“Well, yes,” he admitted, and gave a wry smile. “Don’t listen to me. I’m chafing at the bit, but what might be allowable eccentricity for the son of a duke would undoubtedly be inexcusable in you. Here, pass it to me. I’ll drink it for you.”
“You are under no obligation—”
“What possessed you to come out on such a night, anyway?” Tea in his hand, he nodded at the window, through which she saw a flurry of snow. “You would have been better off at home than here.”
“My father.”
“Ah.” Charles sat in silence for a moment, the peace between them interrupted only by that twanging flat note in their performer’s piece. “Still determined you get your taste of society, then?”
“I think he believes I am more like my mother than I am,” Evelyn said, trying not to let her hurt at the thought show. She had always preferred quiet evenings in, just as her mother had preferred being the centre of attention. Where her mother delighted in the heady crush of balls and routs and soirees, making friends wherever she went, Evelyn enjoyed embroidery and writing letters and other peaceful activities.
Now that her mother was gone, Evelyn sometimes felt the pressure to step into her shoes, but she could not. A simple fact of life that still, sometimes, stung.
“To return to our previous topic of conversation,” she said, determined not to be put off, “I believe it is not unreasonable to assume, or even hope, that there will be some affection in one’s marriage. It is why I have never married.”
He sent her a sharp glance. “Have you received offers?”
“Naturally. That is to say, my father has.”
“And you refused them all?”
“I did.”
Charles’s brows lowered over his eyes. “Why did you not tell me of this? Who was it?”
“No one of concern,” she said gently. “Fortune hunters, mostly. In fact, I believe one I had not yet met in person; he did my father the honour of writing to him to express a wish for my hand in marriage.”
“Good God.”
She hid a smile. “Quite.”
Their performer finished her piece, and the room applauded politely. Evelyn did as was expected of her, then accepted her now empty cup back from Charles.
“I still cannot believe you did not see fit to inform me of this before now,” he muttered, still scowling. “When did this occur?”
“Many years ago now. When I still attended balls with any regularity.”
He grunted and they lapsed into silence as another young lady was offered up on the sacrificial altar of performing to a room of disinterested ladies and gentlemen. Evelyn was not surprised to see that Lady Rosamund was the young lady selected, though Charles let out a groan of irritation.
“No doubt I ought to look as though I favour her performance,” he said.
“I suspect it will be excellent,” Evelyn said dryly.
“As though I care for that. You know I don’t have an ear for music. She could be deaf as a post for all I care. In fact, I think I would prefer it.”
Lady Rosamund began to play, proving Evelyn right once more: she was an exceptional player. She coaxed the melody from the instrument with deft fingers and an unerring musicality, toying with the rhythm to a degree that made Evelyn’s heart ache a little. To put so much emotion into one’s playing was a rare skill, and one she found so many people lacked.
“She’s rather good,” she said. But she turned to find Charles staring at her.
“You mean to say you could have married by now, and you chose not to?”
“Oh for heaven’s sake. Yes, I could have married, but why should I have married a man who holds no affection for me?”
He snorted. “That is the reality of many marriages.”
“Your parents married for love.”
“They married for convenience’s sake,” he retorted. “And perhaps they came to care for one another after the event, but that does not mean that such affection is guaranteed. They were the lucky ones.” Bitterness laced his tone like acid, and without thinking, Evelyn reached out to rest her hand on his.
