Chapter Six
Evelyn stared at the gentleman lingering at the edge of the crowd near the dance floor. He was watching her—directly, intently—in a way that made her cheeks warm and her heartbeat quicken, a hush of heat unfurling low in her belly, unfamiliar and utterly improper.
He was very tall, dark-haired, and dressed in a black tailcoat that emphasised the breadth of his shoulders. His legs, strong beneath his black knee-breeches, carried a posture that commanded attention without the smallest hint of showiness.
It’s him, she thought, heart thudding against her ribcage. The man from the street. The Duke.
She had thought of him more often than she cared to admit.
Yet the notion that she might truly see him again had felt inconceivable.
A person as illustrious as the Duke of Brentfield—she knew his name, at least, after reading the article—moved in circles far above her own.
And she had been sure, too, that being excluded from any events in the future, because of the scandal, would ensure that she would never actually see him.
She had forgotten that Lady Evandale’s circle included all manner of people, from wealthy industrialists and bluestockings to the very highest of nobility.
She allowed herself one quick glance at him—too quick—and dropped her gaze again as her cheeks burned. His focus did not drift; his eyes held hers, intent, searching. The moment their gazes met, a slow pulse began at her throat. She could not look away.
He crossed the room toward her.
She retreated half a step into the alcove, shyness mingling with a warm, trembling anticipation that she did not understand and could hardly endure. Her muslin skirts whispered around her ankles as she moved; she fixed her eyes desperately on the floor.
“Good evening,” a low, resonant voice said.
She lifted her gaze. Her breath caught. The Duke stood before her, his handsome, severe features unreadable, his blue eyes fixed on hers. His dark hair was a touch longer than fashion dictated—a choice she found unexpectedly appealing.
“G—good evening, your Grace,” she replied, her voice tight. He bowed; she dipped a low curtsey, hardly daring to look up. Her palms were damp. Heat shimmered through her, as though his nearness alone could set her aflame.
“May I have the honour of a waltz with you?” he asked.
Evelyn gaped. She never danced. She had danced at her first Season, but so many absences due to Papa’s illness had ensured that she had little opportunity since then. That someone would ask her was strange, given the recent scandal. That he would ask her was beyond any wild expectation.
“Yes,” she stammered. “Yes, your Grace. You may.”
He smiled then—unexpectedly, brilliantly—and Evelyn nearly forgot to breathe. He was handsome without the smile; with it, he was devastating. The brief curve of his lips carved dimples into his cheeks and lit his eyes with a spark that dazzled her.
It vanished almost at once, replaced by the composed reserve expected of a duke—but some brightness lingered in his eyes, and it made her blush.
The music began as they stepped onto the floor.
The moment his fingers closed around hers—warm through the thin satin of her glove—her breath trembled.
His grip was steady, strong, assured in a way that spoke of hours spent riding or handling reins.
Even that simple contact sent tingles coursing through her.
Then his other hand settled at her back, just at her shoulder blade.
She swallowed. The touch was shockingly intimate, warming her through the fabric. A cascade of heat rippled outward from the point where his hand rested.
The waltz began in earnest.
Evelyn forced herself to concentrate. It had been years since she had danced, yet his steps—precise, measured—guided her effortlessly.
What she had feared she would muddle came back to her feet as though it had never left.
She moved with him down the ballroom’s length, the music lifting her, his touch steadying her.
Her skirt brushed lightly against his legs.
His hand held hers with quiet assurance.
They turned the corner, and her body swept briefly, startlingly close to his—her breast grazing the firm plane of his chest, her knee brushing his thigh.
Such nearness was why the waltz was considered scandalous, yet she had never felt its impropriety so acutely before.
The contact sent a hot, fluttering shiver through her.
She dared a quick glance up.
His blue eyes were already on her.
The look in them unsettled her—curious, intent, something else she could not name. She dropped her gaze again, a tremor tightening low in her belly.
A couple ahead veered slightly, and the Duke guided her deftly aside. Even that shift brought them nearer, his leg brushing hers again, making her breath catch.
The cadence shifted; the waltz was drawing to its close. They finished the last few graceful steps. He bowed; she curtseyed; polite applause rippled around the room.
Evelyn straightened and looked up at him, unsure what she would find in his expression.
He was still watching her.
“Thank you, Miss…” he began.
Evelyn swallowed hard.
“C-Caldwell,” she murmured. “Miss Evelyn Caldwell.”
“Miss Caldwell.” He bowed once more. As he straightened, his gaze held hers—steady, lingering—sending warmth flaring through her all over again.
He turned away, striding toward the tall doors that opened onto the garden.
Evelyn stared after him, bereft of thought for several moments.
She could scarcely comprehend what had transpired.
The dance—the beautiful, flowing rhythm of it, the way it felt so natural, so exciting—made no sense.
She had never responded like that, not to anyone.
He did not know her, and yet he had sought her out.
The thought made heat flood her cheeks, heart pounding.
