The Irish Upstart

chapter 13



When Thomas arrived at his family’s London townhouse, he found Penelope awake and waiting up for him.

“I cannot believe you, of all people, went to all those silly routs tonight,” she said as he joined her in the drawing room.

Thomas slung himself into a chair. “And where were you?”

“Need I remind you this is my third Season? I’m no longer thrilled with milling about in a mob to no purpose other than it’s the thing to do.”

“Poor Penelope,” he said with mock sympathy. “Nineteen and already jaded.”

“Speaking of jaded, did you see Montague?”

“Only briefly, before he took himself off to White’s where he assuredly is now, throwing God-knows-how-much of the family fortune away on the faro tables. By the way, he did a fine job of ignoring Charlotte Trevlyn this evening. Her mother is less than pleased.”

“Papa won’t be pleased, either. You know how grouchy he’s become of late, what with his gout. I can only imagine his fury if Montague doesn’t propose to Charlotte, and soon.”

“Even though Walter is no longer heir to the estate?”

“She’s still a Trevlyn, is she not? All Papa wants is for the Trevlyns and the Linberrys to be forever united, into eternity. All dependent on Montague, of course.”

Thomas sighed. “Well, it’s Montague’s problem, not mine. I have enough else to concern me.”

Penelope regarded him thoughtfully. “You’re not your usual lighthearted self tonight. You seem distracted.”

Distracted was hardly the word for the mood he was in. “I’m leaving London tomorrow. Time I got back to my Thoroughbreds. It’s best I leave before I...”

“Before you what, Thomas?”

“Nothing.” Since that kiss in the coach, his emotions had lurched back and forth between hot desire and disgust with himself for allowing his feelings to get out of hand. Penelope was his closet confidante. No doubt she knew more about him than anyone, yet how could he explain his feelings when he hardly understood himself?

“How can you possibly leave now?” inquired Penelope. “Lady Claremont’s ball is next Friday night. Surely you’ll want to stay for one of the most important events of the Season.”

His eyebrow lifted sardonically. “I suppose everyone who counts will be there?”

“How did you guess?”

“Since when did I ever care about who counts and who doesn’t?” Feeling restless and irritable—all his own doing, of course—Thomas arose from his chair and headed for the door. “I’m off to bed.”

Penelope called after him, “It’s Evleen O’Fallon, isn’t it?”

Curse her perceptiveness. He turned as Penelope remarked, “I heard what you did today. How noble, rescuing the damsel in distress and her adorable little brother.”

“I would have done as much for a stranger.” Why was he burdened with a sister so skilled at reading his mind?

Worse, she wasn’t through.

“On-dit has it that the two of them were wandering the streets unescorted.” Penelope pursed her lips and tilted her nose in a fair imitation of Lydia Trevlyn. “Simply not done, my deah,” she mocked, and went on, “and letting herself be seen on Saint James Street where everyone knows a lady would not be caught dead.”

Thomas could not help laughing at his irreverent sister, but quickly sobered. “It’s such hypocrisy, isn’t it? The truth is, Lydia Trevlyn is not so much concerned about her family’s reputation as she is about marrying her daughters off.”

“Exactly,” said Penelope, “and she sees the Irish girl as a threat.”

“And well she might, considering Evleen O’Fallon has more beauty, brains and charm in her little finger than the Trevlyn girls possess—”

Uh-oh, now he’d done it. Judging from that sagacious little grin playing on Penelope’s lips, Thomas suddenly realized he had just revealed far more than he had intended.

“I knew it,” Penelope declared triumphantly. “After all these years, the high-and-mighty Thomas Linberry has finally fallen in love. Don’t bother to deny it. It won’t do you any good.”

That uninvited vision of Evleen and Timothy embracing again arose before his eyes. He said harshly, “I had thought Evleen O’Fallon was betrothed to that Irishman.”

“She’s not.”

“So I found out. Up to now, my feelings were of no consequence. Now I... This puts a new light on things.”

“Oh, Thomas.” Penelope slowly shook her head in sympathy. “You were using Evleen’s so-called betrothal as a defense, weren’t you? It didn’t matter how fond you grew of her, she was betrothed, and that made you feel safe, didn’t it? No action on your part was necessary.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Is it? Then why are you so agitated? I think you’ve fallen in love with her, and now, all of a sudden, you find she’s available and suddenly you don’t know what to do.”

