Chapter Eleven #2
He brought her a glass of lemonade, and she sipped it gratefully while gazing around the room.
The ballroom was handsome—marble tiles, glittering chandeliers suspended from a lofty ceiling—yet not nearly so large or overwhelming as Lady Evandale’s ballroom in London.
That alone steadied her. She straightened her back as space was cleared for dancing.
The musicians struck up the opening measures of a waltz.
To her astonishment, Sebastian turned to her.
“May I request the waltz?” he asked softly.
Her breath caught. “You may,” she whispered. Her heart hammered against the tight bodice of her gown.
He led her onto the floor. His fingers closed around hers—firm, sure—while his other hand settled at her back, warm even through the satin.
“You dance well,” he murmured as they began to turn together.
“Thank you,” she managed. Her cheeks burned with the compliment.
They stepped neatly around another couple, his body swaying against hers.
She bit back a gasp, feeling his lean, hard form touching hers, pressing against her chest and her one leg as they passed.
It was a brief contact, but intense for all that, his eyes locking with hers as they moved close together, their steps in unison.
The harmony of their bodies was something beautiful, and it felt for a moment as if they moved alone, just the two of them in an enchanted world where nothing except the musician’s efforts could reach them.
Her eyes locked with his, and he stared back, and the world seemed to fall away, marooning them in a world where they were the only souls and the desire she felt her only guide.
The music continued. Evelyn gazed up at Sebastian, staring at his fine profile, his aloof expression. He was, as always, exceedingly hard to read. She sighed as they moved through another turn and the brief contact of his body against hers thrummed through her.
The waltz reached a crescendo and then abruptly reached the concluding cadence.
Evelyn dropped a curtsey, feeling staggered.
It had all happened so fast. She had been lost in his gaze one moment, feeling the joy of his body close to hers, and then he was aloof again, bowing and thanking her politely for the dance.
“Thank you,” Evelyn replied, still shaken.
They left the floor, though her mind remained adrift somewhere in that prior moment.
Gemma joined them, smiling brightly. “Dear Evelyn! Such a lovely dance. Forgive me, but may I seek your opinion on a small matter?”
“Of course,” Evelyn said.
“Good! I understand that you have some interest in literature,” she continued. “Might you settle a dispute for me?”
Evelyn frowned and nodded. “If I am able, I would be pleased to try.”
“Thank you!” Gemma sounded pleased.
Evelyn went with her to her group of friends in a corner where some chairs were set out. They were talking about Shakespeare, and what Gemma wished to know was the publishing date of the First Folio—the first official collection of Shakespeare’s works.
“It was seven years after his passing,” Evelyn confirmed.
“Thank you!” Gemma replied, sounding glad. “It seems we were all incorrect.” She giggled, and her friends laughed fondly.
Evelyn offered a polite smile, though she felt puzzled. Why had Gemma hurried to draw her away? She excused herself and made her way back toward the refreshments, searching for Sebastian.
She found him speaking with several gentlemen. She hesitated. Approaching a cluster of noblemen felt too bold. As she stood wavering, she froze—Lady Brentfield was only a few paces away, speaking with a knot of ladies.
Evelyn understood, belatedly, exactly why Gemma had tried to keep her elsewhere.
She began edging toward the doors that led to the garden, but the Dowager Duchess turned, saw her, and approached with chilling purpose.
“You do know,” she began at once, her voice low and sharp, “that the rumours circulating about you are quite unbearable?”
Evelyn stared, shocked. “I—I didn’t—” she began, trying to defend herself. The rumours—whatever they were—had no basis in reality. Even the horrid article that had been written about her contained nothing but wild conjecture.
She tried to speak, to explain the truth of it, but no words arrived on her lips; her throat too tight to talk.
“You are a disgrace to my family,” the Dowager Duchess hissed. “I object most strongly to your displaying yourself beside my son this evening. Drawing attention to your presence is quite unacceptable.”
“What?” The word leapt out of Evelyn in disbelief.
“You have no manners,” the older woman continued coldly. “And despite your alleged upbringing, you possess neither the bearing nor the refinement expected of a duchess.”
Evelyn stared at her in horror. Unbidden, her fingers found the pearl at her neck—her grandmother’s gift, which she never removed. She recalled that refined, wise lady and words sprang to her lips; angry words.
“I beg your pardon,” Evelyn said, her voice shaking but steady enough. “But you have no right to speak to me so. I am part of this family now. There is no reason—nor any truth—in—”
“How dare you address me in such a manner?” the duchess snapped. “Get you hence.”
The words were delivered with the dismissive sharpness of a command to a servant.
Evelyn swallowed hard. “I should very much like to,” she whispered. “Pray excuse me.”
She turned and walked swiftly toward the doors, blinking back tears. She would not cry in front of everyone. Not here.
Outside, there was a thin terrace and steps that led down into the garden.
She leaned on the stone railing, catching her breath.
She was sobbing, shock and rage mingling in her to make tears that she could not hold back.
She was aware of voices, and she knew that even outside, there were a few curious onlookers.
She turned and walked down the terrace steps into the garden. There in the darkness, she could at least have a moment away from prying eyes to express how she truly felt.