Chapter 32
Evangeline left Audley Street before she could be thrown out.
As Smythe opened the door for her for the last time, she paused. “Thank you, Denny,” she said softly. “For attempting to guide me.”
His eyes softened. “It was a pleasure to see you again, Miss Evie.”
She nodded, her throat too tight to speak, and got into her carriage.
The drive home seemed interminable, and yet she was startled to see Wyndham House appear in front of her.
Her own home seemed foreign and strange to her, after all this time.
She wandered through the house until she reached the conservatory, her favorite room, and stood staring out the tall windows.
All the way home, she’d been telling herself that George was a different sort of father to their own. He loved his daughter, very much. Even if he went to speak to Burke, he would keep Joan’s happiness in mind . . .
But he would have to call on Burke, while Marion prayed he wouldn’t call the man out, because of Evangeline.
He had entrusted her with his only daughter.
She had promised she would take good care of the girl, and then she had failed.
Even now, that harpy Lady Crocker was no doubt gleefully telling everyone that Miss Bennet had been lured away by the scoundrel Lord Burke to debauchery and ruin, which should surprise no one since her so-called chaperone was the wicked and scandalous Lady Courtenay.
Her throat closed as she imagined Joan being burned alive by vicious gossip in all the drawing rooms of London.
George browbeating Burke into doing the right thing, perhaps risking his life to protect his daughter and her reputation.
Joan walking down the church aisle, cowed into acquiescence by her frantic, worried mother.
Joan fighting back tears on her wedding night, knowing she was the property of a man she hadn’t chosen, ’til death did them part.
Evangeline’s stomach churned so hard she thought she would be sick.
She knew exactly what that felt like. She had lived it herself.
But this was worse than when it had happened to her.
Then, she had been the victim. This time, she was the perpetrator.
She had been careless. She trusted Joan, she truly did—but Burke?
She did not know him. She had no reason to trust him.
He could be another Court, craving only the pursuit, willing to lead an unsuspecting young woman astray if it served his own pleasure.
He seemed to care for Joan, and Evangeline wanted desperately to believe that he did .
. . but she could be wrong, as she’d been wrong about Court.
She had been fooled by her own wishes and fancies, dreaming arrogantly that she could help her niece find the sort of happy marriage that had eluded Evangeline herself.
Instead of learning from her own mistakes and unhappiness, she had done even worse. Joan wasn’t even her child. Evangeline had betrayed Joan, and George, and especially Marion, who had been so very right to doubt her.
She barely heard the French window open behind her, and when Louis gave a little bark and jumped on her skirt, she flinched so hard she almost fell.
Richard stepped in. “My gardener spotted your carriage on the road. This little fellow has missed you so desperately, I decided to bring him at once. And, I confess, I was eager to see you myself.”
She bent and scooped up her dog, who was leaping around her feet, making happy whining sounds. She cuddled him to her heart and pressed her cheek against his head. His happy licking of her chin made her eyes sting.
“I did not think to see you home so soon,” Richard went on when she didn’t speak. “Is Miss Bennet well?”
“Her parents came home,” she whispered. “They were waiting when we arrived from the Brentwood ball.”
“I see,” he said. There was a long pause. She could see his reflection from the corner of her eye. He wore country clothing, soft and familiar, the way she usually saw him—not the crisp, elegant evening wear he’d worn when he professed himself in love with her. “Were you expecting them?”
“No.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “Someone wrote to Marion about Joan dancing with Lord Burke, and she was worried.”
His footsteps were loud on the flagstone floor. “What happened?” he asked gently, touching her shoulder.
She twisted away. In her arms, Louis struggled, and she put him down. He backed up, looking at her and barking. When she shook her head at him, he ran up the steps and out of the room, yipping for Solly. She didn’t blame him; she wanted to be away from herself, too.
“Evie, what is wrong?”
“There was an argument,” she said, swiping at her eyes with shaking fingers. “Last night. George and Marion were both deeply alarmed, and I did my best to explain . . . Well, not all, of course, I hardly wanted to tell them about the Brentwood debacle . . .”