Thomas neither affirmed nor denied his sister’s shrewd observations. Instead, close-mouthed, he bid his sister a hasty goodnight and retreated to his bedchamber. Now, safe from Penelope’s penetrating questions, he reflected upon her words. “Fallen in love,” she’d accused. No, that wasn’t possible. Never, in his entire untroubled, well-ordered existence, had he been so foolish as to lose his heart to a woman. Some of his friends had been struck by Cupid’s arrow, and what a result! Their ensuing conduct had caused him to marvel at how an intelligent, reasoning, and heretofore tough-minded man could turn into a quivering mass of erratic emotions, writing abominable love poems, mooning about like some love-sick school boy, claiming his life would be ruined unless the object of his new-found love consented to marry him. And all because he’d been brought down by some bubble-headed chit.

Not Thomas Linberry! Indeed, no.

He’d had his share of Cyprians, and though he had to admit he’d been fond of them, and treated them with courtesy—more than he could say for some of his friends—he had never lost his heart, even to the most seductive and beautiful of them. Nor had he lost his heart to Miss Bettina Trevlyn, which was exactly as it should be. Although he fully expected to develop some sort of affection for her when and if they married, love hardly mattered. Love was a handicap. Love interfered with one’s well-ordered life. Love made a man look foolish, and that’s why he, a man totally in control of his emotions, could not possibly be in love with Evleen O’Fallon.

True, he’d been unable to stop thinking about her, or shake off the strange sensations that rushed through his body when he did. Especially now, after that kiss. There went his sleep tonight, again. Positively and without fail, tomorrow he would get a grip on himself and put her out of his mind, but not tonight. Tonight he would lie in his bed and picture how she had nestled into his arms, a perfect fit, as if she belonged there, all soft and warm, and how she...

Perhaps he would stay in London, at least for a while. But no, that was wrong. Penelope was right about his defenses being down. The sooner he left for Tanglewood Hall, the better.



* * *

“Evleen, what is the lady doing?” asked Patrick. He had come to her bedchamber, and now sat upon her bed, feet dangling, watching curiously as she stood on a chair, still as a statue.

Evleen glanced at the middle-aged woman kneeling on the floor. “This is my new dressmaker, and she’s measuring a hem. Do you like it?” She spread her arms, showing off her new ball gown. “Your grandfather insisted I have some gowns made so I shall be fashionable.”

“Mama says to be fashionable is to be vain.”

“She’s absolutely right, but I like being fashionable all the same.”

“Shall you wear it to the ball tonight?”

“No, it won’t be ready in time, but I shall wear this to a ball next Friday night.”

“Shall you dance with lots of men?” asked Patrick with a frown.

“Of course I shall.”

“But what of Timothy?”

She could tell this wasn’t an idle question. Patrick had always liked Timothy and expected her to marry him. She’d have to set him straight. “First, I am not betrothed to Timothy,” she said gently. “Second, your grandfather wants me to grow accustomed to the glittering society you’re going to be living in the rest of your life. Dancing with other men is quite acceptable.”

“I’ve finished with the pinning, miss.”

Carefully holding up her skirt, Evleen stepped down and went to her mirror. “Oh,” she said with a gasp, unable to contain her delight. Her nearly completed gown was of white silk, high-waisted, low-cut, and adorned with clusters of pink roses around the hem, accompanied by wide bands of white lace trim. Best of all, this gown was practically all her own creation. She chose the pattern and fabric herself, and if she did say so, it had turned out perfectly. Wait until Thomas sees me, she thought, then caught herself. These past few days, she’d had great difficulty keeping her mind off Thomas and their hot, breathless, totally unexpected kiss in the darkness of the coach. So utterly wrong. “Highly improper,” Lydia would say, but for the life of her, she couldn’t work up any guilt. Instead, she felt deliciously wicked. If Lydia could have seen into the back of that carriage, she would be so scandalized!

But there was something else, too, that kept her thoughts on Thomas, something beyond a frivolous kiss. She’d felt it when, trembling, he’d taken her in his arms, and when his lips found hers, she could have sworn there was more than lust on his mind, there was something deeper, as if he meant his kiss to tell her something. Oh, it was so hard to know what he was truly thinking.

But this was wrong, thinking so much about him. If Mama wanted her to marry a rich, titled Englishman, she would try, and in the process forget about Thomas.

