Chapter 4
Chapter Four
“I would like to propose a toast to the hostess.” Lord Marcus Harrington, the Marquess of Blackwood, raised his glass. “For the splendid repast and hospitality.”
Seated next to him at the head of the table, Evie managed a smile.
She was fond of her papa-in-law, who had bequeathed his looks and bearing to his heir.
Age had added grey to his bronze hair and lines to his handsome countenance, and Evie imagined James would look equally distinguished with time.
The marquess’s manner was austere and befitting of a military hero who’d fought Boney and triumphed.
He was a man of uncompromising principle, and Evie would have found him intimidating if not for his obvious devotion to his lady and their brood.
In private moments with the family, his tenderness and wry humor shone through.
“To Evie,” the marchioness said warmly. “Hostess extraordinaire.”
Positioned beside James at the opposite end, Lady Pandora Harrington lifted her flute with her usual grace.
She was the marquess’s ideal counterpart: a sophisticated beauty whose gown of violet taffeta matched her peerless eyes and showed off her lush curves.
Her midnight curls, touched with silver, cascaded from a topknot and brushed her smooth cheeks.
While Evie was in awe of Papa, she found the family matriarch even more daunting.
Mama was blessed with beauty, brains, and a sultry charm that had made her one of London’s most celebrated hostesses.
With Evie, she was kind and generous, more than once offering to be a confidante.
Evie had had to resist the urge to confess her secrets…
to beg forgiveness when absolution was impossible.
Instead, she had kept her distance. For Mama’s warm nature didn’t hide another attribute: she had a mind like a steel trap.
“To Evie,” everyone echoed.
As the family toasted her, Evie felt like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
She was an impostor and didn’t deserve their appreciation or kindness.
In truth, she owed them for sheltering her and welcoming her into their fold, and their beaming goodwill added to her guilt.
She risked a glance at James. After their icy reunion, they’d been like ships in the night.
He hadn’t supped at home last eve. In fact, he hadn’t returned until after two in the morning… not that she’d been listening for him.
What he did was his business. She had no right to interfere.
She wanted them to lead separate lives, didn’t she?
It was safer that way. That was why she’d run after their night of intimacy: to keep him safe.
His mask of civility cinched her throat.
To those who didn’t know him, his mood might appear cordial.
She knew better. Being a gentleman, he would never air their dirty laundry in public, yet his polished indifference was somehow worse.
Tension whittled away her appetite. She’d chosen the menu with care, but none of the items—which included James’s favorite herbed consommé, roast capon stuffed with chestnuts, and veal sweetbread croquettes—appealed to her. She reached instead for her wine glass.
“You shall have to tell me your secrets,” Mama declared.
Evie’s fingers clenched reflexively around the glass. “I…I beg your pardon?”
“Your decorating secrets, dearest.” Mama cast an approving glance around the dining room. “Your style is exquisite.”
Evie was glad she’d taken care with the details.
The chandelier cast a warm glow over the dark-paneled walls, and nary a speck of dust appeared on the gilt-framed landscapes.
The table was laid with the best Sèvres china, gleaming silverware, and sparkling crystal.
Bouquets perfumed the air, and the elaborate epergne centerpiece featured a pineapple harvested from the greenhouse as well as other exotic fruits and nuts.
“Thank you,” she said. “The credit must go to Hollis.”
She nodded at the butler, who was in the background directing the seamless flow of service à la Russe.
As spindly as a scarecrow, Hollis oversaw the household and kept away chaos.
In fact, his wide-spaced eyes seemed never to blink, adding to his air of vigilance.
Unused to garnering attention, his weathered features turned the color of beetroot.
He bowed. “My lady is too kind. I merely follow orders.”
“Hollis is being modest,” Evie said. “Between him and the housekeeper, I barely lift a finger.”
“Now you are being modest,” Mama chided.
“Not really.”
The truth came with a certain relief. There was freedom in airing her shortcomings. Evie looked at her husband again, and this time their gazes met. There was a flicker in his eyes—candlelight or contempt? Whatever the case, it set off a rebellious quiver in her.
“Ask James,” she heard herself say. “He will tell you.”
Her husband’s reply was even. “What do you wish me to say?”
