“You are staring,” Quentin observed.
“I am surveying the room.”
“You are surveying your wife. There is a significant difference, and I am enjoying both.”
A cluster of guests parted, and a couple approached. The Duke of Carden stepped forward with his wife on his arm. The Duchess of Carden inclined her head to Evander.
“Blackholm. It has been too long.” He clapped Evander on his shoulder.
“Carden. Your Grace.” Evander bowed. “May I present my wife, Mary, Duchess of Blackholm. Mary, the Duke and Duchess of Carden.”
“Please, call me Rose.” The Duchess of Carden smiled at Mary. “I have been looking forward to meeting you. Felix tells me your husband is among the most stubborn men in England, and I wanted to meet the woman brave enough to marry him.”
“Brave or reckless,” Mary said. “The jury is still out.”
Rose laughed. “I like her already.”
“How are the children?” Evander asked.
“Lizzie has discovered the word ‘no’ and uses it for everything,” Felix said. “Julian sleeps through the night, which we consider a miracle. Rose threatened to write a pamphlet on the subject.”
“I was not joking,” Rose said. “Every new mother in London would buy a copy.”
“Speaking of which.” Felix glanced between Evander and Mary. “We heard about your nephew. If there is anything we can do, you have only to ask.”
“Thank you, Carden. That is appreciated.”
After that, the Cardens moved on. Evander caught Mary watching Rose’s retreating back with an expression he could not quite read. Interest, perhaps. Or longing for the ease with which Rose had spoken about her children, her marriage, her life.
The evening continued. They circulated. Evander kept Mary on his arm and guided her through the currents of the ton with the same precision he applied to everything, and she matched him step for step, her composure steady, her conversation polished.
Then Lord Whitmore opened his mouth.
“Blackholm.” Whitmore was a stout man with an inflated sense of his own importance and a talent for asking the questions others had the good sense to keep to themselves. He planted himself in their path with a glass of claret and a conspiratorial lean. “Quite the situation you’ve found yourself in. The wholebusiness with your brother and the Langham girl. Tell me, is it true the child arrived with?—”
“Lord Whitmore.” Evander’s voice dropped to a register that made the men nearest them stop talking. “My nephew is an infant. My brother and Lady Charlotte are members of my family. My wife is standing beside me.” He took one step forward. Whitmore’s claret glass trembled. “If I hear speculation about any of them, there will be dire consequences. Are we clear?”
Whitmore’s face drained of color. “Perfectly clear, Your Grace. I meant no?—”
“Good.” Evander turned his back on the man and guided Mary toward the far side of the ballroom.
The crowd parted for them.
Mary’s hand tightened on his arm. “You did not have to do that.”
“Yes, I did.”
She looked up at him with deep gratitude.
A few minutes later, Evander noticed that Mary’s hand on his arm had grown tighter, her smile more fixed. Her gaze keptdrifting toward the ballroom doors, and twice she turned at the sound of a voice that was not there.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing. I am fine.”
“You are not fine. You have looked at the door four times in the last ten minutes.”
Mary pressed her lips together. “I have never left Tommy for this long. Not since the day he arrived. Mrs. Bridwell is capable, I know that, but he does not sleep well without someone beside him, and if he cries and I am not?—”
