Chapter 9
Camilla had intended to ignore Lord Pembroke last night at Astley’s, but the Fates had been against her.
For some inexplicable reason, her mother had forced her to ride with Pembroke and the Harwoods, not with Bernice Milton as she had planned.
After the performance, Sophia and Felix had stood apart talking, leaving her subject to Pembroke’s conversation.
Whether this was by chance or by design, she could not escape his attention.
The discussion that ensued surprised her, for it had been very forthright.
His manner, so unlike him, of laying things on the table had shaken her, but neither had he remained unaffected.
She could be proud of herself for holding her own, for she had answered without blushes or faltering.
If there was still a part of her, however infinitesimal, that wished he had fallen at her feet and declared his feelings for her, she was doomed to disappointment.
And if the secret longings of her heart wished to hear that no proposal to Miss Eubank had occurred because he had come to the realization that he was in love with her, then she must simply steel her resolve.
To hope for such a thing was mere foolishness, for it was not his way.
He was kind, thoughtful when it came to family, solid.
But he was not of a romantic, effusive nature—the type to fall at a woman’s feet and declare his eternal love.
And if he were, she would be the last person to drive him to it.
Although she shoved this next thought into a small corner of her mind for its being so unreasonable, she wished he had countered her directive to leave her alone at the season’s events, so she might find a suitable husband.
He could have used that moment to declare that he wished to enter the lists.
The fact he had not made it plain that he was thoroughly and utterly not an option.
She understood it. She accepted it. And yet her throat ached with unshed tears whenever she thought of it.
A loud clamor sounded downstairs, followed by voices.
Camilla, dressed and seated before the mirror in her room, did not need to listen further to know that it was Evo returning from school.
Her cheeks were still pink from unexpressed emotion, so she fanned herself then smoothed her dress before going to the stairwell.
Before she had descended halfway, Evo looked up.
“Camilla, you needn’t come down as well. I will see you at dinner.” He looked around at his three sisters and mother, who had all gathered to welcome him. “Females,” he said, shaking his head in feigned disgust.
“You should not be so disdainful,” Joanna said. “You will one day marry one.”
“I should hardly think so. Or if I do, not before I’m fifty,” he retorted.
“And perhaps not even then, for you will have to convince one to accept you first.” Tilly smiled, proud that she had scored a hit. He rolled his eyes at her.
“And since you will one day have to marry one,” Camilla said, picking up the thread, “You might as well begin now by learning to greet your sisters and mother with a modicum of respect.”
“No, I need not. When I do marry, the lady will have to respect me. And if I am not in the humor to speak to her, why then, I’ll send her off to her bedroom or the parlor, and I will go to the club.”
Lady Poole stood by the door to the drawing room, as though waiting only for him to enter. At this display of barbarism, she frowned.
“I hope you will do no such thing, Evo. That is a miserable life in store for any lady you take as your wife.” Her reply was uncharacteristically tart.
The handkerchief she had taken out for the joy of the reunion was now used to dab her eyes, and her emotions being impossible to master, she walked into the drawing room.
An odd silence fell, and Turton quietly opened the door to the retiring room and gestured for the footman to follow him. They disappeared from sight, leaving Evo with his three sisters.
“You never seem to learn. You are incorrigible,” Joanna said with a glance after their mother.
“You made Mama cry,” Tilly added, her voice tinged with gentle accusation.
“Mother always cries,” he shot back flippantly, but it was weak. He seemed affected by the emotions he had provoked in his mother and sisters, and Camilla tried to bring it to good use.
“You must learn one day that just because you will have all of the power in a marriage does not mean you need to wield it. There is a different kind of power—a more honorable kind—in setting an example to your peers by treating women with respect. You are young still,” she went on inexorably, “but one day people will look to you as a model.”
“If they choose to do such a crackbrained thing, it is only their fault,” he mumbled.
“Mother’s marriage was particularly unhappy,” she went on. “And our father was entirely to blame. Do not consign some poor soul to a life of misery by repeating Father’s mistakes.”
He scoffed, but it carried no conviction. “There is no need to read me a lecture, Cam—especially not about a marriage which, if I marry at all, will not be for another twenty or thirty years.”
