Chapter 27
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
T he following two days Evangeline kept to the house and asked Rosalind that she be excused from any of the events that they were to attend. Rosalind had been sweet and allowed her time away from society, and thankfully did not press to know what was troubling her.
Which unfortunately was quite a lot.
The ballroom glittered with candlelight, the chandeliers reflecting hundreds of fractured points of gold across the parquet floors and gilded cornices. Rose-scented air floated past from great urns overflowing with spring blooms—peonies, tulips, lilacs. The orchestra at the far end of the room played a light, elegant strain of violins and flute, their sound almost drowned beneath the low hum of conversation and the shuffle of satin slippers across polished oak floors.
She stood on the fringes of the ballroom floor, sipping a glass of ratafia and watched those enjoying a minuet, but in truth she saw very little. Her mind could not settle on what Lord St. George had said. Or more to the point, what he had not.
He did not love her.
Their marriage would not be a love match, and may never grow into one. And although she would marry him—she had little choice in the matter—a hollowness had opened within her at his words and would not close.
She did not want to be the only occupant in the marriage to be in love.
For she had fallen in love with him, possibly from the first moment she had seen him. How could one not marvel and fall under the spell of such a handsome man? A man with a good heart, even if that heart had been given away to another some years before, and one that he now did not have to give.
To her at least.
Did he still love Luisa? Did he still mourn her? He had not wanted a wife, so she could only assume that was one of the reasons—other than his occupation as a spy.
She stiffened, the fine hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. The heat of his touch burned through the sheer muslin of her sleeve, too deliberate to be accidental before the deep, whispered words at her side stole her breath. Evangeline went to turn, to face the nameless foe, but he clasped her arm and jerked her to remain forward.
"Do not turn, my lady, but I hear you have not heeded my warning. There will be repercussions for not doing as I said."
She pressed her lips together, forcing down the scream that clawed its way up her throat. Not here. Not now. But dear God, she wanted to cry out. "With one scream you'll be outed, sir. Do not threaten me."
He laughed, his hand on her arm pinching the delicate skin. "If you do, I have in place my revenge on Lord St. George—and you, now that you're betrothed to the murderer. Such an action would be ill-advised."
Evangeline remained silent as she took in his words. Murderer? Whatever did he mean by that? "What do you want?" she asked.
"Good, that is the response I would prefer to receive." He paused. "I just wonder, Lady Evangeline, if you've ever asked Lord St. George what Miss Luisa Rossi looked like?"
Evangeline frowned. "Looked like? What does that have to do with anything?" What an odd thing to say—and what did it matter what the late woman looked like? This fiend made little sense.
"I do not mean to hurt you more than you're already hurt, no doubt by knowing of the earl’s past abroad, that has injured your heart. I watched you this evening and I can see that you're troubled."
All true—and she could not deny what he was saying. But nor would she give him any indication that his words cut her heart to threads.
"The earl gravitated to you almost the moment he met you. Did you not wonder why he could not leave you alone?"
Evangeline blinked back the tears that threatened, having this stranger whispering awful things in her ear. Words that questioned her worth, her hope for a happy marriage with Ezra. "That is between his lordship and myself, sir. You will not be privy to the feelings that we have for each other."
He laughed, and the sound was void of amusement. Instead, she shivered at the cold calculation in his tone. "Feelings?" He chuckled again. "Ask Lord St. George to see the small, miniature portrait of Miss Luisa Rossi he carries with him always. When you do view this small portrait, then you will know why Lord St. George favored you above anyone else. Even I struggle with the thought of hurting you because of how you look—but do not be fooled. I will get my revenge, one way or another."
She felt him move away and she turned, only catching the sight of a tall, dark-haired man moving off through the crowd. She watched as long as she could before he was gone. His scent—something sharp and foreign—lingered in the air long after he disappeared into the throng.
Evangeline bit her lip, knowing she should have screamed for Ravensmere. But she could also not ignore the stranger’s words.
