At least he had preserved his honor. A fine thing, honor. Nothing counted more in this small, tight society in which he lived. Trouble was, honor would not warm his bed at night. An increasingly lonely bed, he thought with irony. And when he woke in the night, as he’d been doing lately, honor would not do one damn thing to ease his maddening, increasingly powerful longing for Evleen O’Fallon.
Chapter 15
Over the following weeks, a whole new world opened for Evleen. It seemed as if overnight she had become London’s darling. It mattered not that she hadn’t officially come “out,” nor been presented at court. Men fought for her favors, extolling her beauty, melodious accent, vivacious Irish charm. London’s leading hostesses vied for the presence of “that delightful young lady from Ireland.”
Lord Trevlyn crowed with delight. “We must have the dressmaker back. A popular young lady like you must have an ample wardrobe.”
Properly chaperoned, she was escorted by eager beaux to Astley’s Royal Amphitheater where horses and clowns alike gave delightful performances; to Kings Theater where she sat in awe of the actor, Edmund Keen; to Green Park where she and Patrick breathlessly watched a spectacular balloon ascension, the daring balloonists using a newfangled contraption called a parachute.
During all this, Evleen felt elated, yet torn. What a heady experience to be admired and sought-after. Yet her new-found popularity did not come without a price, for the atmosphere around the Trevlyn’s London townhouse was decidedly cool. Lydia Trevlyn, hardly able to contain her jealousy, was now only barely polite. Bad enough that Evleen now outshone Charlotte, who had always been considered the great beauty of the family. Worse, despite Evleen’s efforts to discourage Montague, he continued to pursue her, obviously enchanted with her Irish charms. He appeared to have forgotten Charlotte even existed, let alone she was destined to be his bride.
At least Amanda was doing well. Much to the ongoing surprise of her mother and sisters, of late she had blossomed and now had several suitors.
Thus far, Evleen had yet to meet a man she really liked, although she now had at least a dozen to chose from. Mama was right. Too many men of the English nobility were vain, self-centered, and shallow: naught but worthless aristocrats who contributed nothing to the world but lived only for their own decadent pleasures. Evleen could not imagine being married to any one of them, regardless of how rich they were, or how grand their title.
Meanwhile, Evleen had not heard one word from Thomas. Although she tried not to think of him, she often did. She concealed her thoughts from everyone, though, even Penelope, who had become a fast friend these past weeks. Often Evleen was tempted to ask Penelope the latest news of Thomas, but pride prevented her each time. With her sharp percipience, Thomas’s sister would guess immediately how much Evleen missed him and wanted him back. At least Evleen knew where he was. From Penelope’s casual remarks she gleaned that Thomas had returned to his home near Abingdon where he remained in excellent health and was devoting his time to breeding horses. It was obvious he wanted nothing more to do with her. Time after time she tried to convince herself she must forget about him, but had not succeeded thus far.
She was having trouble sleeping nights. She could easily blame the excitement of her glittering new social life, but she knew otherwise. It was Thomas who kept her awake in those dark, silent hours when for the hundredth—the thousandth?—time, she would relive that magical trip from Ireland when they’d exchanged that deeply meaningful look at The Whispering Arch; when she was seasick aboard The Countess of Liverpool and he’d cared for her so tenderly; when he, with the utmost generosity, had seen to it that Patrick got to ride in the flying machine across England. What fun they’d had! And then London, and that night they kissed in his coach...
Oh, Thomas, how could you leave and not even say goodbye? I thought you cared for me. Were those passionate moments in the carriage really just lust, as meaningless as Lord Corneale’s kiss?
In dawn’s clear light, after but a few hours of fitful sleep, Evleen would always wake up to cold reality. Thomas did not care. Everything he’d done for her was out of pity and duty. But what of it? What was she thinking of? Even if he did care, he was but a second son with a limited income, not even close to fitting Mama’s requirements for the rich, titled Englishman she was supposed to find and marry.
