“Ah-ha,” she exclaimed. “You have feelings for her, don’t you?”
“They wouldn’t do me any good. Her mother is insistent upon a good match.”
“Aren’t they all?” Penelope answered, conceding the point. “It’s a shame, though. Miss O’Fallon might have a problem, considering her lack of polish.”
“What are you saying? Thomas asked, fighting back indignation. “Is this what we’re about? Is there nothing more important in our lives than how a lady holds her fan? How she waltzes?”
“You misunderstand,” Penelope replied with equal fervor. “Evleen O’Fallon is a charming, lively, beautiful young woman, and most certainly nobody’s fool. If she wished, she could reach the pinnacle of social distinction. In essence, all she needs is a bit of dance instruction and a few pointers on how to hold her fan.”
Thomas nodded in agreement. “One would think Mrs. Trevlyn and her daughters might have given her some pointers.”
“Are you daft?” asked Penelope, bursting into laughter. “You think they should have helped her? I guarantee, Lydia Trevlyn is delighted over Evleen’s social gaffes. Need I explain why?”
Montague. “No, I understand. But surely someone ought to help her...” an idea struck him “... why not you?”
In deep thought, Penelope was silent a moment. “I didn’t have the chance to speak to the poor girl, but I’m sure she must have been completely humiliated last night. Yes, I suppose...” Her expression brightened. She burst, “I’ll do it! I know all the steps, and teaching her should be great fun. Besides, Charlotte and Bettina are just too snooty for words. I would love to see their faces when Evleen turns into Cinderella at the ball.”
He chided, “Not a noble motive, Penelope.”
“You don’t understand women, Thomas.”
He could tell from the firm set of his sister’s jaw that she was not about to back down. But no matter. All he cared about was that Evleen would receive the help she needed. “Can you start right away?”
“This afternoon, if you like. I shall direct a note to our Irish princess, explain what I’m planning, and invite her to take tea. Then, if she’s agreeable, we’ll have our first lesson.”
“Fine. I’ll be here. Perhaps I can help.”
“I thought you could hardly wait to get back to your beloved horses.”
He hoped his face wasn’t turning red as he answered, “I have reconsidered. I’ve decided to stay in town.”
* * *
Another silly English custom, Evleen thought as she sat in the Trevlyns’ carriage and watched as the liveried footman approached the front door of the Marquess’s townhouse. She would have much preferred knocking on the door herself but had been sternly informed, it simply isn’t done.
“You sit in the carriage and you wait for the footman to knock,” Lydia had admonished. “The footman gives your card to the butler. The butler takes the card to the mistress of the household who then decides whether or not she is at home. Then the butler returns with the message.”
“But how can she decide if she’s home or not?” asked Evleen, bewildered. “If she’s at home then she’s at home, isn’t she?”
Lydia threw up her hands. “You simply do not understand.”
Evleen persisted. “But how could she be not home if she’s home? How—?”
“Just do as I say,” Lydia snapped, thoroughly exasperated. “And another thing—if you see the lady of the house peering at you from behind the curtains, you must pretend not to notice.”
Such nonsensical rules. Such a silly, frivolous society. Still, when Evleen received Penelope’s invitation to “take tea and discuss fans and waltzes,” she deeply appreciated the generous and tactful offer. If she was to have even the slightest chance of fulfilling her promise to her mother, she must make amends for her miserable performance of the night before.
At tea, Evleen discovered that despite her lingering despondency over the previous night, she was enjoying herself. Thomas’s sister was bright, pleasant, and stunningly attractive in her modish afternoon gown of yellow cotton batiste. Unlike the Trevlyns, she did not seem full of artifices. She also possessed a quick wit which, after the dullness of the Trevlyns, Evleen greatly appreciated.
“Where shall we begin your lessons?” Penelope asked when they’d finished tea.
“Anywhere,” Evleen answered half humorously. “It appears I need improvement in all areas.”
“Then let’s do fans.” Penelope unfurled and fluttered her ivory fan. “You see, you don’t clutch it, you just hold it lightly.” She placed the fan in front of her face and peered playfully over the top. “This means follow me.” She placed the fan in her left hand. “Means I’m desirous of an acquaintance.” She closed the fan and drew it across her forehead. “Means we’re being watched.”
