It scarred like any other, too. She thought of McAlistair’s sad smile and resisted the urge to touch the line on her cheek.
McAlistair watched Evie and Mr. Hunter from the darkened hall. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the scene—nothing untoward in the time or setting, nor in the behavior of the people involved. There was nothing at all to justify the tight ball of fury that had settled in his chest.
Though he had little experience with the emotion, he knew it to be jealousy. Nothing else could possibly explain the irrational anger, the longing, the sense of impotence. Not for you, he reminded himself, and curled his hands into fists.
She’s not for you.
Even as he imagined using those fists on Mr. Hunter’s grinning face, he turned and walked away.
Twenty-four
Evie greeted the next morning with considerably less enthusiasm than she had the previous day. A quick peek through the drapes told her it was raining, which meant there was no chance of cajoling McAlistair into another row on the sea. A late start to the day meant she’d missed breakfast, which Mrs. Summers was kind enough to inform her had been exceptional. And the news that Mr. Hunter and Christian were engrossed in a card game in the study while McAlistair was out searching the grounds meant there was little else to do but accept Mrs. Summers’s suggestion of needlework in the parlor.
It was, Evie decided, a perfectly stupid way to spend the day.
“Did you enjoy your chess match with Mr. Hunter, dear?”
“Hmm?” Evie glanced up from the knot of thread she was trying, and failing, to untie. “Oh, yes. He’s a charming man and a skilled player, though not as skilled as he would lead me to believe.”
“You won the match?”
“Well, no. We’ve not finished it yet, but I will win.” She studied Mrs. Summers. “I hadn’t realized you’d come into the room. I thought you had retired for the night.”
“I came down for a spot of warm milk. I peeked in briefly.”
“Oh.” Had she peeked in when they’d been discussing Kate? Evie couldn’t imagine Mrs. Summers would approve of such a conversation.
“You seemed…preoccupied.” In an uncharacteristic show of nerves, Mrs. Summers set down her sewing. Picked it back up again. Set it down once more. “You find him charming?”
Ah, so here it was at last. Evie weighed her answer carefully. “I find many people charming. Present company included.”
“Oh, well, thank you, dear. But…do you…” Mrs. Summers cleared her throat delicately, and to Evie’s great surprise, reached forward to clasp her hands, a very pained expression on her face. “You have not developed a tendre for the man, have you?”
“No,” Evie said, startled into honesty. “I have not.”
“Oh, thank goodness.” Mrs. Summers let out a shaky breath and straightened once more in her chair. “I had feared…well, I had thought…it would have been disastrous.”
Because they had chosen someone else, Evie realized. “Disastrous seems a rather strong word. Why—”
“He is not meant for you.”
Heavens, was the woman going to admit all? “Oh? And whom am I meant for?”
“I am sure I do not know,” Mrs. Summers said primly, dashing Evie’s hope of a confession. “But it is not Mr. Hunter.”
“You don’t approve of him?”
“Certainly I do.” She picked up her sewing once again. “His interest lies with Lady Kate.”
It was several seconds before Evie found her voice. “You know of that?”
“Well, I’m not blind, am I?” Mrs. Summers huffed. “Why is it the very young assume only they can recognize these things? One would think they might be capable of recognizing experience just as well, and—”
“I beg your pardon,” Evie cut in, and wisely bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. “I don’t know what I was thinking, when you’ve a beau of your own.”
Mrs. Summers looked as if she might say something disapproving, but then her lips twitched and her eyes lit up with pleasure. “I have, haven’t I?” She gave a lustful, and therefore most un-Mrs.-Summers-like, sigh. “I must say, it is quite a thing to find oneself in love at my age.”
“You’re in love with Mr. Fletcher?”
“I rather think I might be.” She sighed again and with a dreamy expression—also most unlike her—returned to her needlework.
Evie had seen that sort of wistful, far-off expression on Kate before and knew quite well that she’d been summarily dismissed from Mrs. Summers’s thoughts.
Not bothering to hide her smile now, Evie set down her own work and murmured a desire for something to drink. She didn’t take offense when Mrs. Summers failed to respond; she simply slipped quietly out of the parlor and, upon discovering the rain had eased, quietly out the front door as well.