“By whose accounts?” Sebastian asked, curiosity pricking.
“A friend,” Nicholas said, colouring. “A friend of Miss Caldwell. Although—well—perhaps she is something of a friend to me, too.” He trailed off, crimson.
Sebastian raised a brow. “I trust she is… polite and affable too?” he teased.
“Oh, yes. Exceedingly,” Nicholas laughed.
They were both laughing as Nicholas stood and exited, excusing himself to go riding.
They were still smiling when Nicholas excused himself to prepare for the ride.
Sebastian returned to the accounts, focusing this time with greater success. Sunlight brightened through the curtains; he must have been working for nearly an hour. Gemma and William were likely gone by now—perhaps Evelyn with them.
An image of Evelyn came unbidden—wearing the new gown he had commissioned for Lord and Lady Elridge’s annual ball. It was going to be blue, that was all that he knew about it. Blue silk and made in the most fashionable style. That was what he had ordered.
His mind ran to flights of fancy, imagining her in a low-cut blue gown, the thin silk falling like water from a high waistband.She would smile up at him, and he would take her in his arms, his hands moving over the soft silk, drawing her close as his lips sought hers eagerly, her chest straining against the thin silk of the fabric to press against his firm chest.
He sighed, then pushed the thought firmly from his mind.
“Do not be absurd,” he muttered. She was wary of him—and rightly so. And he had sworn never to lose himself to such entanglements. For his own sake, hemustkeep that vow.
He pushed the thought aside, forcing his attention back to the figures before him. There was work to be done—and promises to keep.
Chapter Eleven
Evelyn stared at her reflection in the looking glass. She swallowed hard, feeling apprehensive. Her silk dress swayed when she moved, the fabric cool against her skin.
“You are certain that this is a modish style?” she asked her maid unsurely.
Miss Heathfield smiled. “Yes, your Grace. A looser chignon is considered most fashionable nowadays.”
“Thank you,” Evelyn murmured distractedly. Usually, matters of fashion did not concern her overly much. But being Duchess of Brentfield brought with it a range of expectations that she could not begin to understand and that made her afraid. She stared at her reflection again.
The dress she wore was turquoise, its fashionable high waist topped by a bodice with a low, oval neckline that showed more skin than she would ever have chosen. The sleeves were little puffs of gauze, the long skirt falling smoothly to her ankles, cool silk brushing her skin. She studied the gown—easily the most beautiful and fashionable she owned. Sebastian had ordered it made for her, and she hoped that it was suitable. Since she had attended so few balls, she had no idea what was fashionable any longer.
She examined her face. Her pale skin looked paler still against her dark hair, arranged in loose curls that brushed her cheeks, the back gathered into a chignon held with a pearl clasp. Her large dark eyes stared back at her with unmistakable anxiety.
“Where are my gloves?” she asked.
“I will fetch them, your Grace,” Miss Heathfield replied, retrieving a thin pair of satin opera gloves from the wardrobe.Evelyn slipped them on; the fabric clung cool and smooth to her skin. She swallowed.
“Thank you. I will go to the stairs to wait,” she murmured.
“Of course, your Grace. I will see to your chamber for your return.”
“Thank you,” Evelyn murmured.
She stepped into the hallway, closing the door softly behind her. Her heart raced, her palms damp. It was her first ball as the Duchess of Brentfield, and that frightened her.
As Miss Caldwell, she had passed through most assemblies in near obscurity. As a duchess—even at a neighbour’s ball—she would be the object of scrutiny. She had been a duchess scarcely a week; it still felt unreal.
She drew in a breath and walked toward the stairs.
“Gemma!” she greeted warmly as Sebastian’s sister came into view. “Good evening.” She dropped a light curtsey. Gemma returned it with an affectionate smile.
“You look ravishing,” Gemma declared. “A fine choice.”
“Thank you,” Evelyn murmured. The Dowager Duchess’s earlier critiques had lodged like splinters in her mind, making her painfully conscious of every detail. “Your gown suits you wonderfully,” she added, meaning it.