A wry smile curved Evleen’s lips. “How did I happen to say, ‘Take me to the garden, Lord Corneale, and give me a big, sloppy, slimy kiss’?”
When they stopped laughing, Penelope remarked, “I’m not sure exactly how Lord Corneale got such a message, but perhaps...” she rested the tip of the fan on her right cheek “—did you do something like this?” At Evleen’s nod, she said, “Then that’s likely what you did. In essence, it means yes.”
For the next hour, Evleen practiced with her own fan, learned fast, and enjoyed herself in the bargain. It was good to laugh again, although, come to think of it, she had never in her life spent such a frivolous afternoon. Back in County Clare, work and worry filled their lives. The money—the illnesses—the struggle to stay warm despite the damp, creeping cold left little time for fun as fancy-free as this.
Just as she was confident she’d mastered the language of the fan, Lord Thomas appeared in the doorway. Evleen caught her breath at the unexpected sight of him, standing there in that casual stance of his, with that lop-sided grin on his dark, handsome face. “I thought you were leaving London today,” she said.
“Obviously not,” he replied. “Penelope has recruited me to help teach you the waltz.”
She remembered the previous night and the callous manner in which she’d rejected him. What must he think? “I’m sorry about last night.”
“Say no more.” He went to her and held out his hand. He signaled to Penelope, who had seated herself at the piano. “Play us a waltz, sister, slow if you please, and we shall have Miss O’Fallon waltzing in no time.” He placed his hand around her waist. “Now, put your hand on my shoulder, don’t look down, step back with your right foot, and off we go.”
Soon she was waltzing. “You have a natural bent for it,” Thomas declared after only minutes. Feeling herself move gracefully, in perfect tune to the music, she knew he was right. Such fun! The remains of her blue funk disappeared. Later, when Montague came to see what all the commotion was about, he, too, waltzed her around the room and proclaimed she was a first rate waltzer. “You’ll do fine, Miss O’Fallon,” he said, his eyes warm with admiration. “I shall claim all your waltzes at the next ball.”
Thinking of Lydia’s reaction if he did, her spirits dipped, but not for long. “We shall see,” she said, giving him an enigmatic smile. Nothing could ruin this delightful afternoon.
When she made ready to leave, her heart was full of gratitude. She tried to express her thanks, but Thomas wouldn’t hear it. “Come back tomorrow, Miss O’Fallon,” he told her politely. “We shall learn the quadrille.”
When Penelope was alone with Evleen at the front door, she asked pointedly, “Er... that mud-colored gown? Will you be wearing it again to Lord and Lady Trent’s ball next Friday night?”
“You needn’t be polite,” came Evleen’s laughing answer. “Lord Trevlyn hired a dressmaker and I’ve already been fitted. With any luck, at the next ball I’ll have my own gown, not that hideous hand-me-down.”
“Marvelous.” Penelope clasped her hands with delight. “I have so enjoyed this afternoon.”
“As have I.”
“I have never met anyone quite lik
e you.” Penelope’s warmth was sincere. “I predict that fair, fresh beauty of yours and that fiery Irish spirit will make you the belle of the ball.”
Despite her new friend’s encouraging words, and her pleasurable afternoon, Evleen was struck by an odd twinge of worry. “I don’t know that you’re right,” she said quietly, “but even if you are, what with one thing and another, I’m not sure being the belle of the ball is the best thing for me.”
Penelope sighed heavily. “What you mean is, the more successful you are, the more jealous Lydia and her daughters will become.”
“I suppose, but surely they would do nothing to harm me.”
“Oh, no, no, of course not,” Penelope quickly answered, but she didn’t sound too convinced.
* * *
For several days in a row, Evleen was invited back to the Marquess’s elegant townhouse, where, after tea, the dancing lessons continued. Evleen found each visit delightful. She thoroughly enjoyed the music, witty conversation, and, most of all, the close proximity to a man whose company she found increasingly pleasurable. As for Thomas, at first she found his motives were obscure. He had been charming, yet distant. His manners were so impeccable she had begun to wonder if his passionate kiss in the carriage was simply a moment of playful lust, of no deep significance at all. She had about concluded he was helping her out of pity when, on the last day before the ball, she discovered otherwise.
