“Then let us go,” she said sweetly, “and ruin a perfectly good evening together.”
“As long as there are no quadrilles.”
“Oh, therewillbe quadrilles.”
He groaned, quietly and for her ears alone, as they stepped into the corridor. And Evelyn smiled, for even among the glittering artifice of theton, she would not be alone tonight.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The waltz soared into a glittering crescendo, and Evelyn turned her head just in time to see the Viscount of Firth descend the staircase like a stage actor arriving too late for the final act. He was alone.
Evelyn’s breath caught, her gloved fingers tightening imperceptibly around her fan. Her gaze swept the entrance once more, but Matilda was not there. No flash of pale lavender silk which was Matilda’s favorite shade. No familiar laugh. No hesitant smile. There was onlyhim.
And suddenly, the air inside Lady Weatherby’s ballroom grew thin.
The Viscount’s appearance was precisely as she remembered: painfully polished. He was all gleaming in royal blue satin and excessive confidence, a smug smile tugging at the corners of his lips as though he were enjoying a private jest at everyone else’sexpense. A jeweled pin glimmered at his cravat, unnecessarily large like everything about him.
Pretension embodied.
He moved with calculated grace, the arrogance in his posture suggesting that he still believed half the ton owed him reverence for some obscure, possibly fabricated, link to royal blood. Evelyn had always thought he looked like a portrait of a man who imagined himself a king but lacked the presence to rule anything save his own mirror.
Her mother’s voice broke through the crackling tension.
“No Matilda,” Lady Brimwood murmured, worry threading through her tone like a pulled stitch. “Odd. They were meant to arrive together.”
Evelyn’s mouth was dry. “Perhaps she was delayed.”
Perhaps she was forbidden.
She saw it now, clear as a slap to the face, how verylittleshe’d seen of her sister. Not since that wretched day the Viscount returned with Matilda on his arm like a prize, smug and victorious. Evelyn had never truly spoken to her since it all happened. And now, regret pooled in her throat like ash.
She should have asked the questions that tormented her night after night. She should have written. She should have demanded answers.
A flash of green caught her eye as the Viscount made his way toward them, gliding across the ballroom like a serpent through grass. Every pair of eyes turned to follow his path. Evelyn felt her mother straighten beside her, her spine rigid with polite anticipation.
He reached them and bowed low, all in unnecessary flourish. “Lady Brimwood. Your Grace.”
He looked up at Evelyn then, his eyes gleaming like glass, reflecting nothing but his own satisfaction.
“May I say, Your Grace, you are a vision,” he said, his voice a velvet drawl. “It appears marriage has only added to your brilliance. The stars must truly envy your radiance tonight.”
Evelyn fought the urge to gag. She managed a smile instead, as sharp as a knife, civil and entirely unamused. “And you, My Lord, are as flattering as ever.”
“I try.” He turned then to Lady Brimwood. “I’m afraid Matilda was feeling somewhat… indisposed. She sends her regrets. I came on our behalf.”
Evelyn felt her stomach twist.
Indisposed or locked away?
“Oh,” her mother murmured with concern flitting across her features. “That is unfortunate. I hope she recovers quickly. Will she not come later?”
The Viscount gave a polite, indifferent shrug. “I fear not. Best to rest, you understand. Fragile things, nerves.”
Evelyn’s fingers curled at her side. Matilda had never been fragile. Nervous, yes. Gentle, often. But not fragile. The lie rang clear as a bell.
And then, as if he sensed the moment and wished to ruin it completely, the Viscount turned to Evelyn with an oily smile.
“Would Your Grace honor me with this dance?”
