Lydia scowled when she saw them. “Good evening, Lord Thomas. You should not have wandered away, Evleen. Where have you been? Come, our carriage has arrived.”
Lord Thomas asked, “Are you going to the rout at Lady Fanshawe’s?” Lydia nodded. “Then your carriage must be crowded. I have the family coach tonight. Kindly allow Miss O’Fallon to ride with me.”
“Well, I...” Lydia looked discomfited, obviously wondering what rule she might break if she consented.
“You have nothing to worry about, Mrs. Trevlyn,” Thomas said, amused. “My coach will follow so closely behind yours you would instantly be aware of any... shall we say, foolishness?”
To Evleen’s surprise, the dour woman actually managed a small laugh as she declared, “Oh, Lord Thomas,” and playfully tapped his chest with her fan. “You know we trust you. It’s just that I am always mindful of my duties as a chaperone.”
“Let Evleen go with him, Mama,” Charlotte said indifferently. “He’s right about our carriage being crowded.”
Lydia shrugged. “Oh, very well, she may ride with you, Lord Thomas.” It was obvious the matter was of little concern to her. With careful eyes, she surveyed the crowd. “I don’t suppose your brother... ?”
“I am afraid not, madam. I believe he has gone off to White’s.” Thomas bowed slightly to Evleen. “Shall we find my coach, Miss O’Fallon? I am wild with anticipation at the very thought of the next at-home.”
“As am I,” Evleen declared, doing her best to keep a straight face.
When Evleen sat back in Thomas’s closed coach she remarked, “You could have asked me.”
Thomas settled next to her. “Would you have said no?”
“Of course not, but you could have asked.”
“Point taken, but you needn’t be so fractious.” He leaned out the window and called to the coachman, “On to Lady Fanshaw’s.” Reaching for a blanket, he regarded with distaste the thin, inadequate shawl that only partially covered her gown. “It’s cold tonight. I don’t know why you women insist on dressing as if it were the middle of summer.”
“I have learned already that in London it’s not fashionable to be warm.” Evleen looked down at herself and shivered. “If I had my way, I’d be bundled to my ears. I’d be laughed clear out of Ireland if I wore this ridiculous outfit on a chilly night like this in County Clare.”
As he began to tuck the blanket about her lap, she was again reminded of that day they’d started their trek across England. Earlier today, he’d done the same, only it was daylight, and they were in an open carriage. Now, in the cozy darkness, she felt more than warm and snug, she felt secure and safe in the hands of a man she could completely trust. “Sorry if I was... did you say fractious? Now there’s a big word.” With a laugh just loud enough, and impudent enough, for him to hear, she settled back in the darkness where she was instantly lulled by the rhythmic clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the gentle sway of the coach.
“I see your fiery Irish spirit is still alive and well,” he said softly, not the least perturbed. “Which I greatly admire, by the way. Timothy Murphy is a lucky man.”
Curious, she asked, “In what way?”
“He’ll have you for a wife, won’t he?”
“Not that I know of.”
He sat back. In the dimness, she could just see the shocked look on his face. “But I thought... someone told me...”
“They were wrong, whoever they were. I am not marrying Timothy. I made that clear to him before I left.”
“But...” All at once he threw his head back and let out a great peal of laughter. “And all this time I’ve been acting the honorable gentleman.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, puzzled. He leaned close again. His face, only inches away, was lit at intervals by the flickering glow cast by the gas street lights. Ordinarily she would be annoyed with anyone who got this close, but the intimate proximity of Thomas Linberry was causing a strange stirring in the pit of her stomach.
“But this puts a new light on things.” He took her hand and clasped it in both of his. “Strange, isn’t it, how we’ve traveled across two countries, but this is the first time we’ve ever truly been alone.”
“Does it make a difference?” Her heartbeat quickened. She sensed what was coming but could not bring herself to draw away.
“Of course it makes a difference. I could hardly kiss you in the middle of Saint James Square, now could I?” He slid his hands around her shoulders.
“But you think you can kiss me here?” Now her heart had more than just quickened, it was pounding, about ready to burst.