They were standing together, having just concluded a dance, when Penelope briefly left the room. Ordinarily they would have broken apart, but some strange force kept them close together, facing each other, as if they were part of a tableau. When she looked into his eyes, she found him gazing at her with such a burning hunger she was taken aback. She was about to pull away when he swept her into his arms and kissed her fiercely. Before she could even think how to respond, he had broken off the kiss, clasped her arms and firmly put her away from him. It was as if she were a forbidden pleasure, and he, after a momentary lapse, had regained his senses and did what honor decreed he do.
“Sorry,” he’d said, his breath coming fast. “Don’t tell me that shouldn’t have happened, I already know.”
Before she could even begin to answer, Penelope returned. If she noticed anything, she didn’t say, and the lesson went on as if nothing had occurred. At the end, Penelope glowed as she said, “I have taught you all I know, Evleen. You’ve done marvelously well. Just wait ‘til they see you at the ball tomorrow night. The dandies will be falling all over themselves, trying to get a dance with you.”
“That remains to be seen,” Evleen answered cautiously, aware there was still so much that could go wrong. “You have been the most wonderful teacher, Penelope, I can’t thank you enough.”
* * *
“Evleen, you look magnificent and just so beautiful,” exclaimed Amanda.
The night of Lord and Lady Trent’s ball had arrived. As Evleen regarded herself in her mirror, she knew she looked the best she had ever looked in her life. Magnificent and beautiful, Amanda had said. Well, she wasn’t sure about that. Still, she knew she looked her best in the white silk ball gown adorned with clusters of pink roses, a wreath of pink roses in her up-swept hair, and a diamond and ruby necklace, a present from Lord Trevlyn. At least she could hold her head high and not run and hide, as she’d felt like doing in Charlotte’s ugly dress.
And perhaps, with a bit of luck, she wouldn’t make a fool of herself this time.
When Evleen looked down from the landing and spied Lydia, Charlotte, and Bettina waiting in the front entryway, she could not resist a grand entrance. Sweeping down the stairs, head high, fan unfurled and held just so, she was secretly amused when an expression of astonishment crossed Lydia’s face, followed by chagrin, followed by a mostly unsuccessful attempt to force her lips into the semblance of a smile.
“Well, Evleen, I must say you look quite presentable this evening,” said Lydia. Almost choking, she managed to add, “I see the gown turned out tolerably well.”
“Tolerably well?” asked Amanda, who followed behind Evleen. “The gown is beautiful and so is Evleen.”
Lydia awarded her youngest daughter a thinly disguised look of warning before she addressed Evleen. “Bear in mind what I told you. Say as little as possible. Find a quiet corner if you can. I would hate to see you embarrass yourself again if someone should ask you to dance.”
Amanda, the only one who knew of Evleen’s dancing lessons, opened her mouth to protest, but Evleen gave her a quick nudge. “I shall heed your advice, Mrs. Trevlyn,” she replied with the meekness of a scullery maid.
“Good. See that you do.”
“And stay away from Montague,” Charlotte, looking beautiful all in white, admonished. “He’s close to proposing. I suspect tonight is the night.”
“Of course,” answered Evleen. No problem there. She didn’t care a fig for that wastrel, Montague. Despite herself, though, she’d begun to think a good deal about Thomas. She pictured their kiss of the day before and a warm flood of excitement coursed through her veins. The desperate way he’d grabbed her—the hunger in his eyes—oh, yes, he did care. And didn’t she? Had she not found his closeness so arousing she’d momentarily forgotten the waltz, Penelope, everything else except the exquisite joy of being in his arms?
Tonight, all she cared about was that Thomas would be there, that his eyes would light with admiration when he saw her, that they would dance every dance, spinning around the ballroom with eyes only for each other...
She caught herself and felt instant guilt. But you won’t feel guilty tonight, she informed herself sternly. Her pulse raced at the mere thought of being with him again. She was being selfish, of course, and less than honorable in ignoring her mother’s wish, but her holiday from honor would last only the night. Tomorrow she would remember her promise to her mother, but tonight she would follow her heart.
