikely friends in her young brothers. But Alverton did not blame him for that; there was something about Harry and Jack which reminded him of himself and Sanders at that same age when they had met at school.

  “I am at your leisure,” Sanders said. But in truth, the reverse was true. It was Sanders’ holiday which Alverton had joined, and Sanders’ holiday which would be cut horribly short because of Alverton’s female relations.

  Miss Rowe began to sing along with her playing and Alverton clenched his teeth. Her voice was not bad. In fact, had he not had Evelyn’s voice in his mind, he would believe Miss Rowe to be prodigious talented, indeed.

  But that was the rub. He could not remove from his mind a very delicate alto which haunted his dreams and played in his mind during the day.

  Overcome with frustration, Alverton did what he could to remain seated for the duration of Miss Rowe’s performance. It was not her fault—however obnoxious she was—that Evelyn had ruined him for all other voices. His body hummed with energy and his limbs ached to be held so still.

  At the completion of her performance, Alverton rose, clapping his hands in conjunction with the other occupants in the room. Miss Rowe stood, delivering a curtsy and a satisfied smile.

  “You must excuse me,” Alverton said, offering no further explanation. He dipped his torso in a bow and turned, fleeing the room at once.

  Sanders’ voice could be heard as he left the room. He did not know what the man was saying, but he hoped it was an excuse to follow him.

  He could use a friend right now.

  Letting himself into Sanders’ study, Alverton paced the room from the hearth to the window. He waited a quarter of an hour with no interruptions before he pulled the bell with more force than necessary. Standing in the center of the room, staring at the study door, he waited.

  A young maid opened the door and jumped when her eyes landed on the duke, still as a statue and watching the door, his hands grasped behind his back.

  “I need Sanders,” he said briskly.

  She dipped a curtsy and hurried from the room.

  Alverton resumed his pacing, turning again when the door opened. But it was not Sanders.

  It was Miss Rowe.

  “Perhaps I can be of assistance,” she said meekly, stepping inside and closing the door softly behind herself.

  Alverton knew her meekness to be a game.

  “It appears my mother did not pass along the message,” Alverton said, at ease. It was perhaps the first time since that dreadful moment with Evelyn in the grove that he felt relaxed. But he had warned Mother that he wouldn’t abide any more compromising attempts from Miss Rowe, so he need not fear repercussions for what he was about to say.

  “What message is that, your grace?” Miss Rowe asked, stepping closer.

  He remained where he was on the center of the rug, though he longed to approach the girl and use his height to intimidate her. “That I will not be compromised. If you wish that path for yourself, then you will suffer the consequences. Alone.”

  She seemed to grow still, her eyes unblinking, searching his gaze as though debating the validity of his claim. “I don’t know what you mean, your grace.”

  “Precisely what I said. You may do what you wish to attempt to secure my title, but I will not marry you. So you must do so with the knowledge that you are only ruining yourself.”

  She dropped her facade, facing him with a look that spoke of more intelligence than he realized she possessed. Her voice was low, a hard edge coloring her tone. “I have a hard time believing, your grace, that you would allow your own family’s name to be dragged through the mud. To speak nothing of the Alverton name and the scandal which would undoubtedly attach itself to you were such a thing to occur. I cannot think the ton would take kindly to a duke who allowed a proper young woman to become compromised and left her to be ruined. Your father never would have stood for it.”

  He nearly stepped backward from the blow. She was correct; Father never would have stood for it. The ultimate example of doing his duty
to the title and his family, Father would have commanded the union after Miss Rowe’s first attempts to compromise him.

  Alverton was not his father, however. He could do his best to live up to the prestige and honesty his father had hammered into him from his youth, but he did not have to marry a slithering, deceitful young woman simply because she knew where his weakness lay.

  “What you are not taking into account,” Alverton replied acidly, straightening his shoulders, “is that I am the duke and you are a miss. I can get away with nearly whatever I wish, and the ton will look away. You, however, cannot.”

  She glared at him with the heat of a Yule log and he stared directly back with cool reserve. Contentedness settled upon his shoulders. He could still be the man his father raised him to be without settling for a wife he cared little for.