“They could not have known of that,” he said in concern. “Not if they were awaiting your return last night.”
She gave a bitter laugh. “They discovered that this morning! When that evil Lady Crocker wrote to Marion that Joan allowed Burke to debauch her on the dance floor, and then they slunk off together for more sin, and that I almost tore down the house trying to find her—with the strong suggestion that I must have been off doing something very wicked myself to have allowed Joan to be spirited away to ruination.”
“That is hardly what happened,” he countered. “Lady Brentwood would surely tell her—”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said in despair. “Althea Crocker will spread her version far and wide, and enough people will believe it that it doesn’t matter.”
“Why would she set out to ruin Sir George Bennet’s daughter?”
“Because she has two unmarried daughters of her own, either of whom could use a rich viscount for a husband. Never underestimate the ruthless plotting of a society mama.” She sighed. “And because her dear friend Cynthia Ambrose will applaud anything that pushes me out of society again.”
He was silent for a long moment. “Is there anything I can do? You have only to say the word.”
“No. There’s nothing anyone can do.” Burke, she supposed, could cure most of it by declaring himself madly in love with Joan and begging to marry her.
But what if he didn’t love her? Images of Court’s handsome face flitted through her mind, so charming and smiling when seducing her, so dismissive and cold when not.
Perhaps Burke would decide he didn’t actually want to marry Joan, now that he’d had her.
Perhaps he would despise having his hand forced, and any actual affection he felt would wither away.
Perhaps he would never let Joan forget that her father had marched him to the altar under threat of death, and make clear to her that he never would have married her otherwise.
And Joan would be left to hold her head high and try to hide her feelings when people whispered about all the ways she must be disappointing her unwilling husband.
That only a scandal could have compelled the viscount to marry her, tall and forward and unfashionably plump.
Evangeline’s chest felt so tight she could hardly breathe. Joan deserved better.
“That cannot be true,” Richard said. “Lady Bennet will have friends of her own, ready to defend her daughter.”
“George will go to Burke and—and make demands of him,” she whispered. Again she saw her own father’s face, stony with disapproval and fury, but not surprise. He’d expected to find her in a scandalous liaison.
“Burke cares for Miss Bennet. I doubt Sir George will have to press him—”
“Does he?” She flung out a hand to stop him.
Once her father mentioned pistols at dawn, Court hadn’t protested, either.
He’d simply shrugged as he buttoned his breeches and said, As you like.
He’d known he wouldn’t be faithful, affectionate, or even kind to her, and he’d known it didn’t matter to her father.
“Will he still care when he’s forced to wed her?
Will he still want her after my brother has called him out?
Will he still be kind to her in five years, or ten, or whenever he decides Joan is too old for his taste, or her looks don’t appeal to him, or he simply wants someone new? ”
Richard was quiet again. “Evie,” he said at last, “come have a cup of tea.”
She almost stopped breathing. That’s what her mother had said, both times Evangeline had gone to her to protest her father’s edict that she marry first Cunningham, then Court; to plead with her mother for help, for support, for guidance.
But her mother, like Marion, had been mortally terrified of anything disreputable.
Your father knows best, Mama had said anxiously.
Don’t make such a fuss, dear, have some tea and you’ll see it’s all for the best .
. . While Evangeline knew it was her last chance to escape.
Her skin felt turned to stone even as guilt and anguish howled inside her. Richard meant well. In a remote corner of her mind, she knew he was being sensible and she was being emotional. But she also knew the toll such emotions could take on a person’s soul.
It was easy for him to dismiss her concerns.
He was a man—moreover, a man who had made himself famous by defying rules and propriety.
How easy for him to say Burke would do the right thing, that he cared for Joan, that it would all work out in the end.
Things usually worked out well in the end, for men.
The main impact upon Burke’s life would be the added expense of a wife.
Nothing would stop him from taking a pretty young widow ballooning, or seducing another woman at another ball, or engaging in shocking behavior that scandalized everyone in London.
Nothing would stop him from crushing Joan’s lively spirit, from breaking her warm and generous heart, from making the rest of her life a misery.
“No,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. “I—I would like to be alone.”
