Her sisters had taken off, probably without a second thought—or had they?
Deene was so wonderfully warm next to her, but how was she to face him after such a display?
She was hungry.
What had Kesmore made of this situation?
And when all that effluvia had been borne away by the passing miles:
At some juncture, she’d taken Deene’s arm and put it about her shoulders, the better to use him for a bolster. He was being delicate, as he’d call it. Keeping his silence out of deference to her feelings. Dratted man.
She wished he’d kiss her—not a wicked, naughty kiss, but a comforting kiss, a kiss to anchor her back in her body, to steady her courage. Such a wish was foolish, allowable only because she and Deene were bound to become nothing more than cordial acquaintances. On that list of possible convenient husbands, she’d have to put the contenders with family seats in Kent toward the bottom of the pile.
That would cut down on chance encounters with Deene… and his future marchioness.
“Why was Mildred Staines ogling you like you’d hidden the entire table of desserts in your smalls, Lucas?”
To prevent him from removing his arm, Eve laced her fingers with his.
“Why, indeed? Kesmore informs me there are rumors going around regarding my past, among other things.”
“You’re the catch of the Season, of course there will be rumors.”
“These are nasty rumors.”
Damn him and his delicacy. “Do these rumors involve red-haired beauties of dubious reputation?”
She felt him tense up, then relax.
“You’ve heard them too?”
“No. Westhaven, duke-in-training that he is, won’t tell us, and if he tells Anna, she doesn’t pass along the best gossip either. We’ve hardly seen Maggie since she married Hazelton—and I know you had a hand in that, Lucas, so get your prevarications ready for the day I inquire about it. But as to your rumors, I thought men strutted about the gaming hells, twitting one another over such things where the decent women couldn’t hear them.”
“They do.”
He said nothing more, but rather than return to her own brown study, Eve decided to further investigate his.
“Are the rumors untrue?”
“They are… exaggerations and inaccuracies, also very ill timed.”
“Then they’re very likely started by those fellows who want to knock you out of contention for the best marital prospects. It’s ruthless business, acquiring the right spouse. I wish you the joy of it.”
He did remove his arm. “Are you enjoying your own endeavors in this regard? Having turned down my suit, Evie, are you now recruiting more appropriate candidates?”
He apparently wanted a nice, rousing argument, but Eve was too wrung out to oblige him.
“I was taking pity on the unfortunate, like a gentleman dances with the wallflowers. Would you be very offended if I attempted a nap, Lucas?”
Under no circumstances was she going to allow him an opportunity to interrogate her about all that drama back at Bascoomb Ford. She needed to interrogate herself first, and at some length.
“Nap if you can.”
She lifted his arm across her shoulders again, needing the comfort of it. Today had been an exceptional day, and Eve permitted herself the indulgence of Deene’s proximity on that basis alone.
For once the Season started and they were off hunting their respective spouses, who knew when they might ever be private again?
Eve Windham did not snore, and she had the knack of being pretty even in sleep. Deene tormented himself with these guilty secrets—secrets only a husband ought to know. Better by far that he suffer to know them, however, than that he hear any explicit confidences from her.
He knew there was a great deal more to her bad fall than either of them had acknowledged, and for the sake of his peace of mind, he wanted it kept that way.
Let her tell her sisters, or her mama. Let her write letters to her brother Devlin in the North; let her learn what she could from the family who’d loved her since birth. For if Deene were to accept her most intimate confidences now, he would be unable—flat
Any situation involving him, helplessness, and a woman was to be avoided at any cost.
He instead turned his mind to the gossip Kesmore had passed long, for even the weight of Eve’s head resting against his thigh was insufficient to distract him from that bit of news. According to the talk in the clubs, Deene’s profligate raking on three continents—or was it four, considering that Turkey was part of Asia?—had left him with unfortunate health consequences that could potentially disfigure or even end the life of any marchioness of Deene.
The effects of disease—nobody used the specific word “syphilis”—had been evident in the late Lord Deene, too, hadn’t they? A wicked temper, unfettered spending, intemperate drink…
That such characteristics were common to many an aging peer was apparently beyond the grasp of the average gossip, and in truth, such rumors were only bothersome in passing.
The ones intimating Deene was close to financial ruin were the more difficult to bear. Coming as they did upon the very opening of the Season in which Deene sought to take a wife, there could be only one possible source of such malice.
And before too much more time had passed, Deene intended to make Jonathan Dolan pay for every nasty, sly, vulgar lie ever to pass the man’s lips.
Jenny stared at the apple in her hand. “I am disloyal for saying so, but I am enjoying this respite without Mama and Papa. With just us and Aunt Gladys here, it’s peaceful.”
Eve paused halfway through paring the skin from another piece of fruit. “You aren’t disloyal, you’re honest. Mama is probably saying the very same thing to Papa about us as we speak.”
Louisa was demolishing her apple in audible bites. “Eve’s right, and this way, I get to spend another couple of weeks rusticating with my dear Joseph. Do we have enough for the last pie?”
Eve eyed the pile of peeled and sliced apples before her. She generally avoided association with apples, but the Windham daughters enjoyed a secret fondness for cooking, and her sisters’ choice today had been pies. “Do we really need seven pies?”
“Five will do if the bounty is limited to us and the senior house staff.” Jenny set her apple down. “Six allows us to spare one for Kesmore.”
“So our heathen offspring can smear it in one another’s hair.” Louisa got off her stool and started untying her apron. “Eve, why don’t you take the remaining slices down to the stables? Jenny can come with me to surrender the pie to the Vandal horde in my nursery.”
Which horde, Eve simply lacked the fortitude to deal with cheerfully today. “I’ll clean up here, in any case.”
They didn’t argue with her, which was a mercy. Kesmore had seen Eve’s face splotchy and pink. He’d all but galloped off to avoid the awkwardness of her loss of composure—or perhaps he’d meant to spare her feelings.
It hardly mattered. Since arriving to Morelands several days ago, Eve had slept a great deal, stared off into space almost as much, and taken a few long walks.
And when she walked, she remembered to be grateful for the ability, but she also found her peace punctuated by odd thoughts.