  It was this scene which Sanders opened the door and discovered, his shocked eyebrows rising high on his forehead.

  “Excuse me,” Miss Rowe said, slipping past the earl. She cast Alverton a final look and he very much thought she infused it with the words, this is not over yet, your grace.

  Sanders closed the door securely behind himself before crossing the carpet and falling into a plump burgundy chair. “What is it, Alverton? You seem to be a wreck.”

  Alverton scrubbed a hand over his face before joining his friend. He let his head fall back on the chair, gazing at the wood-paneled ceiling and tracing the panels one by one with his eyes. “The girl refuses to accept that I cannot be compromised, but she can.”

  “Do you mean to imply that I stepped into another attempt?”

  “Yes.”

  Sanders cursed. “Your own mother brought her here.”

  “And I did warn my mother of my resolve, but the woman is determined. She is so caught up in needing to see me wed that she cares not the path which will take me to the alter. Nor the girl, it would seem. It is as though she has determined my marriage status to be her only objective since my father died.”

  Sanders chuckled. “You paint a very bleak picture of your mother.”

  “My mother has painted the picture herself. I informed her that if Miss Rowe proceeds to act this way she will only ruin herself and I shall not save her name.”

  Sanders looked pained. “This was not how this holiday was meant to go.”

  “And for that I must apologize.”

  “It is not your fault, Alverton,” Sanders said compassionately. “You could not have known they would follow you here.”

  Alverton turned wry eyes on his friend. “You are a good man, Sanders. Perhaps I shall buy you a horse when all this is through to thank you for your troubles.”

  “I shall attend Tattersall’s with you and choose the very finest.”

  Alverton chuckled, facing the fire. He watched the flames flicker, licking the hearth. Scent of the evergreen boughs trimming the mantle tickled his nose and he sighed. It was proving to be a very sorry Christmas, thus far.

  “But your family is not the only reason you have been sour, is it?” Sanders asked.

  It was almost as though the man could read minds. Not two beats of the clock after Alverton began to picture Evelyn in his mind, wondering how she spent her holiday, the earl brought up the root of Alverton’s disquiet.

  “Did something occur?”

  “Yes.”

  Sanders waited a moment before asking, “And do you wish to tell me what it was?”

  “Lady Eve.”

  “A woman,” he said, his voice dry. “And here I thought we’d come to Chesford to escape women. It appears we do not have that choice.”

  “Did you ever notice that no one in the house referred to either of the boys as lords?”

  “Yes,” Sanders said slowly. “But they are children. It is not so very odd to leave off the courtesy title.”

  Alverton sat up, holding his friend’s gaze. “It is not because they are children, or even due to the trauma of the injury. It was because they are not lords. Lady Eve is not a lady. She is Miss Evelyn Trainor.”

  Understanding lit Sanders’ eyes. “I thought I recognized her. We played as children a time or two. Never so much as to know her on sight, but evidently enough to jog my memory. Who is her father?”

  “Mr. Trainor, of the House of Commons.”

  Sanders nodded again, knowingly. “I should have made the connection on my own. But we never come to Chesford and I hardly know most of the people here.”

  “I do not blame you,” Alverton said at once.

  Sanders leaned back in his seat, running a hand through his hair. “And yet, this could have been avoided.”

  Shaking his head, Alverton sighed. “I feel ill-used. I could not tell she was a title-hunter on the onset. But that is not the worst of it.”

  “Oh?”

  “No,” Alverton continued. “The worst of it is that regardless of how angry I am, I cannot quit thinking about her.”

  Chapter 13

  After spending the entire morning reading to a poor, bed-ridden Harry, Evelyn required some sunlight and fresh air. She tied her bonnet under her chin, pulling her cape tightly around her neck.

  “Where are you off to?” Aunt Edith inquired from the parlor, drawing Evelyn’s attention. Crossing the hall, Evelyn hovered in the doorway. Her aunt waited for an answer, displeasure evident in her expression; or perhaps that was simply how she always felt. It was certainly how she usually looked.

