Yet the rift would not end simply because she wished it so. Their father was a severe and exacting man. He had been instrumental in Richard’s exile from polite society, his clubs, and several investments. But Richard was savvy and cunning when needed, and he had found ways around his father’s actions and had grown his wealth to an impressive fortune. In fact, since the fateful night he’d rescued his daughter from her hell, he’d not spoken to the duke, nor had he made any overtures. His allowance had ceased immediately, and his management of a few estates had been terminated. All his fortunes were his through his own sweat, ingenuity, and foresight.
“I’ll think of it,” he said, knowing it to be an empty promise. The rift could only be solved with his father’s acceptance of Emily’s place in Richard’s life. And that would never happen, for he offended his father’s sensibilities and his assumptions of how their world should be ordered.
Bastards were an embarrassment. The people Richard associated with were dregs of society, guttersnipes, and trash, and little thought should be spared to them. It had become a scandal that Richard publicly supported reforms of the injustice meted out to women and children in Newgate Prison. His father did not see the disgrace in poverty and injustice, and Richard would forever be his shame.
“Let’s get you home,” he said, pressing a kiss to Phoebe’s forehead.
Reluctantly she allowed him to lead her from the library to her waiting carriage outside. The crest had been covered, but the equipage was properly staffed with footmen and a coachman. Still, he would have her followed, to ensure her safe return. After bidding her farewell, he went inside and bid the children a good evening, and then a few minutes later he was off to one of Lady Beaufort’s famous balls to see his own special brand of torment.
…
Lady Honoria was a silly girl prone to fainting spells and hysterics, a gossip of the worst order, and the Marquess of Westfall was going to marry her, or so the rumors circulating insisted. Lady Evie buried the swift feeling of shame for having such uncharitable thoughts about Honoria. Evie was no better in her thoughts and character for having judged her in such an unladylike manner.
Still…what is Richard thinking?
This was the second season their names had been aligned, to Evie’s distress. Last year, when the rumors had surfaced, she had asked after Richard’s intention, and he had said he was thinking of offering for Lady Honoria. Except, he’d made no offer and Evie had been lulled into a false sense of security. Richard had all but disappeared from society, no doubt shattering seve
ral expectations.
Blast the man.
“Will you be attending Lady Brantley’s garden party, my lady?” her current suitor—Viscount Ponsby—asked, smiling, showing two rows of perfect teeth.
“I cannot recall if Mamma has accepted. I shall, of course, check and inform you on our carriage ride tomorrow.” Though Evie was largely responsible for organizing her own social calendar, of late she had been restless, distracted, and had been ignoring the mountains of invitations and correspondence that required her attention. There were times she felt an irrepressible desire to be herself. To admit her love for baking when asked what her best pastime is. To admit she read the papers for political news and the latest scandals and fashion. She did crave something new, something wonderful in the predictability that was her life.
She normally had a hectic social schedule during the season. Her life revolved around assisting her mother in ordering the household, planning balls, and other society events, attending more balls, musicales, and picnics. She had looked forward to each season with excitement for all the thrilling events she would attend. The only thing she dreaded was the many suitors she would have to subtly discourage without her mother realizing. Evie had failed to bring anyone up to scratch because she’d thwarted her mother’s matchmaking efforts from the first days of her coming out. But her mother had increased the pressure for her to find a beau tenfold, and Evie was painfully aware her parents might simply decide for her soon, without her approval.
It wasn’t that she had no desire for matrimony, far from it. In fact, she desperately desired the most particular attentions of a certain marquess. She wanted Richard as her husband, an occasion unlikely to ever happen, but she remained stubbornly hopeful.
“Would you like me to procure another glass of champagne?” the viscount asked, tipping his chin toward the near empty glass in her hand.
“Please,” she answered with a smile, eager to be alone with her thoughts, if only for a few moments.
With a nod, he pushed through the throng, skirting the dance floor, and headed toward the footman by the terrace. He was the latest suitor in the dwindling line of men trying to win her hand in marriage. The viscount was handsome, favored among the ton by ladies and gentlemen alike, and boasted an income of fifty thousand a year. Mamma was in raptures over the man’s obvious keen regard for her daughter. Evie, of course, did everything in her power to ensure her replies during conversations were noncommittal. Her actions when they walked together gave him no encouragement that she would welcome advances of a romantic nature. Yet the dratted man was not easy to discourage and was quite relentless in his pursuit. Very unusual, for all other suitors had melted away with little fuss once she had shown resistance and a nature contrary to their expectations.
Evie would be flattered by the viscount’s regard if her heart hadn’t been irrevocably entangled elsewhere. All her instincts for these sorts of predicaments told her he would propose marriage to her on their carriage ride. She would hate to bruise his feelings, which was inevitable upon her refusal, so she had to deter him tonight.
Lord Ponsby returned with a glass of champagne that she took with a thankful smile.
“May I call on your father tomorrow before our ride? I have a matter of urgency to discuss.”
She peered into his earnest face, a pang traveling through her heart. “Why?” she asked softly, surprising herself. Normally she would have deflected him with the delicate methods she had honed over the years, but there was something in his earnestness that gave her pause.
“Surely you have not mistaken my affections? Can there be any doubt I admire you, Lady Evelyn? You are poised, beautiful, well connected, and a lady who understands her place in society and her role as a genteel lady. It is evident you were trained well, the very picture of female respectability and correctness, and you would make an excellent mistress for my home,” he said with a warm smile, oblivious to the horror icing through her veins.
Well trained…female respectability and correctness. He made her sound dreadfully boring. And wasn’t she? What risks had she taken with her life, what pleasures had she partaken in? “I thank you for the sentiments, my lord, but I do not return your regard, and I cannot in good conscience encourage you to speak with my father.”
“My lady…I…I…” He was flustered, no doubt at her forwardness. “You are overwrought from the crush, surely you cannot mean to reject out of hand the deep admiration I have for you.”
“Forgive me, I have no wish to bring you distress, but I must be honest. I have no tender feelings for you. My heart is engaged elsewhere,” she said softly.
His lips went taut, and disproval darkened his eyes. “I’ve just recalled I committed to a previous dance with Miss Dawson, nor do I believe I shall prevail myself upon you for the carriage ride.”
She would lose the friendship of his dear sister and his affable company. Her throat closed. “Think nothing of it,” she said graciously. “I understand, and I relieve you of your commitment to me.”
The viscount hurried away. Suitor number three of the season discouraged with simple honesty. She took a sip of her champagne, curious at the hollow sense of victory. Life had become predictable and uninspiring; discouraging suitors had become tedious. Though she had never boasted of uncommon beauty or superior intellect, Evie enjoyed a peculiar degree of popularity among the young swains, and even the admiration of several connected ladies of the ton. She was quite aware something was missing from her life, and she felt the keen loss of that something which she’d never had.
She hungered for a place to belong. Evie pressed a trembling hand to her stomach. It felt unusual to be so alone amid friends. Her eyes strayed to the Marchioness of Belmont’s gentle rounded stomach that was quite evident to Evie below the high-waisted gown. Yearning struck her heart, the desperate ache of it smarting her eyes. The ache for a similar happiness had never been more evident. If only her heart hadn’t been so dreadfully stubborn. It would not allow her to settle for an unhappy union based on monetary gain with little or no tender regards, not since she was quite aware how possible happiness and love was in a marriage, despite her mother’s arguments to the contrary.