She had written home that she now had her pick of rich Englishmen. Mama’s letters in return revealed how pleased she was, how eagerly she was waiting to hear who would be the final choice. Evleen suspected that one or two of her most ardent suitors were about to propose, but in the meantime, much to her great chagrin, there was Montague.
Nothing but trouble there. Montague had been doggedly pursuing her. He would not take no for an answer. How she would be able to handle his unwanted attentions she had no idea.
* * *
One day, another problem arose when Evleen, about to step into the drawing room, heard Patrick’s voice and because of its imperious tone, stopped to listen.
“I said bring it now, and be quick,” demanded Patrick, obviously addressing a servant.
“Yes, of course, Master Patrick,” came the reply.
The butler. Evleen was horrified. Pierce, the white-haired butler who carried himself with supreme dignity, had been the family butler for more years than anyone could recall. Never had she heard him treated with less than the greatest respect, until now.
She waited until Pierce withdrew, then drew in a breath to regain control of herself and stepped into the drawing room where Patrick was playing a game by the fireplace. “What were you saying to the butler just now?” she asked with deceptive calm.
Pouting, Patrick told her, “I asked for some sweets and he said I shouldn’t have them till I ate my lunch.”
“He’s absolutely right.”
“He’s not right.” Patrick leaped to his feet and glared. “Pierce is only a servant. He must do as I say.”
She was flabbergasted. “Who on earth told you such a thing?”
“Nobody had to tell me. Mrs. Trevlyn and Charlotte and Bettina yell at the servants all the time.”
“Not Pierce they don’t.”
“Maybe not, but all the others.”
That much was true, Evleen thought grudgingly. She was constantly appalled at the rude, unfeeling way the Trevlyn ladies treated their servants. “I cannot argue, Patrick, but are you a sheep? Mama taught us to be kind and courteous to everyone. She taught us to be strong and do what we know in our hearts is right, no matter what the consequences. You reveal a weakness when you follow what other people do and don’t think for yourself.”
“I don’t care.” Patrick crossed his arms over his thin chest and raised his chin. “I shall be the next Earl of Alberdsley, and everyone will have to do my bidding, even you.”
“What?” Fury almost choked her. Her palm itched to slap that arrogant little face, but she had never struck Patrick, and, despite her rage, knew she never would. With a supreme effort, she quelled her hot rush of anger. Actually she was as horrified at herself as much as Patrick. She should have seen this coming, she thought with fearful clarity. While she’d been busy enjoying the delights of London, Patrick had changed from a bright, easy-going boy into this spoiled little prig who placed himself a cut above the rest. And all because of the indulgence of his grandfather. “Who do you think you are?” she asked, her voice shaking. “You must never talk down to the servants. Pierce may be a servant, but he’s older than you, and wiser than you, and you will respect him, Patrick, or . . or...”
“Or what?” Patrick defiantly demanded.
“Or... it’s too terrible to tell you.” She waited, expecting her little brother to blush with shame at her rare castigation, or perhaps even cry. Instead, he regarded her with brazen defiance. “I don’t care what you say, Evleen, I’m the heir. I can do as I please and people have to obey me.”
In shocked silence she took the time to examine her red-haired little brother who had the face o
f an angel, but underneath, had developed the temperament of one of those worthless aristocrats she detested. Hard to believe that back in Ireland, Patrick had been an agreeable, even-tempered child without an arrogant bone in his body. But now... ?
Was having all this richness and privilege worth the trouble it caused? Perhaps they should just go back to Ireland. Evleen could almost laugh, thinking of how long it would take Mama to set Patrick straight. And going back would be good for her, too. She wouldn’t have Montague chasing her about, nor suffer the unpleasantness of the Trevlyns. And perhaps she’d stop thinking about Thomas if she knew for certain she would never see him again.
But it was much too soon to think of going home. Besides, all Patrick needed was a strong male voice to inform him of the error of his ways. But whose voice? Possibly Lord Trevlyn’s, although considering the way he doted on the boy, she doubted he could administer the proper discipline. Regardless, Lord Trevlyn could be of no help now. He had returned to his estate and had not said when he would return. Walter was here, but weakling that he was, he could hardly be called a voice of authority.