  “To visit with Julia,” Evelyn said. “I would like to purchase red thread for my sampler, and I planned to ask if she would accompany me.”

  Aunt Edith watched her, the older woman’s mouth pinched. “You have let a good opportunity pass you by this last fortnight,” she said, surprising Evelyn.

  Evelyn pressed a hand to her stomach. “I cannot think what you mean.”

  “There is an earl and a duke residing just across the grove and you’ve done nothing to attempt to secure either man.”

  Evelyn scoffed. “Have we not discussed this? I am not eligible for either title. Father’s lack of fortune aside, our name is not elevated enough for such a match.”

  “It is not so absurd, Evelyn,” she bit back. “You are a gentleman’s daughter. You do your brothers and myself a disservice with your lack of effort.”

  “Whatever do my brothers have to do with who I marry?” Furthermore, how would her choice in husband effect Aunt Edith?

  “They are young, yet. Do you want to see them go to the poorhouse?”

  Her blood rushed down to her feet, and Evelyn felt her head grow dizzy. “Please explain yourself,” she whispered.

  Aunt Edith held her gaze. “Funds diminish. And nothing is being done to replenish them. Your father was counting on you to make a good match this Season which might support us all. But you have been too selfish by half, caring more for the museums and the park than the balls and the gentlemen. You would rather us all rot than accept a gentleman’s courtship.”

  Cool ice slithered down her spine. “I did not know,” Evelyn said. “You did not tell me.”

  “Your father forbade it. He wanted me to spare you the concern.” Aunt Edith closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the chair. “But now look at the position we are in. A few more months, perhaps, and we are all off to the poorhouse.”

  Evelyn swallowed, fear and anxiety filling her person like a thousand tiny bugs. She had heard stories of the men and women forced to go to the poorhouse. Her brothers could never survive such a horrid place, to say nothing of her father, or her aunt.

  She, of course, would sacrifice anything for their wellbeing. Turning from her aunt, she fled the house, walking briskly toward Derham as though her quick steps could carry her from the troubles spat at her by her aunt.

  If only they had kept her apprised of the situation. If only her aunt had explained before they set off for London that she had it within her power to save them, that they needed saving. Then Evelyn might have put in some effort.

  Humiliation and shame overcame her and she
paused at the tree halfway through the grove. Gentlemen had shown her interest before, and she had merely put them off. One man in particular had expressed his interest in her on more than one occasion, but as the feelings were not returned, Evelyn had merely done her best to forget them.

  Determination slowly formed in her chest and spread outward. It was not too late. And this particular man’s feelings were likely somewhat the same. The last time he had inquired about the state of her heart was just before she left for the London Season, and she had politely turned him down. Leaning against the tree’s thick, wide trunk, she made a promise to herself.

  She would do whatever she must to help her family. Even if it meant marrying a man she didn’t love.

  Pushing away from the tree, determined, Evelyn made her way toward Derham and the Cooper’s house. She had a very important call to make.

  * * *

  Dr. Cooper was away from home, and Evelyn could not help but feel grateful that her uncomfortable call could be put off.

  Julia had agreed to an outing and outfitted herself in a pelisse and bonnet, joining Evelyn by the arm and walking down the street toward the shop. It was not snowing presently, but the ground remained frozen and mud was forming alongside the cobblestone road.

  “Have you heard of the ball on Twelfth Night?” Julia asked. “I cannot decide whether to wear my jonquil gown, or the one made of red crepe.”

  “I should think the jonquil will set off your hair to perfection. And the delicate embroidery is nothing to smirk at.”

  Julia grinned. “Yes, it does make my eyes look fine, does it not?”

  “And is there a certain gentleman you are hoping to look fine for?” Evelyn asked, half-jesting.

  Julia’s silence was telling and Evelyn could not help but pause in the street and turn toward her friend. They did not keep secrets from one another. “What is it you are not telling me?”

  Julia sucked in a breath, her mouth looking as though it wanted to smile but she was not allowing it the privilege. “I am afraid to speak the words aloud,” she whispered.