Did St. George carry a small portrait of his lost love?
Why was that so important for her to know?
She spied St. George before he saw her as he moved through the throng of guests. He appeared so perfectly at ease, so painfully unaware of the chasm now yawning between them.
He was looking around—maybe he was searching for her—but she couldn’t help but feel like second best. That perhaps he was, but if his lost love were here, she would never have been given a second glance.
She was not the first. And she would never be the only. That truth settled like ash in her chest.
Stop it, Evangeline. You're being silly and jealous of a woman who no longer walks the earth.
Still, the jealousy and hurt that rose within her—that he'd loved Luisa, and that he didn't love her—was a hard medicine to swallow.
From a few steps away she watched St. George wish her sister and brother-in-law a good evening, before his attention moved to where she stood. He threw her a small smile, but the turmoil, the fear that clawed at her meant she could only stare back, her mind working furiously with what to do.
Should she ask him about the miniature portrait?
Of course you should. You need to know what the portrait looks like…
The earl excused himself from her family and joined her, picked up her hand and kissed her gloved fingers. "You're beautiful this evening. I have missed you these past days. The duchess said you were indisposed."
"Ah, yes, a megrim," she lied, not wanting to tell him she'd stayed away because she could not face him. Did not know how to act around him now that she knew of his affections for another.
She had always believed that when one found the person they wished to spend the rest of their lives with, they also found their soul mate for the first time. That he had loved before hurt. As much as she did not wish to feel slighted, her affections for him were engaged—fully engaged—while his were not.
The scent of violets from a nearby bouquet did little to soothe the ache twisting in her chest. How could one not feel like they were making a mistake—one she could now not remove herself from?
He watched her and she fought to school her features to look the pleased and delighted fiancée toward the man before her. A kind and passionate man who made her feel wonderful. But was that enough? She wanted more. She wanted him to love her. Why did such an outcome have to be so difficult to procure?
"You are out of sorts. I can see that you are. Tell me what is wrong?" he asked.
Her hands trembled, the glass of ratafia dangerously close to slipping from her grip. She rallied her nerve and met his eyes. "Are you carrying a miniature portrait on you right now of Miss Luisa Rossi?"
Ezra’s face paled and she knew the answer to her question before she could say another word.
The stranger’s suggestion to her to ask proved correct. And no matter what he said—denial or admittance—she knew that he did. While he may not have the miniature on him at this moment, he certainly still had one of his past love.
"Pardon?" he asked, clearly taken aback. He rubbed the back of his neck and looked about. "Whyever would you ask me such a strange question?"
"Do you?" she asked again. "Show me if you do. I want to see the portrait."
"Evangeline…" he started in a cajoling tone. "Whatever has brought on this request? What has happened? How do you even know…" He shut his mouth with a snap and stepped back, realizing what he’d said.
"How do I know that you have an image of your betrothed?"
"She is no longer my betrothed. You're my future wife, no one else. Please do not speak in this way." He reached for her and she pulled away.
"Do not touch me at present." She paused. "I want to see the miniature. Stop stalling and show me now before another word is spoken." She held his gaze and refused to blink until he relented. Thankfully, he did. Sighing, he reached into the inside of his jacket and pulled out a small, circular frame before handing it to her.
He did not say a word, and Evangeline flipped it over and stared at the image staring back at her.
An image she could not fathom as real.
The resemblance was uncanny—frighteningly so. It was not merely similarity. It was duplication. A mirror. A cruel joke played by fate.
Miss Luisa Rossi was indeed as beautiful and timeless as she feared, her eyes sparkling with love and affection. Was Ezra there the day the miniature was painted? Something told her by the look in the woman’s eyes that he was.
But looking at the picture, something else became perfectly clear.
He had not fallen for her. He had fallen for a ghost wearing her face.
She could not marry St. George. Not now. Not ever.