He drew closer still, his face only inches from hers. “Be warned, my dear Miss O’Fallon, I had an ulterior motive when I offered my coach. Timothy or no Timothy, my honor as a gentleman was wearing thin.”
Her rational thought was fast fading, but she managed to quote, “‘Men are happy to be laughed at for their humor, but not for their folly.’ Jonathan Swift said that. He—”
“The devil with Jonathan Swift.” He pulled slightly back. “If you don’t want me to kiss you, tell me to stop. A pity, though, after I went to all this trouble to get you alone.”
“But this is folly. You know there are all kinds of reasons why we shouldn’t.”
“Ah, the obstacles.” Thomas leaned close again and murmured, “There are four ladies in the carriage directly ahead who would be utterly scandalized if they could see us now.” They passed a street light which briefly illuminated his devilish grin. He gripped her shoulders tighter. “I warn you, there’s every reason in the world why you shouldn’t kiss me, but you’re going to do it anyway, aren’t you?”
Although his words were half in jest, there was a tremor in his voice and she could feel his body trembling. She said lightly, “Mama would not approve.”
“She’s not here.”
“Just one kiss?” She felt so warm, so protected. He was such an exciting man, how could this be wrong?
“One kiss,” he said softly, “just one. And after, we shall become our noble selves again, virtuous to a fault, dutifully tending to our moral obligations. Eventually you will either marry a rich Englishman or return to Ireland and doubtless marry that fine, outstanding Irishman, Timothy Murphy, no matter what you say. Eventually I shall marry... I forget her name, but I shall think of it in time.”
She started softly laughing. How could she help it? And how could she say no? “All right,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck, “but just one, and we had better pray Lydia Trevlyn doesn’t have eyes in the back of her head.”
With an intake of breath, he clasped her body tightly to his, one hand exploring the hollow of her back. “You don’t know how much I’ve been wanting to do this,” he murmured.
She gave herself up to him completely, savoring the heady sensation of his lips pressing against the pulsing hollow of her throat, then her cheek, across her forehead, down to her nose, then at last, urgently demanding, her mouth.
The feel of his lips against hers caused a delicious, warming sensation. She kissed him in return, lingering, savoring every moment. She forgot Timothy Murphy—Montague—Lydia Trevlyn. There was no outside world. Nothing existed beyond this hot, tight space within this gently swaying carriage and this witty, charming man who was passionately embracing her.
“Almost there, sir,” called the coachman.
Thomas lifted his lips and murmured, “Damme. We’ve got to stop. God knows, I don’t want to, but we must.” His voice was hoarse, his breath was coming hard.
She had felt transported on a soft, wispy cloud, but came down to earth in a hurry. Though his kiss left her dazed and breathless, she managed, “Indeed we must. This was not in my plans. I—”
“I want you, Evleen,” he said in a ragged whisper. Tenderly, he brought his trembling fingers to her cheek. “I have wanted you from that minute I first saw you, Ah, how beautiful you are. I think of you night and day, my Evleen.”
Totally undone by hi
s words, she was searching for an answer when the bright lights from Lady Fanshawe’s mansion suddenly illuminated the carriage. They broke apart and slid to sit circumspectly in opposite corners. Thomas’s usual charming smile reappeared, yet his eyes drilled into hers with a burning intensity. “It won’t end here, Evleen.”
“It must,” she managed to say before he swung from the coach and reached to help her down. The Trevlyns were upon them as she stepped into another milieu of horses, carriages, and a swarming crowd.
Lydia flashed an artificial smile at Thomas. “How kind of you to take our little Irish princess under your wing. We’re all aware how difficult it must be for her to suddenly find herself in an enlightened society such as this.” She shook her head in mock sympathy. “So very, different from the simple life she knew at home.”
How dare she. Evleen was about to speak her mind when Thomas intervened.
“How kind of you to be concerned over Evleen’s welfare. From what I’ve seen, though, she’s more than a match for any young lady of the ton.”
