Chapter 6
An Unpleasant Encounter
Lady Eveline Hartwell was not much given to nervous behavior. Reckless she was, but she had never known fear. True fear. Eveline had seen her brother’s bruised cheekbone before they set off for London.
Oliver had said nothing to her, and neither had Alice.
That omission, which in any other circumstance would have enraged her, ended by confirming what she had already suspected since Lord Arden disappeared from Hounslow Park with more haste than consideration.
Her supposed fiancé had left without saying goodbye, asking her for an explanation, or demanding that they speak of what had happened in the gazebo.
He had announced before everyone that she would become his countess, and then he had vanished, leaving her alone with her shame, a kiss that still burned in her memory, and a purple piece of evidence on Oliver’s face.
She did not need to be a scholar of masculine conduct to guess what had passed between her brother and his best friend.
Statony would have demanded that Arden keep his word.
Arden would have refused. Her brother, who could be a powerful duke, a devoted husband, an enraptured father, and a fearsome parliamentarian, was still also a Hartwell with very little patience when someone hurt his family; so he would have struck him. Arden would have defended himself.
And afterward he would have fled to London or to any other place where his best friend’s troublesome sister could not drag him to the altar.
Better so.
Eveline repeated that word to herself throughout the journey, her hands clasped in her lap and her gaze fixed on the landscape sliding past the window.
Better so. Lord Arden hated her, just as she had always known.
He had kissed her out of fury, ill-understood jealousy of poor Linfield, or a fit of passion that had surely passed the moment he recovered his reason.
It was not love. It could not be. Arden could not even bear her.
And she did not want to make his life bitter.
Nor did she wish to make her own bitter.
The problem, of course, was that the world did not usually stop to ask a lady whether disaster suited her calendar.
The rumors would travel fast from Hounslow Park, even though Alice had dismissed the guests with the elegance of an ambassadress and the force of a regiment.
Society would take very little time to learn that Lady Eveline Hartwell had been caught in a compromising situation with the Earl of Arden.
It would also assume, thanks to his public announcement, that they were engaged.
But Eveline knew what was happening.
There was no engagement.
Not truly.
There had been only a kiss, an announcement made to save her, and an earl who must already be regretting both.
And so she would have to find a new fiancé quickly.
The idea was not agreeable to her, but the alternative was worse.
A swift, respectable marriage, solid enough to paper over the cracks of the scandal, was the only way to escape disgrace.
She could not afford another fall. Not after Vauxhall and Tentwall.
She was no longer that newly out young lady capable of being charmed by a scoundrel with a brilliant smile and hollow promises.
She would never remember how she managed to appear serene and survive the first night in the city after so many years.
She did not sleep that night. And life was not going to stop merely because she felt an intense pain brought on by Arden’s flight. Should she not feel more relieved and less… less…? Less what?
She found it hard to breathe. How could a man have given her such a kiss only to make clear afterward that he would not marry her and flee in great haste?
It did not matter. A new day was breaking, and she had a great deal to do. That morning, London received her with its usual mixture of noise, smoke, wheels on cobblestones, and windows full of invisible eyes.
Alice had decreed that they would attend the first of many parties that night. So, despite having no time to go to the dressmaker and obtain new gowns, they improvised with those they already had.
The day passed without glory or sorrow. There was scarcely time for laments, because they had to be ready for the Season.
And that night, they attended a ball.
Eveline would have preferred a public execution. It would have been less demanding on the coiffure.
God in heaven… Instead of asking to come to the city, she ought to have suggested her own banishment to very, very distant lands.
Alice assured her that presenting herself as soon as possible was the best strategy.
Hiding would have given rise to rumors in an uglier way, and the Duchess of Statony did not intend to let society write Eveline’s story without at least having to watch her smile while it did.
Oliver, still with the marked cheekbone, looked so somber that several people greeted him with a reverential caution.
