Before Evie could formulate any reasonable response, the drawing room doors swung open.
As if their whispered conversation had conjured him, Lord Rothwell entered the room, the five other noblemen guests following in his wake.
A hush fell over the room as the ladies turned as one to assess the gentlemen.
The room became so quiet that Evie heard the rapid thrum of her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Imogen taking in Rothwell with a flicker of interest in her gaze.
“He is the most handsome man I’ve ever seen,” Imogen whispered. “I’ll admit that much.”
Evie bit her lip to keep herself from agreeing too vehemently.
“Shall we have some games and refreshments?” Lady Hepworth stood and moved to the middle of the room. “Let us begin with charades.”
Imogen let out a groan, and Evie felt much the same. But since Evie wasn’t technically one of the ladies invited to participate inthe selection, she thought she might escape the expectation to join in.
Dutifully, Imogen nodded when her mother sent a warning look her way.
“I’ll find you again later,” she said quietly to Evie, “and you can fill me in about who the real Lord Rothwell is.”
Evie shot her friend a parting smile as Imogen sat next to her mother on one of the settees. Lord Peregrine Jameson was selected to perform first, and he and Lady Hepworth convened over the phrase he would attempt to get the guests to guess.
Half an hour later, everyone was consumed with the antics of one of the older noblewomen who’d accompanied her daughter to Carthwaite and performed her clues with as much drama as one would find on a London stage. Evie decided it was her best chance to slip from the room. But a moment later, she felt eyes on her and scanned the room to discover Lord Rothwell’s gaze turned her way.
Evie frowned at him, and that seemed to amuse him even more. A tip-tilted grin flickered at the edge of his mouth. Strange, irritating man.
Luckily for Evie, one of his lady admirers—and she supposed every young lady in attendance was an admirer to some extent—leaned toward him as if to confide some secret, distracting him long enough for Evie to edge toward the open drawing room door.
“We have much the same idea,” Lady Imogen said quietly from behind her. “But I doubt we’ll get more than a moment’s respite even if we manage to escape.”
“A moment might be worth the attempt.”
“You’re not fond of charades,” Imogen said in a sympathetic tone.
“I’m not very good at hiding it, am I?” Evie smiled at her friend, determined to ignore the fact that Rothwell was watching her again.
“I don’t blame you. It’s a tiresome game after a while.” Imogen turned her attention back to the noblewoman who was clearly performingThe Taming of the Shrew, though no one had guessed it yet.
“Agreed, but I also feel a bit superfluous,” Evie admitted.
“It must be odd to observe as all these ladies vie for your childhood friend. Lady Maribel is holding nothing back, it seems,” Imogen nudged her chin toward the petite blonde debutante, though Evie couldn’t miss her.
She seemed the most eager of Rothwell’s prospective brides, and though the aunt who’d accompanied her was taciturn, Lady Maribel made up for it with an overflow of smiles and exuberance. She had no shame about doing her best to capture Rothwell’s attention.
“I suppose he’ll choose her,” Imogen said in a disdainful tone. “Men do seem to like being fawned over.”
“You’re already forfeiting the field to her?” In all the time Evie had known her, Imogen never gave up on anything easily.
“You’re more aware than most of my thoughts on marriage, even if Rothwell is a delicious specimen of a man.”
“Delicious,” Evie repeated the word mindlessly as she watched him.
Lady Maribel leaned toward the marquess again, lifting her fan to speak to him conspiratorially.
“Does he like it?” Imogen asked. “Such brazen attention from ladies.”
“I don’t know,” Evie said honestly. “We aren’t close at all, despite our childhood acquaintance. I tend to avoid him.”
Imogen turned toward her, one dark brow arched. “Did you have a falling out?”