He is a duke, she reminded herself sternly as she walked back toward the refreshment table. He will not look twice at a baron’s daughter without a penny to her name.
All the same, she flushed as she recalled his gaze on her and frowned as she tried to understand what it meant.
It made no sense at all. She cast her gaze around the room, looking for Lucy.
Perhaps her friend could offer some interpretation that made sense.
She did not spot her, and she moved slowly away from the table, aware that people’s gazes were upon her.
Evelyn flushed red and pushed her way out onto the terrace.
The cool air embraced her. Only a few guests stood about in quiet conversation.
Evelyn went to the railing, leaning her hands on the cool stone as she stared into the shadowed garden.
Shame coiled in her stomach. Had she truly risked fanning the flames of scandal by dancing publicly with the very man whose name was now entangled with hers?
And yet… she could not regret it. The memory of his closeness, the warmth of his hand at her back, the deep blue intensity of his eyes—she could not wish it undone.
A light touch on her shoulder made her start and turn.
“I’m sorry,” Lucy said quickly. “I did not mean to startle you.”
“No harm is done,” Evelyn replied softly.
“I came to see if you were unwell,” Lucy said, her tone tight with concern. “You rushed out so suddenly.”
“I became aware that everyone was staring,” Evelyn admitted, her cheeks heating again.
“Well, you danced beautifully,” Lucy said with a bright grin. “I am not surprised they stared. I’ve never seen such a waltz. You were quite something to see, the two of you.”
Despite her gnawing anxiety, Evelyn laughed. “Were we truly?”
“Yes! And I have never seen two people gaze at one another with such… interest.” Lucy’s grin widened.
“Was he staring at me?” Evelyn asked before she could stop herself, mortified by the eagerness in her own voice.
Lucy laughed outright. “Surely you must have noticed.”
Evelyn bit her lip, refusing to answer. She had noticed—but she could not bring herself to admit it aloud. Her thoughts sobered.
“Were people saying very unkind things?” she asked quietly.
“I did not listen,” Lucy said at once, lifting her chin with spirited defiance. “And I do not care what people say. You are my friend. If anyone had spoken too foully, I fear I would have struck them.”
Evelyn giggled. “Now that would have caused a scandal.”
They both laughed. Standing beside Lucy at the railing brought Evelyn profound comfort, and her racing nerves gradually settled.
The garden below was hushed and shadowy, crickets chirping beneath the whispering leaves.
A distant church clock struck eleven; perhaps one more hour remained before the guests began to leave.
“I do not think I can go back inside,” Evelyn confessed quietly. “The stares… it is too hard to bear.”
Lucy was silent for a moment, then spoke softly. “I am glad you danced with him.”
Evelyn blinked at her. Lucy was the most practical, rule-bound friend she knew; such words were unexpected.
“Sometimes,” Lucy continued, “one must defy the whisperers. Otherwise, one never lives at all.”
Evelyn stared at her friend, startled. What had inspired such sudden romantic philosophy?
Footsteps behind them made her turn. A young man stood there, his gaze fixed—quite helplessly—on Lucy. Evelyn looked away, hiding a smile.
“Miss Harwick,” the young man said, his tone shy. He was tall, dark-haired, his long, slim face oddly familiar—though Evelyn could not place why.
Lucy turned, lighting at once with a wide smile. “Yes, my lord?”
Evelyn’s smile deepened. She had never met the young man, but Lucy's interest in him was obvious, and his interest in her was likewise so.
Lucy, noticing Evelyn’s glance, hurried to speak. “My dear, may I present Lord Nicholas—the younger brother of the Duke of Brentfield?”
Evelyn stared in astonishment. Of course—that was why he seemed familiar. The resemblance, now that she knew to look, was unmistakable: the height, the long, fine-boned features, the set of the eyes—though this brother carried a nervous, earnest air utterly unlike the Duke’s imposing composure.
Lucy, for her part, was gazing at him as though he were the moon itself.
“Lord Nicholas,” Lucy continued, “this is my dearest friend, The Honourable Miss Evelyn Caldwell.”
“I am honoured to make your acquaintance, my lady,” Lord Nicholas said, bowing low.
Evelyn blushed and curtseyed. “As I am to make yours, my lord.”
But Lord Nicholas’s attention drifted swiftly back to Lucy. His eyes sparkled as he said, “My lady, I merely wished to remind you that the polonaise is next.”
Lucy beamed. “Yes, of course. Is it beginning already? We must hurry.” She turned to Evelyn. “Do excuse me.”
“Of course,” Evelyn said warmly.
Lucy and Lord Nicholas disappeared into the hall together, speaking in a flurry of delighted, distracted tones.
Evelyn grinned as she watched them go. So that explained Lucy’s sudden romantic courage. She was happy for her friend, happy to see her enjoying her evening.
Her smile faded to a thoughtful one as she gazed out into the darkened garden. Lucy is right, she admitted to herself. Sometimes one must defy the whisperers… and choose one’s own life.
But did she have the courage to do so?