“Because what?”
“Everyone expects it of me.”
“So? Your life isyoursto lead. Not theirs.”
“And how else will I find a husband?” she had asked, exasperated that he couldn’t see things from her perspective—and some small part of her hoping he would hear that and jerk away from the idea. Revolt. Tell her she would be marrying no one but him.
Instead, a gleam in his eye she couldn’t quite identify, he said, “You needn’t marry if you don’t want to. Strikes me as a dull thing to do.”
She hadn’t bothered telling him that it was all very well for a young, indolent man to say such things, but far less acceptable for a lady. She hadexpectations.A mother who was so excited about her daughter’s entry into society that she could hardly contain herself. A proud father.
Of course, there were pressures weighing on him too, she later understood. Both the pressure to marry and the expectation that he would step into his father’s shoes, shedding his own skin as he did so. A different form of pressure executed in different ways, and yet similar all the same.
She had not known his thoughts, just as he had not known hers.
Your life is yours to lead. Not theirs.
Such simple words, uttered carelessly in the moment, discarded the way he had discarded pieces of apple peel, never imagining she would pick them up and treasure them for near twenty years.
Her vision sharpened. How stupid she had been all this time, believing shecouldnot, merely because other people would not think she should.
She was no longer eighteen, clinging to the desperate hope that Charles would swoop in and save her from her fate—yet convinced even then he would make a terrible, scandalous husband. For twenty years, she had pined in silence, content with the pieces of himself he’d given her, because they’d been so much more than he’d offered anyone else.
But now she knew better. Now she understood: he was an excellent friend and lover, and for her, he would have been an excellent husband. Perhaps not then, but now—if she had allowed herself to accept his hand in exchange for his seduction.
But she had not. Her realisation had come too late. Because if Lady Rosamund had been invited to the party in the expectation of a proposal, Charles could not fail to follow through. And if Evelyn confessed even a hint of her feelings, she suspected he would throw the girl over just to save her some heartbreak.
Tempting as it was, she could not allow him to do that. Things had come this far—hehadto choose Lady Rosamund.
Still, the thought hurt. In her desperation not to be a second choice, Evelyn had thrown away her chance to be his first.
“I’ve been a fool,” she whispered.
“Well, so are we all fools sometimes,” her father said, half asleep.
Chapter Fourteen
Acarriage was waiting for them when they arrived at the tiny village of Havercroft. The station was nothing more than a single platform, a Ticketmaster dozing in his tiny hut. Thankfully, two footmen stood to attention, waiting for them. Evelyn allowed them to assist her father from the train into the carriage.
She remained silent as they rumbled along the country lanes to her best friend’s estate. Her father, exhausted even from this small journey, dozed. It was better that way. The last thing she wanted was to make conversation when her heart was in such a state.
Her nerves frayed as they came in sight of the house. Snow drifted from the heavy sky like petals.
She could not endure remaining in the house as he married Lady Rosamund. But how to leave? Perhaps she could claim sickness?
No, that would worry her father.
She would have to speak with the duchess, explain her unrequited love and why she could not be around Charles and his future bride. Then she would need to give both Charles and herself some space—a chance for her to recover from her ill-fated affection.
As they approached the door, the man himself emerged. Her heart flipped. Tall, thin, his face worn, he no longer resembled a dashing young suitor but a man she wished she had already spent her years with.
The last time she had seen him, he’d had his hands all over her. He’d watched her with hunger in his eyes, and he had kissed her as though he never wanted to stop again.
“Walter,” he said, holding out his hand for her father to step from the carriage. The footmen descended, blowing on their hands, and retrieved the luggage. “I’m delighted you came. How was your journey? But I can see from your expression that it was wearisome. Come, come, let me get you in the warmth. And Evie.” He turned to her, awareness lighting his gaze, and she felt that she must be blushing like a fool, like a debutante in her first Season. “You came,” he murmured. “I was not sure you would.”
She took his hand, allowing his fingers to curl around hers. This would be their final stand, the last time she came to this charming mansion, with its worn brick and uneven windows. “You know you left me with little choice.”
“And for that I apologise.” His eyes searched hers. “I’ve made mistakes, but I hope you can come to forgive me for them in time.” He squeezed her hand before releasing her, his voice low as his butler carefully escorted her father into the building. “I’m glad you came. I have something to say to you. Wait for me in the hall? I won’t be long.”
