“You do know,” she began at once, her voice low and sharp, “that the rumours circulating about you are quite unbearable?”
Evelyn stared, shocked. “I—I didn’t—” she began, trying to defend herself. The rumours—whatever they were—had no basis in reality. Even the horrid article that had been written about her contained nothing but wild conjecture.
She tried to speak, to explain the truth of it, but no words arrived on her lips; her throat too tight to talk.
“You are a disgrace to my family,” the Dowager Duchess hissed. “I object most strongly to your displaying yourself beside my son this evening. Drawing attention to your presence is quite unacceptable.”
“What?” The word leapt out of Evelyn in disbelief.
“You have no manners,” the older woman continued coldly. “And despite your alleged upbringing, you possess neither the bearing nor the refinement expected of a duchess.”
Evelyn stared at her in horror. Unbidden, her fingers found the pearl at her neck—her grandmother’s gift, which she never removed. She recalled that refined, wise lady and words sprang to her lips; angry words.
“I beg your pardon,” Evelyn said, her voice shaking but steady enough. “But you have no right to speak to me so. I am part of this family now. There is no reason—nor any truth—in—”
“Howdareyou address me in such a manner?” the duchess snapped. “Get you hence.”
The words were delivered with the dismissive sharpness of a command to a servant.
Evelyn swallowed hard. “I should very much like to,” she whispered. “Pray excuse me.”
She turned and walked swiftly toward the doors, blinking back tears. She wouldnotcry in front of everyone. Not here.
Outside, there was a thin terrace and steps that led down into the garden. She leaned on the stone railing, catching her breath. She was sobbing, shock and rage mingling in her to make tears that she could not hold back. She was aware of voices, and she knew that even outside, there were a few curious onlookers.
She turned and walked down the terrace steps into the garden. There in the darkness, she could at least have a moment away from prying eyes to express how she truly felt.
Chapter Twelve
Sebastian gazed around the ballroom. He felt dazed, and his eyes scanned the space, searching for a blue dress and the sweet, dark-haired lady who wore it. From the moment he had seen her on the stairs, his breath had caught in his throat. She was beautiful—every bit as lovely as the way he had imagined her when he had ordered the dress. He could not get her out of his thoughts.
“I say, old chap!” a man beside him exclaimed, dragging him back to the present. “Hot in here, is it not? Horridly hot.”
“Yes, it is,” Sebastian replied mildly.
“Not like the East Indies, old boy. Not like the East Indies,” another man added. Sebastian nodded and attempted to follow their conversation about the Ascot races and betting prospects. But his thoughts wandered—again—to Evelyn. He longed to speak with her, to feel her hand in his.
The music of the waltz still thrummed through him, stirring an inferno of emotion. He could not stop thinking about her. He recalled the soft feel of her fingertips brushing against his, the silk cool; the way that her body moulded to his. He had felt an overwhelming desire to draw her against him, holding her in his arms and feeling her sweet, sensual body touch his.
“Excuse me,” he said abruptly. Gemma was attempting to catch his eye—an excellent excuse to escape discussions that held no interest for him. He crossed the ballroom toward her. Nicholas stood beside her, along with a young lady whom he distantly recalled having seen at the previous ball. He recalled that she was an acquaintance of Evelyn’s. He bowed distractedly to her and turned to Gemma.
“Is aught the matter?” he asked her.
“Is aught the matter?” he asked.
“I wished to ask if you knew where Evelyn had gone,” Gemma said softly. “I saw her slip through the ballroom in some distress. We thought she might be unwell.” Her brow creased with worry.
Sebastian’s heart lurched. “Where did she go?”
“In that direction,” Nicholas told him, inclining his head.
Sebastian thanked them and moved at once, his gaze already sweeping the room for a flash of blue silk and dark hair.
He did not see her among the group near the doors. He hesitated only briefly before stepping out into the night. Cool air met him, sharp after the heat of the ballroom, and he breathed deeply. For a moment, the quiet soothed him. He drifted toward the terrace railing, taking in the shadowed garden below.
Bushes rustled. A faint breeze moved through the tall trees, carrying the scent of damp leaves and dewy earth.
“I need a moment,” he murmured to himself. He could not see Evelyn, and he intended to find her, but the soft, sweet-scented garden was exactly what he needed to calm his confused, troubled senses. He looked around, making sure that he could not spot her, then hurried down the stairs into the garden.
