Lady Eve's Indiscretion

Town. “What has this to do with marrying the man, Evie? And don’t think to bamboozle your old papa. I was young once, and I know marriage is a daunting business even when you’re entirely besotted with your intended.”

She frowned. She did not smile hugely and assure him with a mischievous wink that she and Deene were quite besotted, though His Grace suspected, hoped, and prayed they were.

“When I was with Deene in Surrey last time, I helped birth a foal. The colt had a leg back, and the mare was small. I was best suited to aiding her, and Deene says the foal is thriving.”

What this had to do with anything was… His Grace tried not to show his surprise. Eve had recently started driving out. That signal fact had contributed to her being unchaperoned at Lavender Corner, but it had also given Her Grace the first glimmer of hope Eve was “putting that whole sorry business behind her.” Hope was a welcome if anxious burden for both of Their Graces.

“You always enjoyed foaling season, always enjoyed the stables.” He made the observation cautiously, pretending to make a final inspection of the ducal regalia in the mirror while he instead studied his daughter’s reflection.

“If I hadn’t been there, Papa, the mare and foal both might have perished, or they’d have lost the mare for sure and tried to save the foal. But I was there, and Lucas allowed me to help her.”

Lucas. That Eve thought of her prospective husband as Lucas was encouraging. Only Her Grace called His Grace by name, and likely conversely.

“I’m to name the colt, Papa, but it’s as you used to say: you can’t just slap a name on an animal willy-nilly, you must first learn who the beast is. I want to learn who that little, bucking, playing, gorgeous beast is.”

He cracked open the door and peered into the church, lest he interfere with whatever point Eve was leading up to. “And you needed to marry Deene to do that?”

“Horses can live a long time, thirty years or more with luck and good care. Someday, I want to walk down to that colt’s paddock with my granddaughter and feed the old boy some apples. I might tell her tales of his races and his sons, tell her how magnificent he was when he swept across the finish line, or what heart he had in the hunt field.”

What on earth was she saying?

“I often enjoyed taking you children to the stables on fine summer evenings. You would talk to me then. I could have you to myself one or two at a time.”

He’d forgotten this. It was a dear, dear memory, and he’d forgotten it.

Now she smiled at him, perhaps not radiantly, but genuinely.

“I have not forgotten those fine summer evenings, Papa. And when I take my granddaughter down to see my old friend, I will tell her he had to struggle very hard to come into the world and make his way here. I will tell her… he could have given up, but he didn’t—he fought and struggled and eventually prevailed, and I did not give up on him either. Not ever, not for a single moment.”

Good… God.

Mercifully for His Grace’s composure, the organist chose that moment to begin the fanfare, sparing the duke from any reply. As he led his dear daughter up the aisle, past all the curious smiles and doting acquaintances, all he could think was that on her wedding day, Eve had talked to him of never giving up on a loved one, and of horses.

It had been seven years since she’d spoken to anybody of horses, and she’d chosen to start with her papa— which only made it harder today, of all days, to give her away.

* * *

No thunderbolt had stopped the ceremony at the last minute; no messenger of God had spoken up to state a reason why the union should not go forward. Eve Windham had been pronounced a wife, though the bishop’s voice had sounded as distant to her as the hunting horn blowing “gone away” on a far, windy hill.

“Eat something, Evie.”

Deene bent close to her, his smile doting though concern lurked in his blue eyes.

“I couldn’t possibly.”

His smile slipped, and Eve wondered if they were to have another bad moment. They’d already avoided one when Deene had realized Mr. Dolan had been present at the wedding, little Georgina dutifully turned out in her finest, the governess looking a good deal more spruce at her side than when Eve had met them in the park.

“Perhaps you’d like to leave?” Deene made the offer quietly.

“May we?”

“At some point it’s obligatory, if these good people are to truly indulge in the excesses of a ducal wedding breakfast.”

“How do we do this?”

She did not want to leave with him, did not want to take any single step closer to the ordeal facing her at the end of the day, but neither could she abide the noise, the good wishes, the concerned looks from her family, and the increasing ribaldry from the guests.

And her wishes became moot, for Deene had apparently colluded with her brothers to choreograph the moment. At some subtle signal, Westhaven stood up and tapped his spoon against a delicate crystal glass.

“Friends, esteemed guests, beloved family—if I might have your attention?”

The long tables filled with guests grew silent as Westhaven went on speaking. “For reasons understandable to any who beholds my baby sister and her adoring groom, we must now bid Deene and his bride farewell. A round of applause to speed them on their way!” Westhaven lifted his glass, and Eve was scooped into her intend—her husband’s arms. Deene had her out the door and bundled into a waiting carriage before the last guest stumbled onto the terrace, and then she was on her way to Surrey… and God knew what kind of confrontation with her intend—her husband.

“You had the grays put to. Papa likes to save them for special occasions because they look so smart with the black coach and red trim.”

Deene gave her an odd smile, and it occurred to Eve that small talk wasn’t going to get them very far. Not at this moment, not in this marriage.

“Eve?” He turned on the seat beside her and undid the veil and headpiece she’d worn all day. “This is a very special occasion.”

“Oh. Of course.”

He withdrew pins from her hair, making Eve realize how uncomfortable that part of her wedding ensemble had been. He had kissed her once outside the church as the reception line was forming, just a little buss to the cheek she’d found both fortifying and alarming.

“Come here, Wife.”

Merciful heavens. To have a husband was one thing, to be a wife quite another. Deene’s deft hands had undone even her bun, so her hair hung down her back in a braid.

“Husband.”

“That would be me.” His arm settled around her shoulders.

“I’m practicing. I have neither had a husband before nor been a wife. This will take some adjustment.”

Now she was babbling. Deene shifted beside her, so his fingers closed on her nape and gently kneaded her neck. “We will adjust together. So far, I regard my station as an improvement over the unwed state.”

He wasn’t teasing. “In what regard?”

“It’s more peaceful, for one thing. I’m not prey to the matchmakers, the rumors have lost a great deal of their interest for everybody, and I can look forward to spending much of the Season in our honey month rather than being stalked like a sacrificial goat.”

Not very romantic of him, but honest. “Did those rumors trouble you?”

“A bit.”

Maybe a decade from now she’d be able to fathom exactly how much “a bit” was when uttered in just that tone while Deene glanced out the window with just that grim expression. Or maybe by then they’d be entirely estranged.

“You were troubled when you saw Mr. Dolan and Georgina at the wedding.”

He scowled at the lovely spring day, probably the first nasty expression Eve had seen on her… husband’s face.