If Lydia caught the underlying reproach in Thomas’s remark, she did not let on. Instead, she wagged a finger under his nose. “You tell Montague he’s been a naughty boy tonight, running off to White’s. Tell him we expect his presence at Lady Claremont’s ball this coming Friday.”
Thomas bowed. “I shall convey your message, although I cannot guarantee—”
“You tell him our patience is running short and he had best be there.” Lydia’s smile had disappeared.
I understand,” Thomas said quietly. He turned to Evleen. “A most delightful ride, Miss O’Fallon. I most thoroughly enjoyed our discussion of the poets.” He bid a goodnight to everyone and disappeared into the crowd.
“Such a charming man,” remarked Lydia. “It’s a pity Montague did not inherit more of his virtuous deportment and high moral character.”
Evleen was still so wrought-up from the interlude in Thomas’s coach, she had to suppress a peal of near-hysterical laughter. What would Lydia and her daughters think if they knew that from Waverton Street to Berkeley Square she had nestled in the arms of that charming young man with the “virtuous deportment and strong character”? Willingly, too. Perhaps even wantonly, she admitted, as she thought of their kiss and a delicious shiver ran through her.
Ah, if they only knew.
Chapter 13
When Thomas arrived at his family’s London townhouse, he found Penelope awake and waiting up for him.
“I cannot believe you, of all people, went to all those silly routs tonight,” she said as he joined her in the drawing room.
Thomas slung himself into a chair. “And where were you?”
“Need I remind you this is my third Season? I’m no longer thrilled with milling about in a mob to no purpose other than it’s the thing to do.”
“Poor Penelope,” he said with mock sympathy. “Nineteen and already jaded.”
“Speaking of jaded, did you see Montague?”
“Only briefly, before he took himself off to White’s where he assuredly is now, throwing God-knows-how-much of the family fortune away on the faro tables. By the way, he did a fine job of ignoring Charlotte Trevlyn this evening. Her mother is less than pleased.”
“Papa won’t be pleased, either. You know how grouchy he’s become of late, what with his gout. I can only imagine his fury if Montague doesn’t propose to Charlotte, and soon.”
“Even though Walter is no longer heir to the estate?”
“She’s still a Trevlyn, is she not? All Papa wants is for the Trevlyns and the Linberrys to be forever united, into eternity. All dependent on Montague, of course.”
Thomas sighed. “Well, it’s Montague’s problem, not mine. I have enough else to concern me.”
Penelope regarded him thoughtfully. “You’re not your usual lighthearted self tonight. You seem distracted.”
Distracted was hardly the word for the mood he was in. “I’m leaving London tomorrow. Time I got back to my Thoroughbreds. It’s best I leave before I...”
“Before you what, Thomas?”
“Nothing.” Since that kiss in the coach, his emotions had lurched back and forth between hot desire and disgust with himself for allowing his feelings to get out of hand. Penelope was his closet confidante. No doubt she knew more about him than anyone, yet how could he explain his feelings when he hardly understood himself?
“How can you possibly leave now?” inquired Penelope. “Lady Claremont’s ball is next Friday night. Surely you’ll want to stay for one of the most important events of the Season.”
His eyebrow lifted sardonically. “I suppose everyone who counts will be there?”
“How did you guess?”
“Since when did I ever care about who counts and who doesn’t?” Feeling restless and irritable—all his own doing, of course—Thomas arose from his chair and headed for the door. “I’m off to bed.”
Penelope called after him, “It’s Evleen O’Fallon, isn’t it?”
Curse her perceptiveness. He turned as Penelope remarked, “I heard what you did today. How noble, rescuing the damsel in distress and her adorable little brother.”
“I would have done as much for a stranger.” Why was he burdened with a sister so skilled at reading his mind?
Worse, she wasn’t through.
“On-dit has it that the two of them were wandering the streets unescorted.” Penelope pursed her lips and tilted her nose in a fair imitation of Lydia Trevlyn. “Simply not done, my deah,” she mocked, and went on, “and letting herself be seen on Saint James Street where everyone knows a lady would not be caught dead.”