Lydia entered as the dressmaker was leaving. “Well, Evleen, I see your dress is nearly complete. Let me look at you.”

Evleen dutifully turned and stood quietly as the older woman examined her with a critical eye. “Hmm, that should do for the ball next week.” Her remark carried all the warmth of a frost-covered tombstone.

“If only it were ready for tonight,” Evleen said wistfully.

“Charlotte’s gown is perfectly suitable for tonight,” Lydia replied, her voice devoid of sympathy. “I trust you’re aware Lady Claremont’s ball is one of the most important events of the Season. Everybody who is anybody will be there, and I advise you act accordingly.”

Evleen stiffened, sensing immediately the implied insult.

“Just what do you mean by ‘accordingly,’ Mrs. Trevlyn? That I not spit on the floor? That I not rip my clothes off and dance in my chemise? That I—?” Oh-oh. She had gone to far. She could tell because Lydia’s mouth had dropped open and her face was turning purple.

“You know what I mean,” snapped Lydia. That she was annoyed was an understatement. “You would be wise to stay away from Montague. And might I suggest you say as little as possible? That way, no one will know you come from Ireland.”

I’ve done it now, thought Evleen, regretting her impudent answer. She must keep reminding herself of her vow to maintain good relations with the Trevlyns, no matter what. She didn’t want to apologize but knew she must. “I am truly sorry for my frivolous answer, Mrs. Trevlyn. Have no fear, I shall be as circumspect as a nun.”

“That’s good to hear, Evleen.”

Hearing a trace of softening in Lydia’s voice, Evleen decided to go a step farther. “I want you to know how sorry I am about... well, everything. It must have been very difficult—I mean, expecting your husband would be the heir to Lord Trevlyn’s estate, and then here came Patrick, without so much as a warning.”

After an awkward moment of silence, Lydia’s face twisted with emotion. “You have no idea how difficult. We’ve lost our fortune. If we’re not careful, the girls won’t marry nearly as well. And I... I...” She gulped, rigidly holding tears in check. “All these years I expected that some day I would have a title. My dear friend, Mrs. Drummond-Burrel, expects a title. Some day she’ll become Lady Willoughby de Eresby, but will I ever become Lady Trevlyn? No! Because of Patrick, I am doomed to being nothing more than plain Mrs. Trevlyn—” her voice began to rise “—for the rest of my life.”

How amazing. Evleen found it hard to believe Lydia’s main concern in life appeared to be the loss of a title she never had. How shallow to put such value on a mere word in front of one’s name. And yet, it was clear her anguish was genuine. Evleen had never expected she’d feel sympathy for this bitter, mirthless woman, but now she did. “I am so sorry,” she began, but Lydia raised a hand to silence her.

“Don’t. There’s nothing you can do about it, is there?” In complete control of herself once again, Lydia squared her shoulders. “Was there anything else, Evleen?”

After allowing that one brief crack in her armor, Lydia was obviously back to her old self again. To say anything more on the subject would be useless. Instead, Evleen decided to voice a small fear that had been nagging her. “In Ireland, we did the country dances. Is it the same here?”

For a fleeting moment, Evleen could have sworn she saw a tiny glitter of triumph in Lydia’s eyes, but she must have been mistaken because the older woman smiled and said, “You’ll do fine. You shouldn’t have a bit of trouble with the dances. They are all quite easy and you can simply learn as you go along.”

“Then I shall do my best,” Evleen said, greatly relieved.

“I’m sure you will.” Lydia’s jaw tightened. “Remember, our family’s reputation is at stake. We cannot tolerate another of your little escapades.”

“Now you’ve done it,” said Patrick after Lydia left. He had listened silently, still perched on Evleen’s bed.

“Yes, I’ve made her angry, haven’t I?” Evleen answered thoughtfully. “It’s my own fault, too.”

“You shouldn’t have been so impudent.”

“That’s quite perceptive of you, Patrick,” she answered, not happy hearing the truth from an ten-year-old. Hands on hips, she advised, “Well, let that be a lesson to you, my future Lord Trevlyn. It’s usually best to hold one’s tongue.”

“I don’t want to be Lord Trevlyn, I want to go home.”

Surprised, she said, “But I thought you liked it here.”

“Yes, I do like it. Grandfather has been wonderful to me, but I...” Patrick bit his lip. He appeared to be on the verge of tears. “I miss Mama, and Darragh, and all of them. I want to go home.”

