CHAPTER THREE
"I do hope you'll find Lord Whitmore agreeable company, Miss Harcourt."
The Dowager delivered this statement with the serene confidence of a woman who had never, in her entire life, hoped for anything of the sort. She sat at the head of the drawing room like a queen surveying her domain, her silver hair immaculate, her black silk gown rustling with quiet menace.
Evangeline, who had been summoned from the library for what she had naively assumed would be tea, felt the first prickle of unease.
"Lord Whitmore?" she repeated carefully.
"The Baron of Ashwick. A neighbor. He has graciously accepted my invitation to dine with us this evening." The Dowager's smile did not reach her eyes. "I believe you may find him... suitable."
Suitable. The word landed with a deliberate weight that Evangeline did not miss.
She glanced at her father, who was examining a porcelain shepherdess on the mantelpiece with the oblivious contentment of a man who had never, in his three and sixty years, learned to read a room.
"How... kind," Evangeline managed.
"Indeed." The Dowager lifted her teacup with practiced elegance. "Lord Whitmore is a widower. His estate borders Blackthorn to the north. He has expressed interest in taking a new wife, and I thought, given your situation, that an introduction might prove beneficial."
Given your situation.
Evangeline's fingers tightened on her own teacup. She understood, suddenly, exactly what was happening. The Dowager had seen the corridor. Had seen the way her son looked at Evangeline, the way Evangeline looked back. And she was moving swiftly, ruthlessly, to remove the problem.
By arranging matrimony for Evangeline off to the nearest available gentleman.
"Your Grace is too kind to concern herself with my prospects," Evangeline said, her voice steady despite the anger blooming in her chest.
"But I assure you, I have no intention of…"
"Nonsense." The Dowager waved a dismissive hand.
"Every young woman must think of her future. Your father's work here will conclude soon enough, and then what? You cannot remain a spinster forever, Miss Harcourt. Lord Whitmore is respectable, comfortable, and"…her lips curved, “not particular about lineage."
The insult was delivered so smoothly that it took Evangeline a moment to feel the sting.
Not particular about lineage. As if Evangeline were damaged goods, to be sold at discount to whoever would take her.
"How fortunate for me," she said quietly.
If the Dowager heard the edge in her voice, she gave no indication. "Dinner is at seven. Do try to look presentable."
Lord Whitmore was not, Evangeline decided within five minutes of meeting him, agreeable company.
He was perhaps fifty, with a florid complexion that spoke of too much port and a stomach that spoke of too much everything else.
His eyes, small and sharp, had swept over Evangeline's figure with an appraisal that made her skin crawl.
His handshake had lingered too long. His smile had contained too many teeth.
But it was his voice that truly set her nerves on edge loud, braying and designed to fill every corner of a room and leave no space for anyone else.
"Miss Harcourt!" he boomed, as they gathered in the drawing room before dinner.
"The Dowager tells me you're a scholar's daughter. How delightful. I do enjoy a woman with a bit of learning. Not too much, of course, don't want them getting ideas above their station but a bit of polish never hurts, eh?"
Evangeline smiled thinly. "How generous of you to say so, my lord."
"And your mother was a Whitmore, I understand? Distant branch of my own family, as it happens. Terribly sad, that business." He shook his head with theatrical sympathy.
"She made an unfortunate choice in matrimony, of course, but we can hardly hold the sins of the mother against the daughter."
The sins of the mother.
Evangeline felt her smile freeze on her face.
Her mother had committed no sin beyond surrendering her heart to the wrong man, a gentleman scholar with no fortune and no title, who had remained devoted to her desperately until the day she passed.
The Whitmore family had disowned her for it.
Had refused to acknowledge Evangeline's existence for twenty-three years.
And now this man…this pompous, preening man was speaking of sins.
"How very magnanimous," Evangeline commented with chilled formality.
Lord Whitmore did not appear to notice. "I've always believed in giving people a chance, you see.
Fresh start and all that. A young woman in your position needs friends, Miss Harcourt.
Needs... protectors." His eyes dropped to her bodice with a directness that made her stomach turn.
"I should be happy to offer my guidance. "
I would rather be fed to wolves.
But she couldn't say that. She was a guest in this house, dependent on the Duke's hospitality, and the Dowager was watching from across the room with sharp, satisfied eyes.
