A Notorious Countess Confesses (PG7) (20 page)

She was standing with Miss Josephine Charing, and together they were perusing what appeared to be dance cards. She hadn’t yet seen him. Though the force of his gaze really ought to have spun her around like a weather vane.

Colin followed the direction of his eyes. “Miss Amy Pitney is looking very well tonight,” he said wickedly.

Adam didn’t hear him.

“I fear you’re about to make straight for her, Adam. See, there you go, one step, two steps … one more step, and I officially accuse you of losing your head … Adam!”

Adam halted. He had been heading in her direction. As though she were gravity and he’d been given no option but to obey her laws.

He exhaled. And turned to look at Colin. Who was staring at him. And for once Colin looked somber. “Old man …”

Adam made an impatient sound. Shook his head once sharply.

Colin seemed at a loss. “Just … realize that everyone here watches everything. They’ll watch you, Adam.”

As a warning, it didn’t penetrate.

“I’ve changed my mind about the brandy,” Adam told him shortly.

Colin gave him one last, long look.

Adam didn’t notice when Colin abandoned him for the brandy, shaking his head.

“I THINK YOU should look simple,” Henny had advised her. “Blend,” she’d added with less confidence, for it was of a certainty Eve never would be anything other than conspicuous. And so her dress was plainly cut, her hair was done up in a simple knot; she didn’t look as though she were trying. To be seen, or to lure, or to ensnare, or to corrupt. No nun would ever behave so faultlessly tonight, Evie decided.

She knew the eyes were on her anyway, in the form of darting glances. She was accustomed to eyes. She was accustomed to acting the way she needed to act. She would contrive to be so excruciatingly uneventful they would soon seek relief in their own private dramas and hopes, for every ballroom inevitably magnified them, this she knew from experience.

Over the past fortnight, she’d won them—very nearly—and they her, though they still treated her somewhat gingerly. Several ladies had called upon her. She’d visited the O’Flahertys several more times. She made appearances in church, and didn’t fall asleep. And for perhaps the first time in the history of Pennyroyal Green, Lady Fennimore had heartily, vocally approved of someone, which they ought to have seen as a warning rather than an endorsement, Evie thought.

“He hasn’t yet arrived.” Amy Pitney was avidly watching the entrance to the ballroom. “He’s staying with friends nearby, and I know they’re all coming. Oh, he’s difficult to miss, I assure you. He’s handsome the way the Everseas are handsome—you know, the sort of handsome that makes your head swim a bit the first time you see it? It’s alarming, really, sometimes. But … do you know, I think he intends to speak to papa tomorrow night.”

She was talking about her suitor, but her eyes kept drifting toward a young man standing amidst a group of other young men surrounding Miss Josephine Charing. Who seemed to be chatting gaily—her mouth moved and moved and moved. But she stopped now and again, and listened with flattering attention to one of them.

The young men were drinking it in like nectar.

Something tensed in Miss Pitney’s face. With an effort, she fought it back. Evie suspected it was her heart giving a yearning lunge toward its beloved and being yanked firmly back.

“Are you acquainted with that young man?” Eve asked casually.

“That’s Mr. Simon Covington. We grew up together as neighbors. I’ve known him … my entire life.” She said it flatly.

In that sentence, Evie sensed a world of things.

“He really cares for that featherhead. God knows why,” Amy added tersely.

“And you care for him,” Eve said easily.

Miss Pitney’s eyes widened. She pressed her lips together hard. And then she surrendered with a sigh. “How did you know?”

“I’ve powers of observation of my own, Miss Pitney.”

Amy’s smile was bittersweet. “I always have, you know. Cared for him. I’ve watched him moon after Josephine since she acquired … what now fills her bodice. About the age of fourteen.”

“Do you suppose she has admirable qualities, too?” Evie said dryly. “You see, Miss Charing, I believe you’re clever enough to understand me when I say that I know a bit about the pleasures of being reduced to the sum of my parts. Of being as much desired as despised for it. It’s as unfair as being overlooked because you don’t believe you’re pretty.”

Miss Pitney blinked. Eve had the sense that no one had ever spoken so bluntly to her before.