Above his ruthlessly precise cravat, his jaw had a taut edge. She felt the smoldering heat of his gaze across the length of the table. It was a wonder it didn’t singe the profusions of petals along the way.
“Say whatever you wish about my performance as mistress of the house,” she said.
At her impulsive dare, silver blazed in James’s eyes. The intense flash made her breath jam in her throat. It was gone the next instant, covered by cool, restrained blue.
“To Evie.” He held up his glass. “For arranging my favorite menu, decorating our home with refinement and style, and entertaining us all with grace.”
“Hear, hear, son,” Papa said.
The others joined in the toast. While they didn’t seem to register the subtle mockery in James’s tone, Evie did.
His barbed compliment struck the raw and festering part of her that she couldn’t reveal to anyone.
She felt sick—heartsick in a way that had no cure.
What could be worse than being married to the man you loved, knowing that he despised you?
I deserve James’s antipathy. I brought this on myself. This is my fault, all of it.
“How are your botany projects coming along, Evie?”
Lady Georgiana, James’s youngest sibling, rescued Evie from rumination. Seated to Evie’s left, Gigi was a raven-haired, violet-eyed beauty who took after her mother. She had Mama’s charm, too: despite Evie’s misery, she couldn’t help responding to Gigi’s inquisitive smile.
“My experiments have yielded some interesting results.” Hesitantly, she added, “I have written a paper summarizing my research.”
“How exciting. If memory serves, you have discovered a new varietal of some sort?”
Touched that her sister-in-law remembered, Evie nodded. “Yes, I found a subspecies of the Cheiranthus cheiri—the common wallflower—growing on the estate. I have been studying its properties and believe it to be unique to the Berkshire Downs.”
“How is your wallflower different from others?”
Unable to resist, Evie launched into her favorite topic.
“The blossoms come earlier and are white rather than the usual brighter shades such as gold and purple. What piqued my interest was the strong fragrance this varietal exudes at dusk, which is not typical for Cheiranthus cheiri. I began observing it at night and noticed a most intriguing phenomenon.”
“Do tell us, Evie.” The entreaty came from Xenia, Ethan’s lovely redheaded wife.
“It is well known that bees assist in pollination during the day,” Evie said. “However, there may be more to the story of fertilization. When I observed my wallflower, I noticed its corolla was closed for most of the day and unfurled at twilight—”
“Corolla?” Gigi’s brow pleated.
“I meant the flower’s petals.” Flushing, Evie reminded herself that this was polite company and not a meeting of her scientific society. “In other words, the flower blooms when the sun sets. Which begs an obvious question, does it not?”
She looked expectantly at her guests; they gazed back blankly.
James came to her rescue. “Bees are only active during the day. Therefore, if your flower blooms at night,” he said mildly, “how does it get pollinated?”
Gratitude flooded Evie. Admiration, too. Despite looking like a fashion plate from some gentleman’s magazine, her husband was no intellectual slouch.
“That is what I asked myself,” she said with a nod.
“And do you have answers?” Gigi wanted to know.
“I have a theory. It may seem far-fetched—”
“Consider your audience, Evie dear,” Mama said with a charming laugh. “If you were to say that your wallflower was pollinated by fairies, we would have half a mind to believe you.”
“In that case…moths,” Evie blurted. “I think moths may play a role.”
She held her breath. When she’d tested the waters by sharing her theory with a few select peers in her society, they’d guffawed.
Lord Grantwich, a senior member, had patted her on the head, chuckling, “How very droll, Lady Manderly. Moths pollinating, indeed. When it comes to the garden, we all know those drab creatures are nothing more than pests.”
“How did you arrive at that conclusion?” Xenia asked.
“I’ve observed Sphinx ligustri…the Privet hawk-moth, I mean, visiting my wallflowers.
They arrive at dusk when the blooms are unfurling.
For some reason, the moths prefer one patch over the others.
Over several months, I recorded my observations and noticed that the wallflowers in that area blossomed more prodigiously—twice as much, in fact—as the other sections. ”
“What a clever deduction.” Gigi canted her head. “I wonder if moths pollinate other night-blooming flowers? In our garden at Honeystone Hall, we have several beds of evening primroses. Have you noticed any moths hovering about, Mr. Godwin?”