* * *
“Look, Evleen,” whispered Amanda, “everybody’s staring at you.”
They had just entered Lord and Lady Trent’s ballroom. Evleen wondered what Amanda meant, but soon she knew. The eyes of nearly every man in the room were fixed upon her as she stood, gracefully fluttering her fan, surveying the crowd with a queen-like bearing.
A waltz began. Young Lord Edgemont, whom she’d met the other night, appeared before her. “You look beautiful tonight, Miss O’Fallon, would you care to dance?”
“She doesn’t waltz,” said Lydia.
“Oh, but I shall try,” said Evleen.
All doubt concerning her ability to waltz faded quickly as Lord Edgemont led her through a series of dips and twirls. Totally at ease, she followed gracefully, as sure-footed as if she’d been waltzing all her life. Once or twice, as they whirled past Lydia, Evleen caught a glimpse of the incredulity on the older woman’s face.
When the dance was over, Montague appeared and claimed the next one. For once, his sardonic expression was gone, replaced by one of admiration. “I see my brother taught you well,” he commented.
“But where is your brother?” she asked, doing her best to make her question seem off-hand.
“Left, finally, for his estate.” He gave her a mocking smile. “I cannot imagine what kept him so long in town.”
“Oh.” Suddenly all pleasure left her. She felt hurt, and deeply disappointed. Why hadn’t he let her know?
“You seem downcast, Miss O’Fallon,” said Montague. “I do hope the news about my brother hasn’t ruined your evening.”
Never would she let her feelings show. “Downcast, Lord Eddington?” She tilted her head back and awarded him a dazzling smile. “Never. I intend to have a wonderful time tonight and dance until dawn.”
A quadrille followed. She would have danced it with Montague, but someone cut in. As the evening wore on, men were begging for her dances, showering her with compliments.
“Your eyes are like stars, Miss O’Fallon.”
“I am struck by your throaty Irish laughter, Miss O’Fallon.”
&nb
sp; “You dance divinely, Miss O’Fallon. A fine country, Ireland, if it produces a girl as beautiful as you.”
Montague kept returning, claiming as many dances as he could. “It seems you have captured the heart of nearly every man present tonight,” he said as they waltzed and he held her as tightly as he dared.
Although she returned a dazzling smile and said thank you, Evleen found that what these strangers thought counted not one whit. All she cared about was that Thomas wasn’t here.
She had another concern, too. From the sidelines, Lydia Trevlyn had been staring at her. As the evening wore on, her expression darkened, until now, as the last dance ended, and Montague led her off the floor, it resembled a thundercloud.
Penelope caught her as she left the ballroom. “Sorry about Thomas,” she said.
“Quite all right,” Evleen answered with a forced smile, “although he did say he would be here tonight.”
“He left rather abruptly.” In deep thought, Penelope bit her lip. “I know him. I know something was bothering him, but I cannot think what.”
* * *
Ah, how delightful the smell of oats and new-mown hay!
In the stables at Tanglewood Hall, Thomas took a whiff of the sweet air as he brushed the flanks of his favorite Thoroughbred.
Why had he stayed so long in London? This was where his life would be, from now on. He would waste no more time making a fool of himself over a woman he couldn’t have. No longer could he endure the shame of losing control of himself again, as had happened, however briefly, the other day.
No excuse. After the incident in the carriage, he had warned himself to stay away. But then she needed his help, and he had offered gladly, unthinkingly. But he hadn’t thought ahead. He had not foreseen that with every dancing lesson, his longing for her would increase while his strict self-control decreased. Too many days of holding that soft, sweetly curved body in his arms had fanned his desire until yesterday, like some clumsy oaf, he’d grabbed and kissed her, with all the finesse of... he couldn’t think what, but a clown at Haymarket came to mind. He had come to his senses quickly, of course, and made some stupid remark, but his actions made him realize he must remove himself as far as possible from Evleen O’Fallon. In the state he was in, to stay one more day in London was sheer folly.
The Irish Upstart Page 20
