“You have a decade before then.”
“I already have a decade more on Lady Rosamund than I’d prefer. The years do not make me any younger.” He glanced towards the mirror again, as though he could repaint his reflection.
Evelyn bit back a smile. “You shouldn’t be so vain.”
“Vain, am I?” He sent her an arch look. “My dear, I am merely a connoisseur of beauty, and I’m disappointed to find mine fades.”
Perhapsshewas not a connoisseur of beauty, but Evelyn found the years had said little about Charles Hardinge. True, his face had changed somewhat—giving him thoughtful lines across his forehead, wicked lines around his mouth. Dissipation, she supposed, wore a man down, smoothed over some corners and made others still harder.
But when he smiled, the open charm of the expression, and the dancing light in the back of his dark eyes, dampened any thoughts that he might have reached—and passed—his peak. The flaring lines around his eyes merely served to highlight their colour; the grey in his hair distinguished him. His mouth, when he was not pressing it into a thin line, was lush in a rare way, softening the severity of his face. It was also perfect for kissing.
Evelyn knew, because she had thought about kissing him often. In part because she found him so impossibly handsome that she could not, at least occasionally, help herself. And in part because she had been in love with him for over twenty years.
It was a worn, comfortable sort of love, like an old pair of slippers, not hampered by unpleasant things like expectations. She knew that whatever their futures brought them, they would not share a life.
He had proposed once, when he’d been too inebriated to know what he was saying. He’d been staying with her father and found her up late, reading in the library. His breath had reeked of ale when he’d leaned over her and told her that they dealt so well together, they may as well make a thing of it. And for a moment, she had been tempted—until she had realised he could hardly stand up straight. So she had refused him, telling him he ought to sleep and think things through before asking her questions of that nature, and he had never broached the subject again.
She doubted he even remembered.
“You should not get married to her if you don’t want to,” she said, because he looked at her as though he wanted her to say something, and the only other thing she could think of to say was how handsome he still was.
“Ah, Evie, my sweet girl. To think you have reached the age where you choose to wear a cap and yet do not understand that we must not always do the things we want to.”
She arched a brow. “It seemsyouhave often done the things you want to.”
“You wound me.” He held a hand to his heart. “No, but let us understand one another, my dear. I am a confirmed bachelor and I have enjoyed my days being such—doing, no doubt, some of the horrid things you’ve heard about.”
“There have been a great number of rumours,” she admitted. Drinking, gambling, and even a drunken bet to sail to the Isle of Man on a yacht categorically not built for the journey. How he’d survived that, she had no idea, but she’d lain awake for a week worrying about him until he’d returned with salt in his hair, a twinkle in his eye, and far richer than he had left.
“I doubt fewer than half are true—and the less sensational half, at that. I’ll confess, however, that I’ve enjoyed my time, and find myself reluctant to relinquish it. But,” he said with a sigh, “I am the son of a duke, much as it pains me to admit it. I must marry. And so must Lady Rosamund. Believe me, we understand each other very well.” He stared into the bottom of his glass, then looked up, eyes narrowed. “But surely you didn’t invite me here to listen to my griping.”
She half smiled, though her heart beat a little faster, and she poured him another drink. “No, Charles. Not precisely.”
He eyed the port as though he thought it suspicious—or perhaps he thought her so—before draining it and putting it on the lacquered table to his right. Then he leant forward, taking her hand in both of his and smiling winningly. “What is it, Evie? You can tell me, you know.”
Easy for him to say, perhaps, but significantly less easy to feel. Her fingers trembled in his, and he tightened his grip. “Evie,” he coaxed, eyes glinting with warmth and fond amusement. “Iknowyou didn’t bring me here, so we can discuss that deathly boring girl I intend to marry.”
“You shouldn’t talk about your future wife that way,” she managed, but failed entirely to free her hand. As a result, her heart gave adisconcerting leap. Not much about her felt comfortable now. Her corset, loosened yetagainthis year, dug into her stomach and chest, and although the neckline of her modest gown practically reached her neck, she felt as though he could see through her.
It didn’t escape her knowledge that he knew precisely what lay underneath a lady’s clothes—far more than even she knew, probably. After all, the only person she had ever seen naked was herself, and she had no way of knowing if her body matched those of other ladies. Her breasts were smaller than many, to be sure, and her waist not nearly as slim as some others, but aside from knowing her figure was not fashionable, she didn’t know what men thought.
Presumably they had preferences. After all, she had developed a preference for tall, lanky men.
Or rather, one specific tall and lanky man.
The teasing look in his eyes gentled, and he released his hold on her hand. “Too much, Pidge? Want me to stay quiet for a while?”
She shook her head. “It’s unseemly to call me that.”
“It was unseemly for a twelve-year-old girl to catch a disease-riddled pigeon and attempt to turn it into a pet, but did that stop you?”
“I read about messenger pigeons,” she protested, smiling faintly. The pigeon had been another faux pas, one her mother had despaired over—but when she’d told Charles, he’d roared with laughter. The name Pidge had been born thereafter, to her dismay and secret pride, and it had stuck.
Four years passed before she realised she might love him, by which point she knew it was too late to do anything about it. Charles’s character was set as a flirt, to the disappointment of his father, and Evelyn was . . . well, she was Evelyn. And there was little she could do about that, either.
“Drink?” he asked, holding up his glass and pouring her a little in the bottom. “That might calm your nerves.”
She shook her head. “I dislike port.”