Thomas could not help laughing at his irreverent sister, but quickly sobered. “It’s such hypocrisy, isn’t it? The truth is, Lydia Trevlyn is not so much concerned about her family’s reputation as she is about marrying her daughters off.”
“Exactly,” said Penelope, “and she sees the Irish girl as a threat.”
“And well she might, considering Evleen O’Fallon has more beauty, brains and charm in her little finger than the Trevlyn girls possess—”
Uh-oh, now he’d done it. Judging from that sagacious little grin playing on Penelope’s lips, Thomas suddenly realized he had just revealed far more than he had intended.
“I knew it,” Penelope declared triumphantly. “After all these years, the high-and-mighty Thomas Linberry has finally fallen in love. Don’t bother to deny it. It won’t do you any good.”
That uninvited vision of Evleen and Timothy embracing again arose before his eyes. He said harshly, “I had thought Evleen O’Fallon was betrothed to that Irishman.”
“She’s not.”
“So I found out. Up to now, my feelings were of no consequence. Now I... This puts a new light on things.”
“Oh, Thomas.” Penelope slowly shook her head in sympathy. “You were using Evleen’s so-called betrothal as a defense, weren’t you? It didn’t matter how fond you grew of her, she was betrothed, and that made you feel safe, didn’t it? No action on your part was necessary.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Is it? Then why are you so agitated? I think you’ve fallen in love with her, and now, all of a sudden, you find she’s available and suddenly you don’t know what to do.”
Thomas neither affirmed nor denied his sister’s shrewd observations. Instead, close-mouthed, he bid his sister a hasty goodnight and retreated to his bedchamber. Now, safe from Penelope’s penetrating questions, he reflected upon her words. “Fallen in love,” she’d accused. No, that wasn’t possible. Never, in his entire untroubled, well-ordered existence, had he been so foolish as to lose his heart to a woman. Some of his friends had been struck by Cupid’s arrow, and what a result! Their ensuing conduct had caused him to marvel at how an intelligent, reasoning, and heretofore tough-minded man could turn into a quivering mass of erratic emotions, writing abominable love poems, mooning about like some love-sick school boy, claiming his life would be ruined unless the object of his ne
w-found love consented to marry him. And all because he’d been brought down by some bubble-headed chit.
Not Thomas Linberry! Indeed, no.
He’d had his share of Cyprians, and though he had to admit he’d been fond of them, and treated them with courtesy—more than he could say for some of his friends—he had never lost his heart, even to the most seductive and beautiful of them. Nor had he lost his heart to Miss Bettina Trevlyn, which was exactly as it should be. Although he fully expected to develop some sort of affection for her when and if they married, love hardly mattered. Love was a handicap. Love interfered with one’s well-ordered life. Love made a man look foolish, and that’s why he, a man totally in control of his emotions, could not possibly be in love with Evleen O’Fallon.
True, he’d been unable to stop thinking about her, or shake off the strange sensations that rushed through his body when he did. Especially now, after that kiss. There went his sleep tonight, again. Positively and without fail, tomorrow he would get a grip on himself and put her out of his mind, but not tonight. Tonight he would lie in his bed and picture how she had nestled into his arms, a perfect fit, as if she belonged there, all soft and warm, and how she...
Perhaps he would stay in London, at least for a while. But no, that was wrong. Penelope was right about his defenses being down. The sooner he left for Tanglewood Hall, the better.
* * *
“Evleen, what is the lady doing?” asked Patrick. He had come to her bedchamber, and now sat upon her bed, feet dangling, watching curiously as she stood on a chair, still as a statue.
Evleen glanced at the middle-aged woman kneeling on the floor. “This is my new dressmaker, and she’s measuring a hem. Do you like it?” She spread her arms, showing off her new ball gown. “Your grandfather insisted I have some gowns made so I shall be fashionable.”
“Mama says to be fashionable is to be vain.”
“She’s absolutely right, but I like being fashionable all the same.”
“Shall you wear it to the ball tonight?”
“No, it won’t be ready in time, but I shall wear this to a ball next Friday night.”
The Irish Upstart Page 17
