Chapter 9
Nine
Chastity tilted her head with practiced politeness, her fan moving idly in one hand as she listened to Lord Willis recount yet another tale of his estate’s lavender fields. The younger gentleman’s enthusiasm bordered on overwhelming, though she managed a soft laugh in all the appropriate places.
“Our lavender has been the talk of Kent for years,” Willis said, his grin broad as he leaned forward, the sunlight catching his bright blond hair. “Even Lady Torrington wrote to me personally, asking for clippings.”
“How... enviable,” Chastity replied, the faintest flicker of amusement curving her lips. Her gaze briefly flicked to the man seated to her left, the Baron of Wellford, whose silence stood in stark contrast to Lord Willis’s exuberance.
“Wellford, you have surely seen my gardens,” Willis said, turning to his companion as if seeking validation. “What do you think of my topiary designs? I have been told they rival even the Earl of Harrington’s.”
Wellford’s lips twitched, but his expression remained neutral. “Topiary has its charm,” he said evenly, his voice deep and unhurried, “but I have always preferred gardens that follow nature’s wilder paths.”
Chastity’s fan paused mid-movement, her curiosity piqued by the implication of his words.
She turned her gaze to him, studying his profile—the firm set of his jaw, the way his eyes, dark and steady, seemed to see more than he said.
His words hinted at a mind less concerned with outward perfection and more attuned to something deeper.
“I quite agree,” Chastity said lightly, drawing both men’s attention. “There’s something freeing about untamed beauty.”
Willis’s brow furrowed briefly, but he quickly plastered on his usual cheerful smile.
“Well, I suppose we cannot all be connoisseurs of order,” he said, his tone a touch defensive.
“But Lady Chastity, you’d find no shortage of beauty at my estate.
Lavender as far as the eye can see, and the finest statuary imported from France. ”
“Lavender does have its charms,” she replied with a demure smile, though her gaze flicked once more to Wellford, who watched her with an unreadable expression.
“Lady Chastity,” Wellford said suddenly, his tone calm but deliberate, “do you prefer gardens that conform to structure, or those that allow for a touch of wildness?”
The question caught her off guard, and she hesitated, her fan faltering. “I think,” she said carefully, “that beauty lies in the balance. However, I tend to believe that too much control stifles growth.”
His mouth curved faintly, as if her answer amused him, though he said nothing more. Beside him, Willis launched into a spirited defense of symmetry, pulling her attention back with his animated gestures.
As Willis spoke, Chastity shifted in her seat, her hand brushing the edge of her gown’s hidden pocket.
The folded piece of parchment tucked there seemed heavier now, a new letter to occupy her when she got home.
However, she kept her expression carefully composed.
The note had been passed to her so discreetly that even she had barely noticed it at first. Its contents, however, had set her heart racing.
“Wellford, don’t you agree that the elegance of symmetry speaks to civilization itself?” Willis asked, his voice breaking into her thoughts.
Wellford raised a brow, his tone dry. “Civilization, perhaps. But elegance? That depends entirely on the beholder.”
“Well,” Willis continued, clearly oblivious to the undercurrent, “Lady Chastity, you must allow me to send you some lavender clippings. They would thrive beautifully in your family’s garden.”
“Perhaps,” she replied, though her voice sounded distant even to her own ears.
From across the garden, she felt Minerva’s gaze land on her, a subtle reminder that her sister was always watching. Chastity smiled faintly, lifting her teacup to mask her unease. Let Minerva watch. She wouldn’t give her anything to worry about—not today.
Minerva smiled politely, nodding at Lord Radcliffe as he continued his story, though her fingers tapped lightly against the side of her teacup. “And then, of course, the stag bolted right into the underbrush, and we had to spend another hour tracking it through the woods.”
“Fascinating,” Minerva murmured, though her mind was already elsewhere. How long has this conversation been going on?
Radcliffe beamed at her interest, clearly eager to keep going. “Yes, quite the adventure. My brother was almost thrown from his horse, but fortunately, we managed to—”
“Well, in my experience,” Sir William Farley interrupted, his ruddy cheeks puffing out as he sat up straighter, “there’s nothing quite like tracking game in the Highlands. The terrain is much rougher, you know. The stags there are larger, more dangerous.”
Minerva stifled a yawn, her eyes drifting away from the men as they continued to drone on about hunting trips and countryside adventures.