There was only one man in all this world whom Patrick not only respected, but downright idolized. How ironic, she mused, that Patrick would not listen to his own sister, but if Lord Thomas were to tell him what to do, he would leap to obey.
If only Thomas were here!
And for many reasons, she mused, many of which had nothing to do with Patrick’s transgressions.
* * *
Late on a warm evening in June, at the ball given by Lady Fitzgibbons at her palatial mansion on Bolton Street, Thomas, who had just arrived from Tanglewood Hall, stood by the side of the dance floor, gazing intently at the dancers.
“She’s here, although I don’t see her,” said Penelope, who stood beside him.
He asked, “What makes you think I’m looking for anybody?”
Penelope tilted her pert nose. “Why the sudden visit to London? Aren’t your precious Thoroughbreds enough company?”
He shot her a teasing glance. “I prefer my horses any day to a certain nagging sister of mine.” A force beyond himself pulled his gaze back to the dance floor. Where was she?
Penelope asked, “Did you know she’s become the most popular belle in London?”
“Who?”
“You know very well who.”
He deigned not to answer as he continued his search. Ah, there she was, dancing with Montague, a vision in a pale yellow silk dress, trimmed with silver.
“Lovely, isn’t she?” remarked Penelope. He nodded briefly, careful he gave nothing away. “I know she’s the reason you’re here, Thomas. What do you plan?”
No use trying to fool her. “I want her,” he said simply.
Penelope drew in her breath and clasped her hands together in a gesture of glee. “What wonderful news! Evleen and I have become fast friends these past few weeks. I so admire her for her honesty, her liveliness, her wit and charm, as well as—” Penelope’s expression switched from ecstatic to doubtful “—oh, dear. You want to marry her?”
“Of course. What did you think?”
“Oh, dear.” Penelope looked crestfallen.
Thomas laughed at his sister’s sudden discomfit. “I know what you’re thinking. I am far from being a prime candidate for her hand, aren’t I? Second son, with but a modest income? On the face of it, my chances are nil.”
“Montague is after her.”
“With all due respect to my beloved brother, Evleen is far too smart to marry such a profligate.”
“But you know her mother wants her to marry well.”
“Never love an Englishman,” Thomas quoted with a wry smile, “just marry a rich and titled one.”
“Then how can you even think–?”
“I don’t have a chance, unless she loves me.”
“Does she?”
“That remains to be seen, doesn’t it?”
Penelope lightly rapped his arm with her fan. “Oh, you can be so exasperating. Why didn’t you tell me? I suspected you liked her, but then when you left London all those many weeks ago, I thought you didn’t care.”
“Never fear, I care all right.” Care enough to risk getting soundly rejected, Thomas thought but didn’t say. Tanglewood Hall had been his retreat, a place where he had expected to find not only peace, but forgetfulness. In his ignorance, he had assumed he could easily erase those tormenting dreams of Evleen and concentrate fully on breeding his Thoroughbreds. Surely Montague would marry. He would then proceed to present Papa with the heir he so keenly desired, and thus relieve Thomas of any further responsibility. Only if Montague remained single, would Thomas consider taking a wife. Not Bettina. He had finally concluded he could not abide spending the rest of his life with such a bubble-head. But if need be, surely he could find some agreeable lady of modest means who would be happy to marry a second son in reduced circumstances.
Such was his plan, but it contained a major flaw. His tantalizing thoughts of Evleen did not fade as expected. As time went by, she increasingly haunted his dreams. When Penelope wrote that Evleen was now the toast of London, the jolting news caused the remnants of his forced, false serenity to quickly evaporate. The thought of Evleen being cajoled, charmed, wheedled and deceived by a bevy of shallow London dandies unleashed such a torrent of angst and apprehension within himself, he was forced to return post haste to London.
