CHAPTERTHREE
He’d meantthat she needed to suffer his company for much longer.
But her comments had him wondering.
Was she uncomfortable because of him or the party in general?
“I meant,” he started and then swallowed, uncharacteristically nervous. “I meant that many find my company objectional.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “Do you frighten most people into spilling bread pudding on themselves?”
He opened his mouth to respond but all that came out was a laugh. It sounded awkward and stilted and he realized it had been a long time since he’d made the sound. “No. I’ve never made anyone spill bread pudding except you.” And then he paused. “But a nervous butler did once drop an entire tray of food in my presence. And a maid…” He stopped. He supposed he had made a fair number of people spill things.
It was her turn to laugh, a high, clear sound that rang like a bell through him. “So you do make a habit of it, then.”
For the first time in a long time, he felt sheepish and he scrubbed at his jaw with his free hand. “I’ve been told I can be sharp.”
She stopped laughing but her smile remained. It was as soft and sweet as her name. Evie. “I see.”
“Does that make you wish to return to your mother?”
“No.” And then, heaven help him, she moved a bit closer. He caught her scent, clean like new cotton kissed by the sun. He drew in a deep breath. “As someone who rarely shares what they feel, I appreciate a person with the courage to do so.”
Evan’s brows lifted. Had they reached some sort of understanding?
It was different from the usual conversation he shared with women. At some point, his sharp edges would emerge. In the moment, he had a difficult time not speaking his thoughts and his tone was often harsh. He knew that. Most ladies pretended he didn’t bother them, but he’d see the tension or irritation that spoke the truth.
But this…
Evie’s glance was filled with…appreciation.
As though she liked the trait and somehow, that made him relax. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she murmured.
“Shall we continue?”
She let out a sigh. “If we must.”
“You truly don’t like others to look at you?”
“Not particularly.”
He bent his head lower so as not to be overheard. But in dipping his head, he was close to her ear and he caught another waft of her scent. Did he tell her that she ought to consider wearing clothes that were less flattering? Or a hair style that didn’t highlight how lush her mane of curls obviously was? Likely not. “What do you like then?”
She turned to look at him, but that only brought their faces very close together. He’d only need lean down an inch, perhaps two, and then he could kiss her.
Not that he would. Not in the crowded foyer. But he could.
“Let me see. I like cooking,” she said, then blushed again, looking away. “I know. It’s not very practical for a woman of my station, but I find it relaxing.”
He gave a nod of appreciation. He’d always liked the kitchen himself. It was warm, smelled nice…much like the woman on his arm. “What else?”
“Reading,” she answered. “I love books.” There was a bit of a bounce to her step as she continued. “I like to take long walks, sometimes with my father’s hunting dogs and—” But then she stopped. “I’m talking too much. Aren’t I?”
His raised his brows. “Not in the least. I prefer to tally my own books. I find the activity soothing.”
She gave him a warm smile. “Really?”