Across the garden, guests were laughing and chatting, the warm sunlight filtering through the trees.
She caught sight of a group of young ladies gathered by the fountain, all of them smiling and engaged in light conversation.
She let out a small sigh, her thoughts already forming an escape route. At least they’re polite, she thought, trying to convince herself that enduring this conversation wasn’t a complete waste of time.
“Lady Minerva,” Radcliffe said, leaning in with an eager smile, “have you ever been on a hunt yourself?”
Minerva blinked, quickly pulling her attention back to the conversation. “Oh, no,” she said quickly, forcing a smile. “I do not believe it is quite my area of expertise.”
Sir William chuckled, clearly amused by the idea. “Ah, yes, well, I suppose it is not the usual pastime for a lady of your... refinement.”
Just as Minerva was about to respond, the conversation was mercifully interrupted by a shadow falling across the table.
“I hope I am not interrupting,” A familiar voice, smooth and far too close for comfort, cut through the men’s chatter. Minerva’s stomach dropped. She knew that voice—of course she did.
Evan stood behind Radcliffe, one hand resting casually on the chair, his lips curled in that maddening smirk. The sight of him, as uninvited as ever, made her heart skip an uncomfortable beat.
Radcliffe, startled, turned in his seat. “Your Grace! I—uh—did not realize you were—”
Evan did not let him finish. “Do you mind switching places?”
His voice was polite enough, but the way he phrased it left no room for argument. The question hung in the air for only a moment before it became clear that it wasn’t a question at all.
Sir William glanced nervously between Radcliffe and Evan, clearly unsure how to respond.
“Well, I—” Radcliffe began, but one look at Evan’s cool, steady gaze silenced him. His mouth snapped shut, and with an awkward cough, he stood up, stepping away from the table.
“I really must be going anyway,” Sir William muttered, standing so quickly that he nearly knocked over his chair. “Good day, Lady Minerva.”
Before she could respond, both men hurried away, leaving Minerva staring at their retreating backs in disbelief.
Evan slid smoothly into the vacant chair, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he watched her struggle to maintain her composure. “They looked positively thrilled to be excused.”
Minerva shot him a glare, but the retort she wanted to hurl at him refused to come. She was too tired for this. Too tired to muster the usual irritation he so easily provoked. Instead, she picked up her teacup and took a long, deliberate sip.
“They were perfectly fine company, Your Grace,” she said, her voice clipped.
“Fine?” Evan raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair, his relaxed posture the complete opposite of her rigid one. “They were duller than a foggy London morning.”
Her fingers tightened around the teacup, but she kept her face neutral. “Not every conversation needs to be an adventure.”
“Ah,” he said, tilting his head, “but wouldn’t you rather it be?”
Minerva opened her mouth to respond, but he leaned forward suddenly, cutting her off. “Tell me, Minerva,” he said, his voice lower, “do I make you nervous?”
She nearly choked on her tea. Her pulse quickened, and despite her best efforts, the odd flutter in her stomach returned. Nervous? No, it was something else. Anxiety, perhaps. His presence was too unpredictable, too overwhelming.
“You make me annoyed,” she corrected sharply, setting the teacup down with more force than necessary.
Evan chuckled, his eyes never leaving hers. “Interesting. Because if I did not know better, I would say you are... flustered.”
Minerva stiffened, her chin lifting slightly as she stared him down. “I assure you, Your Grace, the only thing flustering me is the disruption You have caused at my garden party.”
Evan smirked, clearly enjoying the game. “If you insist.”
For a moment, the two of them sat in silence, the air between them thick with unspoken tension. Minerva could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, and she cursed herself for letting him get under her skin. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her lose her composure. Not again.
“I did not invite you,” she said suddenly, her voice cold and steady.
“No, you did not.” He grinned, unbothered by her directness. “But I came anyway.”
Minerva inhaled sharply, the flicker of frustration building in her chest. “You had no right—”
“I have every right,” Evan interrupted smoothly, leaning in closer, his gaze intent on hers. “As much right as any of the other guests you invited today.”
Minerva stared at him, her heart pounding in her chest. He was too close, too confident, too... him. She could feel his presence, the way it stirred something inside her she desperately wanted to ignore.
Finally, she exhaled slowly, “You are like a thorn in my side, Your Grace,” she said, her voice sharp. “Persistent, impossible to dislodge, and irritating.”