She was finishing her dance with Montague, who looked fuddled, he could tell, even from here. Although it was getting late, he still had plenty of time. He would get her alone after supper, lay his heart at her feet, pride be damned, and see what she said.
* * *
“Montague, you’ve had too much brandy,” said Evleen as the dance ended. She looked into Montague’s face, now slack from drink. “Take my advice and go home.”
“Me, foxed?” Montague regarded her with blurry eyes. “Ridiculous. I’m as sober as a vicar.”
He staggered, ever so slightly, but enough for her to notice. “You see? And whatever you do, don’t try dancing again.” Her toe still smarted from where Montague had stamped upon it.
Montague replied, “I assure you, my wild Irish beauty, I am totally in control. Matter of fact, I rather hoped you would take supper with me.”
“I think not.” Disgusted, she tried to back away, but he took her arm.
“You’re so beautiful, Evleen,” he said, voice thick from drink. His gaze dropped from her eyes to her shoulders to the exposed top of her breasts where it lingered, frankly assessing. “Such beauty needs to be caressed, to be kissed, to be—”
“Oh!” Evleen cried, so revolted she yanked her arm away. “Go home and sober up, Montague.”
As Evleen spun around and headed for the side lines, she felt several pairs of eyes upon her. She felt mortified the disagreeable scene had been witnessed by several people, but what could she expect? They had, after all, been standing in the middle of the dance floor.
When she reached the side lines, she found Lydia Trevlyn staring at her with cold, questioning eyes. “What did you say to Montague?”
“Mrs. Trevlyn, Montague is extremely foxed, I believe is the way he put it.”
“I can hardly believe that. Besides, was that any reason to be rude?”
“You did not hear what he said.”
“I didn’t need to hear.” Lydia slowly shook her head, as if dumbfounded Evleen could do such a thing. “Tis beyond me how you could have shown such ill manners to the future Marquess of Westhaven, and right in front of everybody.”
Evleen wondered what a title had to do with an absolute boor, yet she maintained her calm. Let Lydia condemn her, she knew she had performed with admirable restraint. “I regret that you feel that way, but I did what I had to do.”
Mercifully, the innocuous Lord Edgemont approached at that moment and asked her dance. She swiftly said yes, thankful to get away from Lydia Trevlyn. He asked her to take supper with him, which gladly she did. After, she was approach
ing the chaperones, girding for another confrontation with Lydia, when she heard a voice behind her that stopped her in her tracks.
“Wait, Evleen.”
Thomas. Her heart leaped in her chest.
From close behind her, his breath warm on her ear, she heard, “Have you time for an old friend?”
Slowly she turned, giving herself time to recover from her shock. By the time she faced him squarely, she had regained her composure enough to playfully remark, “He leaves, he doesn’t say goodbye, he doesn’t write.” Jamming one gloved hand to her hip, she went on, “Some old friend indeed.”
Laughing easily, he remarked, “I hear you’re the toast of London these days.” He gave her a mocking bow. “Must be thrilling, all those men begging for so much as a glance, a dance, a smile.”
Enough of silly banter, she thought as she burst, “I’m so happy to see you. How long will you be in London? I suppose you came to see the horses at Tattersalls?”
“Not really. I came to see you.”
“Oh.” At a loss for words, she noticed she’d been frenziedly and quite unconsciously, fluttering her fan, a sure giveaway of her inner excitement. She snapped it shut and took a moment to collect herself. I am so attracted to this man, she thought, finally admitting the truth to herself. Judging from the intensity of his gaze, she hoped she might be receiving more than a casual answer to her next question. “And just what did you want to see me about?”
Thomas opened his mouth to answer, but was jostled by the pressing crowd. The continual noise had been loud enough, but now it was deafening, what with the murmur of the crowd, the announcement of the last dance of the evening, followed by the orchestra starting to play the last song. Grimacing, he glanced about. “This is impossible. I do want to speak with you, Evleen. I shall call on you tomorrow.” At her quick nod, he said goodnight and melted into the crowd.
The Irish Upstart Page 21
