She barely heard the French window open behind her, and when Louis gave a little bark and jumped on her skirt, she flinched so hard she almost fell.
Richard stepped in. “My gardener spotted your carriage on the road. This little fellow has missed you so desperately, I decided to bring him at once. And, I confess, I was eager to see you myself.”
She bent and scooped up her dog, who was leaping around her feet, making happy whining sounds. She cuddled him to her heart and pressed her cheek against his head. His happy licking of her chin made her eyes sting.
“I did not think to see you home so soon,” Richard went on when she didn’t speak. “Is Miss Bennet well?”
“Her parents came home,” she whispered. “They were waiting when we arrived from the Brentwood ball.”
“I see,” he said. There was a long pause. She could see his reflection from the corner of her eye. He wore country clothing, soft and familiar, the way she usually saw him—not the crisp, elegant evening wear he’d worn when he professed himself in love with her. “Were you expecting them?”
“No.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “Someone wrote to Marion about Joan dancing with Lord Burke, and she was worried.”
His footsteps were loud on the flagstone floor. “What happened?” he asked gently, touching her shoulder.
She twisted away. In her arms, Louis struggled, and she put him down. He backed up, looking at her and barking. When she shook her head at him, he ran up the steps and out of the room, yipping for Solly. She didn’t blame him; she wanted to be away from herself, too.
“Evie, what is wrong?”
“There was an argument,” she said, swiping at her eyes with shaking fingers. “Last night. George and Marion were both deeply alarmed, and I did my best to explain... Well, notall,of course, I hardly wanted to tell them about the Brentwood debacle...”
“They could not have known of that,” he said in concern. “Not if they were awaiting your return last night.”
She gave a bitter laugh. “They discoveredthatthis morning! When that evil Lady Crocker wrote to Marion that Joan allowed Burke to debauch her on the dance floor, and then they slunk off together for more sin, and that I almost tore down the house trying to find her—with the strong suggestion that I must have been off doing something very wicked myself to have allowed Joan to be spirited away to ruination.”
“That is hardly what happened,” he countered. “Lady Brentwood would surely tell her?—”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said in despair. “Althea Crocker will spread her version far and wide, and enough people will believe it that it doesn’t matter.”
“Why would she set out to ruin Sir George Bennet’s daughter?”
“Because she has two unmarried daughters of her own, either of whom could use a rich viscount for a husband. Never underestimate the ruthless plotting of a society mama.” She sighed. “And because her dear friend Cynthia Ambrose will applaud anything that pushes me out of society again.”
He was silent for a long moment. “Is there anything I can do? You have only to say the word.”
“No. There’s nothing anyone can do.” Burke, she supposed, could cure most of it by declaring himself madly in love with Joan and begging to marry her. But what if he didn’t love her? Images of Court’s handsome face flitted through her mind, so charming and smiling when seducing her, so dismissive and cold when not. Perhaps Burke would decide he didn’t actually want to marry Joan, now that he’d had her. Perhaps he would despise having his hand forced, and any actual affection he felt would wither away. Perhaps he would never let Joan forget that her father had marched him to the altar under threat of death,and make clear to her that he never would have married her otherwise.
And Joan would be left to hold her head high and try to hide her feelings when people whispered about all the ways she must be disappointing her unwilling husband. That only a scandal could have compelled the viscount to marry her, tall and forward and unfashionably plump. Evangeline’s chest felt so tight she could hardly breathe. Joan deserved better.
“That cannot be true,” Richard said. “Lady Bennet will have friends of her own, ready to defend her daughter.”
“George will go to Burke and—and make demands of him,” she whispered. Again she saw her own father’s face, stony with disapproval and fury, but not surprise. He’d expected to find her in a scandalous liaison.
“Burke cares for Miss Bennet. I doubt Sir George will have to press him?—”
“Does he?” She flung out a hand to stop him. Once her father mentioned pistols at dawn, Court hadn’t protested, either. He’d simply shrugged as he buttoned his breeches and said,As you like. He’d known he wouldn’t be faithful, affectionate, or even kind to her, and he’d known it didn’t matter to her father. “Will he still care when he’s forced to wed her? Will he still want her after my brother has called him out? Will he still be kind to her in five years, or ten, or whenever he decides Joan is too old for his taste, or her looks don’t appeal to him, or he simply wants someone new?”
Richard was quiet again. “Evie,” he said at last, “come have a cup of tea.”
She almost stopped breathing. That’s what her mother had said, both times Evangeline had gone to her to protest her father’s edict that she marry first Cunningham, then Court; to plead with her mother for help, for support, for guidance. But her mother, like Marion, had been mortally terrified of anythingdisreputable.Your father knows best,Mama had said anxiously.Don’t make such a fuss, dear, have some tea and you’ll see it’s all for the best...While Evangeline knew it was her last chance to escape.
Her skin felt turned to stone even as guilt and anguish howled inside her. Richard meant well. In a remote corner of her mind, she knew he was being sensible and she was being emotional. But she also knew the toll such emotions could take on a person’s soul.
It was easy for him to dismiss her concerns. He was a man—moreover, a man who had made himself famous by defying rules and propriety. How easy for him to say Burke would do the right thing, that he cared for Joan, that it would all work out in the end. Thingsusuallyworked out well in the end, for men. The main impact upon Burke’s life would be the added expense of a wife. Nothing would stop him from taking a pretty young widow ballooning, or seducing another woman at another ball, or engaging in shocking behavior that scandalized everyone in London. Nothing would stop him from crushing Joan’s lively spirit, from breaking her warm and generous heart, from making the rest of her life a misery.
“No,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. “I—I would like to be alone.”
He shifted. “Very well,” he said, sounding concerned. “I will come back tomorrow.”