He shifted. “Very well,” he said, sounding concerned. “I will come back tomorrow.”
She shook her head, a tight, sharp movement. “Please don’t. It . . . It is over.”
Richard frowned in bemusement. She could see it in the glass, hear it in his voice. “Do not lose hope. The young man does care for her—”
Evangeline made herself turn to face him. “I don’t mean Joan.” She waved her hand toward herself, toward him, then curled her fingers into a fist. “Us.”
Richard jerked backward. “What?”
“It is over,” she said again, her breath coming faster.
God, she wanted him to leave. She wanted to hide from everyone she had disappointed and betrayed.
First George and Marion, then Joan, now Richard.
Everyone she cared about. The expression on his face would kill her.
“We both agreed—it would end when either of us wanted it to end. I am ending it, now.”
He looked astonished—and horrified. “What? But—no, you do not mean it!”
“I do!” She lurched backward as he took a step toward her.
“I do mean it,” she insisted. Her heart was pounding so painfully, she thought she might faint.
Her vision was blurry around the edges, and she couldn’t stop her hands shaking.
If he touched her, she might go mad. “It’s over.
You agreed! You promised! No reproaches, you promised me! ”
His face was stark white. “Please,” he begged. “Please don’t say that now. I will go—leave you time to think. Wait a few days, see how it ends—”
Her laughter was wild with hysteria. “Wait, to see if someone else can repair the damage I caused! Wait, to see if I haven’t wrecked an innocent girl’s life! No! No, I will not wait, I will take responsibility for what I’ve done!”
“And this is how you choose to punish yourself?” He advanced on her—foolishly, because she couldn’t bear the sight of him at that moment. “And how you will punish me?”
“It was because of you I left her unsupervised,” Evangeline lashed out. “I only left the ballroom at your instigation!”
He stopped, stricken. “I love you,” he said quietly. “I never wanted to hurt you.”
She shook her head as self-loathing and agony roared inside her like a hurricane.
She had been selfish, going off with him in total dereliction of her responsibility and in blatant violation of her promise to George.
She did not deserve the happiness that Richard offered her; she had been right to wall herself off from that, and because of her momentary weakness, daring to think she might have it after all, she had hurt an innocent girl.
Till death do you part, intoned the vicar in her memory, the weak sunshine shining on Cunningham’s bare pate, almost blinding her.
It had felt like a form of death, standing there, feeling herself vanishing into the legal void of matrimony.
She had ceased to be a person in her own right.
Would Joan feel the same panic? The same sense of despair?
Even Richard didn’t know how terrible it had been.
Those early months, when Cunningham had directed every aspect of her life, trying to train her into his idea of a wife, trying to snuff out all traces of her rebellious nature.
The furious helplessness she had felt, knowing no one would stop him or save her.
The rage that had built inside her, until it fermented into bitter scorn for her husband, followed by the reckless disregard for propriety that led her into a miserable marriage with Court, then the disrepute of his unfaithfulness and the blazing scandal of his death, and finally near-banishment from society as she willfully thumbed her nose at society’s strictures.
And she hadn’t learned one bloody lesson from it. Not when she needed it most.
“You don’t,” she said numbly. No one could love her. No one should.
His brows lowered, and the color came back into his cheeks. “I know what I feel,” he said tersely. “You must not castigate yourself—”
“I deserve it!” she screamed.
The words seemed to expand and ricochet around the room until they pressed in on her, acrid and sour. They scorched her lungs, her throat, her lips until she thought she might choke on the bitter taste.
She had wrecked everything. She had long thought Joan a girl after her own heart, and now she had sentenced Joan to the same terrible fate that had brought her so much misery for so many years.
Richard said nothing. The silence was terrible. But what was there to say?
Evangeline couldn’t even see him through the tears in her eyes. “Go,” she said thickly. “Please go. Good-bye, Richard.”
He stared at her for a long, long time, saying nothing. Evangeline turned her back on him, unable to bear that gaze.
And several painful heartbeats later, the door opened, then closed.
He was gone, and with him her stupid, dangerous dreams of happiness.