Tilly quietly slipped into the drawing room, presumably to see if their mother needed consolation.
As for Camilla, she had said enough. Evo was young, it was true.
Only fifteen. And though it was too soon to speak of his future marital state, he had to start changing his ways now.
How could he grow up with five sisters and still be so obtuse?
If he continued in this vein, there was truly no hope for him.
She turned to climb the stairs, thankful once again to seek refuge in her room.
“Welcome home, Evo,” Joanna said with heavy irony, then stalked off to the library, leaving the young earl alone in the hall.
It was a day to receive callers, and Evo joined Camilla and her sisters and mother, surprising all of them but giving pleasure only to Lady Poole. When a knock sounded on the door, Turton entered to announce the visitors.
“Lord Pembroke, Mr. Weatherby, Mr. Pollard.”
Camilla stood, her breath leaving her at the sound of Pembroke’s name. Despite her resolve, she was as weak as ever. At least she now understood what had brought Evo to the drawing room.
Pembroke led the way in greeting everyone, and when he came to her, scarcely acknowledged her, which she had to own stung. He turned to Evo. “Poole. You have grown more still. Do you suppose you will stop?”
“Not until I have surpassed you in height,” Evo replied, arms akimbo and a grin to split his face.
“Noted. You have a few inches yet until you achieve your purpose.” Since Pembroke was a gentleman of only average height, it seemed likely his pronouncement would come true.
“Please, do sit. I will ring for tea,” Lady Poole said in a cheerful, clear voice.
This small detail consoled Camilla, who had never realized how much she had wished for her mother to speak up more when company came—a mother who would engage in Society and take an active interest in her offspring’s affairs. She was doing so now.
Another knock sounded, and this was soon followed by Bernice and her mother.
As glad as Camilla was to see Bernice, she was less so to see Lady Milton.
In the way that was characteristic to the baronetess, she immediately took charge of the conversation, declaring how busy she would be that day with calls.
It might have been difficult for anyone else to get a word in, but once again, Lady Poole showed she was worth her salt by calling their Surrey neighbor to come and sit beside her.
“Lady Milton, I wish you will tell me where you have had that fetching bonnet made.”
She was only too happy to do so, and Camilla patted the seat beside her for Bernice to sit. Mr. Pollard forestalled her.
“Ah, forgive me, Lady Camilla. I had not realized you were about to speak to Miss Milton. My subject is not so urgent it cannot wait.”
“Nor is mine, Mr. Pollard,” she replied, her eyes crinkling, especially when she saw how much it brought Bernice pleasure that he should seek her attention.
She had noticed them speaking at Astley’s as well, and they appeared to converse comfortably.
“Please enjoy Miss Milton’s conversation. I must fetch the tea leaves.”
It was just an excuse, but in the next instant, the servants entered carrying the trays and hot water and rendered her excuse valid.
She walked over to the tea chest, and satisfied, turned and took in the sight of their company.
Well—satisfied until her gaze met that of Pembroke’s, who happened to look up and see her eyes cast his way.
Leaving Evo to continue talking to Mr. Weatherby, he crossed the room to her.
“I was just thinking what a fortunate circumstance it is that we have come when you have no suitors for me to frighten away,” he said with a saintly look, adding, “Unless you mean to have Mr. Pollard or Mr. Weatherby.”
Camilla so longed to give him a set-down that she fixed him with an unflinching stare while she tried to think of one. It did not come. Another knock sounded on the door, and she held her breath waiting to see who had arrived. Pembroke also turned to look.
“Mr. Laverock,” Turton announced, and Camilla had the satisfaction of seeing the smug look leave Pembroke’s face. She chose a canister of tea and closed the tea chest with a click.
“I have no interest in Mr. Pollard or Mr. Weatherby,” she said with an innocent mien before turning to their newest guest with a delighted smile. Let him make of that what he would.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Laverock.” She walked over and held out her free hand to him; he took it in his and bowed, his lips skimming her gloves. This elaborate display was a bit much, but the timing could not have been better. “Won’t you please sit down?”