“How, um, long will your family be staying?” she asked.
“They are your family as well,” he said coolly. “After your hasty departure, they were concerned for your well-being. That is why they are visiting.”
“I didn’t mean…” Evie bit her lip as guilt propagated. “They are welcome, of course. I shall make the arrangements.”
“Thank you. I won’t detain you any further.”
He bowed, exiting the greenhouse, and Evie was grateful. Because gazing at his departing figure, she couldn’t hide her longing. Despair and desire played tug-of-war with her heart. Drawing a breath, she tamped down her emotions and left her sanctuary to prepare for the guests.
Chapter Four
“I would like to propose a toast to the hostess.” Lord Marcus Harrington, the Marquess of Blackwood, raised his glass. “For the splendid repast and hospitality.”
Seated next to him at the head of the table, Evie managed a smile. She was fond of her papa-in-law, who had bequeathed his looks and bearing to his heir. Age had added grey to his bronze hair and lines to his handsome countenance, and Evie imagined James would look equally distinguished with time. The marquess’s manner was austere and befitting of a military hero who’d fought Boney and triumphed. He was a man of uncompromising principle, and Evie would have found him intimidating if not for his obvious devotion to his lady and their brood. In private moments with the family, his tenderness and wry humor shone through.
“To Evie,” the marchioness said warmly. “Hostess extraordinaire.”
Positioned beside James at the opposite end, Lady Pandora Harrington lifted her flute with her usual grace. She was the marquess’s ideal counterpart: a sophisticated beauty whose gown of violet taffeta matched her peerless eyes and showed off her lush curves. Her midnight curls, touched with silver, cascaded from a topknot and brushed her smooth cheeks.
While Evie was in awe of Papa, she found the family matriarch even more daunting. Mama was blessed with beauty, brains, and a sultry charm that had made her one of London’s most celebrated hostesses. With Evie, she was kind and generous, more than once offering to be a confidante. Evie had had to resist the urge to confess her secrets…to beg forgiveness when absolution was impossible. Instead, she had kept her distance. For Mama’s warm nature didn’t hide another attribute: she had a mind like a steel trap.
“To Evie,” everyone echoed.
As the family toasted her, Evie felt like a wolf in sheep’s clothing. She was an impostor and didn’t deserve their appreciation or kindness. In truth, she owed them for sheltering her and welcoming her into their fold, and their beaming goodwill added to her guilt. She risked a glance at James. After their icy reunion, they’d been like ships in the night. He hadn’t supped at home last eve. In fact, he hadn’t returned until after two in the morning…not that she’d been listening for him.
What he did was his business. She had no right to interfere. She wanted them to lead separate lives, didn’t she? It was safer that way. That was why she’d run after their night of intimacy: to keep him safe. His mask of civility cinched her throat. To those who didn’t know him, his mood might appear cordial. She knew better. Being a gentleman, he would never air their dirty laundry in public, yet his polished indifference was somehow worse.
Tension whittled away her appetite. She’d chosen the menu with care, but none of the items—which included James’s favorite herbed consommé, roast capon stuffed with chestnuts, and veal sweetbread croquettes—appealed to her. She reached instead for her wine glass.
“You shall have to tell me your secrets,” Mama declared.
Evie’s fingers clenched reflexively around the glass. “I…I beg your pardon?”
“Your decorating secrets, dearest.” Mama cast an approving glance around the dining room. “Your style is exquisite.”
Evie was glad she’d taken care with the details. The chandelier cast a warm glow over the dark-paneled walls, and nary a speck of dust appeared on the gilt-framed landscapes. The table was laid with the best Sèvres china, gleaming silverware, and sparkling crystal. Bouquets perfumed the air, and the elaborate epergne centerpiece featured a pineapple harvested from the greenhouse as well as other exotic fruits and nuts.
“Thank you,” she said. “The credit must go to Hollis.”
She nodded at the butler, who was in the background directing the seamless flow of service à la Russe. As spindly as a scarecrow, Hollis oversaw the household and kept away chaos. In fact, his wide-spaced eyes seemed never to blink, adding to his air of vigilance. Unused to garnering attention, his weathered features turned the color of beetroot.
He bowed. “My lady is too kind. I merely follow orders.”
“Hollis is being modest,” Evie said. “Between him and the housekeeper, I barely lift a finger.”
“Now you are being modest,” Mama chided.
“Not really.”
The truth came with a certain relief. There was freedom in airing her shortcomings. Evie looked at her husband again, and this time their gazes met. There was a flicker in his eyes—candlelight or contempt? Whatever the case, it set off a rebellious quiver in her.
“Ask James,” she heard herself say. “He will tell you.”
Her husband’s reply was even. “What do you wish me to say?”
Above his ruthlessly precise cravat, his jaw had a taut edge. She felt the smoldering heat of his gaze across the length of the table. It was a wonder it didn’t singe the profusions of petals along the way.
“Say whatever you wish about my performance as mistress of the house,” she said.