She had the grace to flush. She sighed. “Very well. Josephine is generally quite kind. She’s a good daughter, she genuinely cares about her work for the Sussex poor, she’s loyal to her friends, and she was a friend to me for so long that I miss her … but she doesn’t even see him, and I find that unforgivable. He’s quiet and clever and thoughtful and … so much more. And I know that he suffers when he watches her eyes follow the vicar everywhere, or when the other boys natter on. He doesn’t tell me, of course. But I know that he does.”

“I’ve quite come to terms with the fact that he doesn’t care for me the way I care for him. And likely never will. I’m not a ninny, you know. I’m not like Josephine, who despite her circumstances—that’s her only ball gown, you know, and you can see where she picked out the hem and resewed it—still wants to marry for love. One must be practical about such things.”

She hiked her stubborn chin. As if she could imperiously order her feelings into alignment.

Evie knew that clever girls often tried to talk themselves out of heartbreak. But she’d never before heard her own philosophy reiterated—one must be practical about such things—and it shocked her to discover how distasteful she found it. She wouldn’t wish it upon someone she cared for, and yet she’d lived her entire life in precisely that way.

Of necessity, she’d told herself. Perhaps it once had been. She wondered if necessity had evolved into habit, then into cowardice, somewhere along the way.

“Ye might allow yerself to give it a try,” Henny had said to her.

At the very thought, Evie suddenly she felt adrift, exposed and nervous and overwhelmed, like a child who’d escaped into a crowded ballroom out of sight of its parents. So little was new to her, and this was. And it wasn’t something she could learn by imitation.

Her eyes restlessly searched the crowd again, as they’d done from the moment she’d arrived.

At last.

Adam Sylvaine stood across the room, watching her with an expression that ignited her heart like a firework. It seemed to leap and burst, all glory and disaster.

Don’t look at me like that, she desperately wanted to say to him. He was illuminating her with that gaze as surely as if he’d aimed a lantern at her.

Surely, it would draw all eyes.

She turned her head away with extraordinary effort, a motion that felt almost unnatural. And for a moment she was a captive of her racing heart.

To find Miss Pitney watching her steadily. Eve was nonplussed to realize she was unaware of whether seconds or an eternity had passed while she was locked in a gaze with the vicar. And Miss Pitney gave her no clue.

She took a steadying breath. At least now she knew what to say to Miss Pitney.

“The way you feel about Simon, Miss Pitney … is the way your suitor should feel about you. It seems you want the best for him no matter what, and if what’s best for him means Miss Charing returns his regard … so be it. It’s up to you to decide whether he does, and what to do with the information when you have it, of course.”

She seemed to like this information.

“I shall introduce you when he arrives.” She smiled. It was the smile that made Amy Pitney genuinely pretty, and Eve found herself hoping that her suitor would make her do it often.

EVE DECIDED TO visit the punch bowl. She found Miss Charing standing near it, eyeing a row of sandwiches with a certain wistful longing. She turned and brightened when she saw Eve.

“Oh, good evening, Lady Wareham! I’m so delighted you could come. I’ve done it, you know. I’ve gone about finding things to appreciate in gentlemen this evening. I even found something to appreciate in Mr. Henry Grundy. Which wasn’t easy to do, mind you. And I do believe he wears stays, in order to button his shirt over that belly of his.”

Eve laughed. “Truly? That’s heartening news, Miss Charing. What did you find to like?”

“I admire his doggedness in attending every entertainment now that he’s a widower. It’s rather touching, isn’t it? So I told him I quite admired his stamina.”

“You didn’t! And what did he do?”

“Well, do you know …” She leaned forward and confided. “He blushed. And he requested a dance, so very sweetly. I would give it to him, but my card is entirely filled. So I apologized. Perhaps you’d like to dance with him? Since you are not interested in acquiring another husband or in any men at all, it would be a kindness to dance with all the men who don’t need wives or who otherwise might find partners other than willing. And you are so kind.”

You are so kind. She was nonplussed and quite pleased to be seen this way.

“How novel to be a consolation prize! What a pleasure it would be to be so useful. I’ve always wanted to dance with a man who wore a girdle.”

Josephine smiled uncertainly, clearly undecided whether Evie was joking. God bless the literal-minded, Evie thought.

