“You must go,” he said as faint wisps of snow danced against the windowpanes. “It’s February, and there is no better time for a young lady to remember how young she is.”
“But I am not young,” she said calmly.
“Nonsense! Why, when your mother and I were your age—” He stopped abruptly, his face darkening with the memory. His wife, Evelyn’s mother, had passed away eighteen years ago when Evelyn had been a mere girl of nineteen. Just as she had begun her first Season.
That, she often thought, had been the beginning of the end. Her father fell into a decline, mourning the life of the woman he had loved beyond all else, and Evelyn had discovered with devastating clarity how little she resembled the other young ladies of theton. She had not the gift of easy conversation, or of smiling until her cheeks hurt, even when the cause was inane. She could not flatter a gentleman’s ego in the ways Charles had once told her a gentleman required. And she was distressingly blunt.These qualities together made her an outcast. Ladies looked down on her for not following the same unknowable social codes, and gentlemen were disinterested in a lady who would not flirt, flatter, and pretend to be ignorant of their true characters.
“Really, Papa,” she said, drawing his rug up his legs, though they both sat suffocatingly near the fire. “A rout holds no appeal. I should be far happier spending the evening at home with you.”
He fixed her with pale blue eyes, watery yet filled with fire. “You spend too many nights with me.”
“Where else should I spend them?”
“Having fun.”
“That is not my idea of fun.”
“Charles will be there. That boy always looks after you.”
A prickle of anticipation ran through Evelyn at the thought of Charles. The way he had kissed—or at least, she supposed it must have been a kiss—the curve of her neck before stepping back and informing her that she must be discomforted. An unreasonable supposition when she did not, herself, know what she was. And, unusually for him, he had not given her the opportunity to sort through her feelings.
Ordinarily, she disliked someone touching her without prior warning, but with Charles, she had always felt comfortable and safe with the way he had held her hands. They had always been perhaps more free with one another than they ought.
The way he had touched her the previous evening had been a surprise. No, a shock might be a better term for it. And yet, it had not been unwelcome, necessarily. She had just required time to adjust.
Something Charles, who knew her at times better than she knew herself, must have been aware of.
“Charles has no obligation towards me,” she said.
“Nonsense.” Her father glowered at the fire. “He has always been good to you. And his father, you know, would not stand for his son to slight you, not when the duchess and your mother were such good friends. You may be sure Charles will look after you.”
“He has other obligations.” Plus, she didn’t know how things would be between them after her request—and his refusal. When they did meet again, she would rather it not be in public.
“What could be more important than you, pray?”
“Papa.”
“I mean it.”
“Well, he is going to marry, you know. Lady Rosamund.” Who would, no doubt, be there, too. Her stomach turned over again at the thought.
“Bah.”
Seeing further conversation on the matter was fruitless, Evelyn rang for tea.
Unfortunately for her, her father did not have the same reticence.
“I won’t hear of you staying home,” he said as she poured the tea through the strainer and into two cups. “You must go out. I insist on it.”
And that was how Evelyn, the next night, found herself in the middle of Mrs Clarence’s drawing room, listening to a girl of eighteen playing the harp and trying not to wince at the poor intonation. Someone ought to teach the girl how to listen for flat notes—but then again, not everyone had been born with an ear that could detect such things. Fortunately for the girl, the majority of her audience also seemed oblivious.
Evelyn pressed two fingers against her temples. Why the expected mode was to ignore something that caused her positive grief, she didn’t know. And yet it was. When the girl finished, she would be expected to clap and smile and lie through her teeth.
Then, later, the matriarchs of the room—those who noticed—would dissect the poor girl’s failings. It was a distinct cruelty, and one in which Evelyn steadfastly refused to partake. If she had a criticism, she would much rather direct it to the person in question.
“I recognise that face.” Charles slid into the chair beside her. “You are thinking again, and about a subject that displeases you.”
Evelyn jumped slightly, almost dislodging the teacup she had placed on her lap. The liquid sloshed, and she rested a hand on her racing heart. “You scared me.”
