Chapter One
If there was one thing Evelyn Davenport knew for certain, it was that proper, demure young ladies did not propose liaisons of a sexual nature with rakish marquesses. Of course, she was no longer young, and it transpired that she was not particularly proper or demure, either.
At least the marquess in question also had his share of vices—far more salacious than hers. And, crucially, he had plentiful experience in the realm of lovers.
Lovers.
The salacious word slid over her skin, and she shuddered. If she played her cards right, she might join those ranks.
Charles Hardinge, the Marquess of Rotherham and son of the Duke of Norfolk, was also one of her best friends, which made things infinitely more complicated. But if she could find the right words to convince him, he might be persuaded to teach her all the things she had missed in her thirty-seven years of life.
She had no problem with being a spinster.That, she knew, was an unavoidable fact of life. She didn’t even mind being mistress of her father’s house, or caring for him in his old age. These were things that made her useful, and she enjoyed being useful.
But as the years passed and her peers married, she had begun to wonder if there might be other things to life. Not marriage. Not children. Butpleasure. A certain blooming joy that had never touched her—but that she hoped might.
Thus, she had concocted a plan to find something—or someone—who would. Before it was too late.
At a rap on the door, she glanced up. “Come in.”
Charles strode into the room, brushing snow from his greatcoat. “Evie,” he said, bending to kiss her cheek. “You look well. But what’s that awful cap for?”
She touched the cap on her severe bun. “Don’t you like it? It’s perfectly appropriate, you know.”
“I hate it.” He scowled at her, then cast a quick glance at his reflection in the mirror above the fire. As always, the glass returned the image of a man a fraction past his prime, with a lean face and dark hair falling rakishly across his forehead, his temples slightly streaked with grey. His scowl deepened.
“When did I become such an old man?” he grumbled.
Evelyn didn’t bother telling him the wild excesses of his youth were the likely cause. “You’re not yet forty,” she told him, pouring him a glass of port. Better he imbibe something before she get into the matter of why she had invited him here. “Not very much older than I am.”
“Well, in that case, you should remove that ridiculous ornament on your head.”
She only smiled. “I prefer wearing it.”
“Why?” He accepted the port and folded his long body into the armchair beside her own. “It’s unflattering.”
“So is my hair.”
Charles looked at her critically. Although he only had two years on her, he often pretended he had far more wisdom, a trait she found endearing enough to allow. “There’s nothing wrong with your hair, Evie,” he said at last. “Now, why did you summon me here? And why the port?”
Evelyn refrained from patting her hair with some difficulty. She had been in her mid-twenties when her dark hair had first begun greying, and now no hint of colour remained. Even now, though it was somewhat less of an oddity, she felt self-conscious.
“The port is a celebration drink,” she said, deciding to save the subject of seduction for later. “To congratulate you on your forthcoming engagement.”
He scowled. “Not you too. Who have you been speaking with—my mother?”
“The duchess did inform me of your arrangement, yes. And while I am not out and about as much as I once was, I do hear rumours, Charles. Lady Buxton keeps me abreast of all the news. You’ve been paying Lady Rosamund particular attentions. All that remains to follow is your proposal.”
“Between my mother and Lady Buxton, you no doubt have all the gossip in London,” he muttered, tossing his drink back in one. Long fingers toyed with the gold pattern etched into his glass, and Evelyn watched the clever way they moved, fascinated despite herself. Charles had always been rather tall and thin, though he contrived to be elegant despite it, and his hands looked as though they had been designed to play the pianoforte.
Of course, he’d never so much as touched the instrument. Charles had many virtues, but musicality was not one of them.
“Your mother wants nothing more than to see you happy,” Evelyn said.
“She wishes to see me married, and before the year is out. No doubt she thinks marriage will promote my happiness.”
The displeasure in his tone about such a prospect should not have pleased her as much as it did. She attempted to push those unruly emotions back down where they belonged. “Your marriage is not an unreasonable request,” she pointed out.
“Which is why I agreed to the first girl my mother put forward.” He released a heaving sigh. “I ought to sire an heir before I get too much older, and the thought of reaching fifty and picking a bride from the latest flock of debutantes makes me feel ill.”