“And do you know … I’ve found something to appreciate in Mr. Simon Covington. I stopped to pay attention, you see.”

Evie followed Josephine’s gaze across the ballroom. Simon Covington, lean as a sapling, was watching her with soulful, dark eyes, the most appealing feature in his long, sensitive face.

“He listens very well. Which is thoughtful, don’t you think? And his eyes are …” Josephine drifted. “They’re brown,” she said dreamily.

“They certainly are,” Evie agreed.

“And he laughs when I say something funny. And he asked after the health of my mother.”

“All very admirable qualities in a man. Did you find a compliment for him?”

“Do you know … I tried. But it’s the oddest thing, Lady Balmain … when he looked at me a minute ago … I just couldn’t quite find my voice.”

Evie smiled at her, genuinely delighted by this turn of events. And then Eve stood on her toes and peeked at Miss Charing’s dance card.

“Hold there, Miss Charing. I thought you said you said you’d given away all your dances. I see you’ve a waltz remaining.”

“Oh,” she said. She was flustered.

Then she leaned toward her and confided once more.

“I used to always keep a waltz open, you see, in case the vicar wished to dance with me. I did dance with him, just the one time. The top of my head reached his collar.” She reflected upon this. “I used to imagine I was the one who had privilege of sewing his buttons on.”

The privilege. And Eve thought of patching him up again, tending to his wounds. It was precisely how she’d felt.

“You used to keep a waltz open?” she coaxed.

“It’s just … one wants to look at Reverend Sylvaine. And listen to him. But as for Simon … I do believe he wants to look at me. And listen to me. And it makes me feel … it makes me feel… .” She went misty-eyed again.

“It’s a very good sign if you can’t finish your sentences when you think of a man.”

“Mmmm?” Josephine said. Watching Simon.

“I wonder if the Reverend Sylvaine will be disappointed if you give your waltz away to Simon,” Evie teased. Knowing that Josephine wouldn’t hear her.

Because Mr. Simon Covington had detached himself from the wall he was leaning against and was approaching them, wearing a smile as gleaming as the toes of his boots.

And Evie, who was used to being as central to an occasion as a brilliant chandelier, might as well have been the wallpaper, for he didn’t seem to notice her at all.

And even as she was pleased that Josephine seemed to be giving Simon the sort of attention he was due, she spared a thought for Miss Pitney.

Who was another person who knew that love was an indulgence, and a rarity, and had decided to be hopeful rather than disappointed, which took great courage.

SHE’D WATCHED ADAM dance with the young women of the village. Watched their radiant faces as he steered them around, gazing down attentively, saying in all likelihood exactly the right thing. Reels, quadrilles, two waltzes. She’d tucked herself into a snug, inconspicuous location near the ratafia. And watched.

Purely out of curiosity and a soul-purifying act of charity, and because no one had yet asked her to dance and it was assumed she was still somewhat grieving and wouldn’t want to do anything quite so merry, she did dance with the gentleman who wore stays. Even over the music, she could hear them creak like a saddle. But there was something gallant about him—Josephine was right.

She found that she didn’t miss the adulation, the swarms of men vying for her attention, the envious glances, the schemes and flirtations, the constant awareness of herself. She felt lighter, almost gossamer, without them. She made for the punch bowl as surreptitiously as possible after that, then leaned herself against the wall, near, ironically, a bust of Hercules, to watch the festivities.

And overheard three young ladies giggling over whether they’d be the ones blessed enough to dance a waltz with the vicar tonight. Apparently his waltzes were rare and coveted.

“Why Lady Wareham!” came a familiar voice behind her. “What a pleasure it is to see you in Pennyroyal Green.”

She turned to see Colin Eversea.

A gorgeous rascal as ever. He had the same vivid, dancing light in his sea-colored eyes. He was indolently, gracefully tall and still lean. A little harder now with age, but then, weren’t they all.

Both Colin’s bow and Evie’s curtsy were playfully ironic.

“You’re looking well, Colin.”

“You’re looking as dazzling as ever, too, Evie. When last I saw you, you were … singing a lusty song about pirates? Or was it the night of Le Mistral, with Signora Licari in the lead role and you and your dress were the talk of the ton?”

“When last I saw you, you’d disappeared from the gallows in a puff of smoke.”