That, in Eveline’s view, could serve as a warning to anyone who meant to mention the recent scandal she carried.
The evening was held at Lady Alderwick’s house.
There were, as always on such occasions, lamps lit with countless candles, music, satin, feathers, fans, men who talked too loud near the punch bowl, and mothers who examined the marriageable girls with attention.
And they watched her more than any other.
Alice had withdrawn to the dressing room a few minutes earlier to fix a hairpin.
Oliver had been claimed by several gentlemen in the adjoining room, where they were no doubt talking of politics, horses, or some other matter the men considered serious when they did not want to admit that scandals interested them as well.
Eveline was left alone beside a column decorated with garlands.
Alone, though only in appearance.
She felt the looks.
They were not brazen. High society rarely did anything frankly when it could do it more cruelly from behind a fan.
But they were there, following her from the groups of ladies, from the open doors, from the gentlemen who pretended to be in search of a glass while wondering where Lord Arden was and whether the engagement announced at Hounslow Park would at last become a wedding.
She had not foreseen that vexation, for while it was true that an engagement—which only she knew did not exist—might save her from social ruin, it was of little value without the suitor at her side.
Eveline straightened her back. She could do this. She had survived worse things than a drawing room full of the curious.
And then she saw him.
Cedric Lancaster, Viscount Tentwall, stood on the other side of the room, near a group of young gentlemen who were laughing at something that ceased to be amusing the moment he raised his gaze and found her.
The air grew denser around her.
She had not seen him up close for a long time, specifically since her name had been joined to his through her own fault.
The memory of Vauxhall came back with a clarity that enraged her.
She saw plainly the lanterns, the scarlet mask, the absurd race, that attempt to claim a kiss she had not wished to give…
She was no longer the same fool she had been.
Ah, but he was still as handsome as he had been then.
That struck her as an offence. Could fate not have taken hair from him and added a little more bulk to his belly, for instance?
She looked more closely; she cared little that he was looking at her too.
A scar crossed part of his left cheek, from the cheekbone to the jaw.
It was an ugly mark. In another man it would have hardened his face until it became disagreeable, but no—on Tentwall it gave him a dangerous air, like an irresistible pirate.
Eveline regretted to find that the scoundrel still had enough appeal to tempt any unwary creature like herself.
Did the scar really have to make him even more attractive?
Confound it!
‘Whatever can have happened to you, you scoundrel?’
The question came out before she could prevent it. She bit her tongue after speaking aloud and let out a small, unfeminine sound. Would Cedric always be her Achilles’ heel?
Then the unthinkable happened.
Tentwall smiled. He had the audacity to smile at her!
Eveline felt the immediate impulse to flee, but she could not do it.
To flee would have been to offer the aristocracy a whole story with a mere swish of her skirt.
If she moved away from him visibly, everyone would remember what had happened during her début, and if she paled, if she turned her face away or hid, the murmurs would revive the scandal she had played out at Vauxhall with the joy of a dog that had found a buried bone.
So she drew herself up, gathered all her courage, and smiled at him.
Not too much, nor sweetly, only enough to show everyone who was watching, Tentwall included, that the past could not claim of her more than she was willing to grant it.
And the worst of it began to happen, because the scoundrel was crossing the room towards her. Eveline kept her chin high and her hands still, for otherwise she might end up slapping him.
‘Lady Eveline,’ he said, bowing before her as soon as he stood in front of her, ‘it is a great surprise to see you tonight.’
‘Lord Tentwall,’ she answered, ‘London rarely denies its little surprises.’
His smile slanted, and the scar pulled at the skin, though it did not entirely diminish his charm.
‘I trust this so-called surprise is as pleasant for you as it is for me. ’
‘I have learned not to pronounce judgment so quickly.’
‘Given the frankness with which we treated each other some time ago, I shall tell you that I would find it a cruelty if you were to do without your freshness.’
‘I am sorry to give you bad news, my lord, but I have become more prudent.’