“I can well understand the sentiment,” Lady Eastlake commented. “Time seems to travel with far too much haste.”
The marchioness’s color was improved today, Everett thought as he considered Sybil’s mother across the table. Yesterday, she had been pale and wan and weary, no doubt from the travel but perhaps also from what she had endured, the likes of which Sybil had only hinted at.
“If only to return to those days for even a moment,” his mother said with a wistful smile. “So much possibility ahead of us.”
“No arthritis to hinder our every step,” the marchioness added.
He hoped Lady Eastlake was able to find a respite here in London, both from her bastard of a husband and from her ailments. Regardless of what Sybil had done, he harbored no ill will against her mother, who had always seemed a lovely woman, caring and considerate, with a kindly disposition. Certainly, she had deserved far better than a callous, vicious arsehole like Eastlake for a husband. And Sybil had likewise deserved a far better father, a true man who would never have raised his hand against her.
Rage boiled up inside him at the reminder, making Everett reach for his wine. He would dearly like nothing more than to beat the Marquess of Eastlake to a bloody pulp for what he’d done. But then, he reckoned that would make him no better.
“But of course, there is much to be celebrated at this age,” his mother continued, beaming at first Everett and then Verity. “One’s children are the true joy of life.”
“The greatest gift,” Lady Eastlake echoed, sparing a warm glance for Sybil, who looked back at her mother with a fond smile.
For a stupid moment, Everett found himself wondering what it would be like to be the recipient of such warmth from his wife. But then he forced himself to remember that her lover knew. She had bestowed the fullness of her love and favor upon the bloody footman, whilst withholding it from the man she had married. He wondered again why she had wed him. Had it been to escape her father’s iron-fisted, tyrannical rule?
Had she cared for Everett at all?
He told himself it didn’t matter. And yet, he couldn’t help but to question, even as he hated himself for his perennial weakness where Sybil was concerned.
“What of the Earl and Countess of Orrey?”Mamanasked next, her mind obviously lingering on her beloved duty of planning for the social whirl.
Damn it, he’d thought to avoid his entanglement in this infernal ball of hers altogether.
“Lord and Lady Orrey gift a substantial sum to the Children’s Foundling Hospital each year,” Verity offered. “Speaking of which, brother, you should have seen how all the children were in awe of Sybil today.”
Everett ought to have taken his dinner elsewhere.Thatwas what he could see.
One day. They had been in residence in London for the entirety ofone bloody day, and already, Verity was apparently gadding about with his wife and referring to her by her given name as if they were old chums.
He cleared his throat, measuring his response. “I wasn’t aware that Her Grace had ventured to the orphanage.”
“No doubt you weren’t,” Verity said. “You left breakfast this morning as if your chair suddenly caught fire.”
He glared at his sister, wondering if his wife had cast her spell upon Verity now too. “I had business to attend to, and I could not keep it waiting.”
In truth, he’d not done anything of great import. He had gone for a ride, and then he had paid a call upon the Duke of Brandon, then Camden as well. The latter visit had been intriguing for the African Grey parrot that had issued stinging insults with a sharper tongue than any gossip-loving dowager. The parrot in question belonged to Camden’s wife and possessed a penchant for referring to Cam as agormless shite, much to Everett’s amusement. After that, he had gone to the Black Souls Club, where he clearly ought to have taken his dinner instead of dutifully coming home.
For if he had supped in peace, he wouldn’t have had to endure further discussions of guest lists or hear his sister wax on about how much the poor orphans at the Children’s Foundling Hospital adored his traitorous wife.
And shewastraitorous, he reminded himself sternly. He must not forget that, nor must he forget the sight of her, wrapped in a footman’s embrace just after their wedding breakfast.
“Business,” Verity repeated in a tone that suggested she very much did not believe him.
“Matters of great import,” he told her coolly. “We cannot all waste our time flitting about with children.”
“I would never refer to time spent with the orphans at the Children’s Foundling Hospital as a waste,” Verity chided, hurt lacing her voice.
“Forgive me,” he apologized at once. “Of course your work at the orphanage is of incredible importance, sister.”
Blast. He hadn’t meant to pay her insult or to be callous. He was just at sixes and sevens over how completely he had lost his head for Sybil last night. He still didn’t know what he’d been thinking, abandoning restraint as he had. Worse, he wanted to do it again this evening. That was the heart of what was making his necktie too tight, what made him squirm in his seat with the need to flee, what was rendering his mood so dire and his tongue so sharp.
It wasn’tMamanand her insistence upon prattling about the ball he had no wish to host. It wasn’t being forced to endure a dinner with a gaggle of females for companionship.
It was the effect his wife had on him.
The woman he had been doing his utmost to ignore for the duration of the dinner thus far. Impossible not to notice her. She was dressed elegantly in a green evening gown with a demure bodice, one that somehow served to intensify the gray mysteries of her eyes.