"You are too kind, my lord," Evangeline murmured, and excused herself to check on her father.
Dinner was a trial.
The dining room, vast and intimidating as ever, had been arranged with Lord Whitmore seated directly across from Evangeline, close enough that she could smell his cologne, a cloying mixture of bergamot and self-importance.
The Dowager presided over one end of the table, Professor Harcourt occupied the other, and Lucian...
Lucian sat to Evangeline's left, silent as a storm cloud.
He had not spoken to her since the corridor. Had barely looked at her. When she had entered the drawing room, his gaze had swept over her once brief, burning and then fixed itself firmly on a point somewhere above her head.
But she could feel him. His presence beside her was a physical weight, a warmth that made her skin prickle with awareness.
Every time she reached for her wine glass, her elbow came within inches of his arm.
Every time she shifted in her chair, she caught a trace of his scent, sandalwood and smoke and something darker, more dangerous.
It was vexing beyond endurance.
It was also, she suspected, the only thing keeping her from inflicting a grievous wound upon his person with her fish fork.
"…and of course, the hunting in Ashwick is unparalleled," the baron was saying, addressing the table at large but looking at Evangeline.
"I've bagged more pheasants this season than any other landowner in the county.
Twelve brace last week alone. My gamekeeper says he's never seen anything like it. "
"Remarkable," the Dowager said, with convincing interest.
"Indeed, indeed. I've always had an eye for sport. The ladies tell me I cut quite a figure on horseback." He laughed at his own observation. "Perhaps Miss Harcourt would care to join me for a ride sometime? I've a lovely mare that would suit a woman of her... proportions."
Evangeline's hand tightened on her fork.
Beside her, she felt Lucian go still.
"I'm afraid I'm not much of a horsewoman, my lord," she said carefully.
"Nonsense! Every young lady should ride. I'd be happy to teach you. Very happy indeed." His eyes lingered on her in a way that made his meaning unmistakable. “To manage a lady, one must never slacken the reins; a constant and steady guidance is required.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Evangeline opened her mouth to respond though she wasn't sure what she would say, only that it would probably end with her being thrown out of Blackthorn Hall…when her father spoke.
"Speaking of sport, Lord Whitmore, have you read the recent treatise on medieval hawking practices? Fascinating work by a scholar at Oxford, absolutely revolutionary interpretation of the Boke of St. Albans…"
"Can't say that I have." The baron's voice cooled noticeably. "Not much of a reader, I'm afraid. Leave that sort of thing to the academics." He pronounced the word with faint contempt. "A man of action, that's what I am. No point sitting about with dusty books when there's real work to be done."
Professor Harcourt blinked, momentarily derailed. "But surely... that is to say... scholarship is itself a form of work, is it not? The pursuit of knowledge…"
"The pursuit of knowledge." Lord Whitmore laughed, the sound harsh and dismissive.
"Is that what we're calling it these days?
Begging for patronage from your betters, more like.
No offense intended, Professor, but let's call a spade a spade.
You're here because the Duke is generous enough to fund your little hobby.
Without his charity, where would you be?
Scrabbling for pennies at some provincial college, I shouldn't wonder. "
The words landed like blows.
Evangeline watched her father's face crumple just for a moment, just a flicker of hurt before academic bewilderment took over and felt something hot and furious rise in her chest.
"My father's work," she said, her voice shaking with controlled anger, "has been recognised by every major scholarly institution in England.
His research on medieval land tenure has been cited in parliamentary debates.
He is not begging, he is advancing human knowledge, which is more than can be said for… "
"Miss Harcourt." The baron's smile turned patronising.
"How charming. Defending your father's honor. But surely you must see the reality of your situation. A beggar-scholar and his spinster daughter, dependent on the goodwill of their betters." He spread his hands magnanimously.
"There's no shame in it, my dear. Not everyone can be born to fortune. Some of us must make our way by... other means."
His gaze dropped to her bodice again.
Evangeline felt the blood drain from her face.
Other means. He was suggesting…he was actually suggesting…
"That is quite enough."
The voice came from her side, a low murmur which carried a lethal chill that froze the blood in her veins as surely as a Great Frost might ice the Thames.