Patrick’s tears started to flow as Evleen, fancy ball dress and all, knelt and took him in her arms. “Twill be all right, little brother,” she crooned as she rocked him, “we must not give up. Mama wants you to stay, remember? Her last letter said she’s much better. I, too, want to go home in the very worst way, but we’ll stay and see this through, won’t we?” Patrick nodded, wiping tears away. “And we won’t let the English get the better of us, will we?”

“No, Evleen, we won’t.” Patrick smiled through his tears. “If I stay, you must stay.”

“Of course.” She forced a bright smile. “And I shall marry a very rich and ever-so-titled Englishman, just as Mama said.”

Patrick eyed her with suspicion. “Mama said you should never love an Englishman. You wouldn’t, would you?”

“Of course not. Are you daft?”

As Patrick smiled, relieved, Evleen asked herself, how does the child know? Uncanny, how he sensed the doubt that had begun to cloud her thinking these past few days, and especially since Thomas’s kiss. But that was nonsense. She knew what she had to do, and she, honorable woman that she was, would do it.



* * *

“You look pretty, Evleen,” said Amanda who had just entered Evleen’s bedchamber.

They were about to leave for the ball. Evleen looked down at the mud-colored gown and knew she didn’t look pretty at all. She hated this gown. Worse, Celeste, occupied with the sisters’ demands, had no extra time, so Evleen had been compelled to do her hair herself. Adequate could best describe her up-swept coiffeur, she thought with dismal certainty.

“You look pretty, too,” she said to Amanda. And indeed, the girl looked charming in a lavender lace gown, her hair caught up in a mother-of-pearl comb.

Amanda shook her head. “Charlotte and Bettina say I’m too fat.”

“Not at all.” Evleen had heard with her own ears the outrageous manner in which Amanda’s sisters constantly criticized her. Truly, she wasn’t fat. She simply wasn’t as scrawny-looking as her mother and sisters. She was very pretty, in fact, and if she hadn’t been so browbeaten all her life, she could easily be popular and sought-after. “You’re not too fat. You’re just right, and you mustn’t let others convince you otherwise.”

Amanda remained unconvinced. “I wish I could be more like you, Evleen. You are so beautiful. And you have such spirit, and you always seem so sure of yourself.”

“Perhaps on the surface.” Evleen sighed, thinking of the enmity directed at her from the elder Trevlyns. “Underneath I worry as much as anyone. I must be on my best behavior tonight. Heaven help me if I do anything wrong.”

“You won’t.” Amanda regarded her with admiring eyes. She noticed Evleen’s empty hands. “But where is your fan?”

“I don’t have a fan. It’s chilly tonight. I shall have no desire to stir up a breeze.”

Amanda giggled. “Silly, you don’t carry a fan to really fan yourself. I noticed you didn’t carry one at the rout, but tonight you absolutely must have one for the ball.”

“Well, I don’t. I shall go without.”

“You can’t.” For once, Amanda appeared to take a firm stand. “The fan is a most important fashion accessory. I shall loan you one of mine and I shan’t take no for an answer.”

Without another word, Amanda left and shortly returned with a satin-lined fan box made of finely polished wood, filled with fans. “Take your pick, although I think the lace-and-ivory is the perfect match.”

“If I must, I must, but it still seems silly.” With reluctance, Evleen selected the small, lace-and-ivory fan. “They’d be laughing their heads off in County Clare if they saw me waving this around.”

“You don’t just wave it, you must learn the language of the fan,” said Amanda, ignoring Evleen’s complaint. “If you carry it in the left hand, thus, that means ‘desirous of an acquaintance.’ If you carry it in the right hand, that means—”

“Never mind,” Evleen interrupted with a smile. “I shall do my own speaking tonight, and not through a fan. Carrying it will be more than enough.” She tugged at one of the long white gloves she was wearing and grimaced. “I’m not accustomed to these. Must I wear them all evening?”

“Of course you must.” Amanda giggled again. “There’s also a language of the gloves. If you bite the tips that means, ‘I wish to be rid of you very soon.’ If you drop both of them, that means—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Evleen replied, laughing even harder. “Suffice to say, I’ll wear the silly things, but I won’t be speaking through my fan or my gloves.”

Amanda’s expression grew solemn. “Evleen, I...”

It seemed as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t get the words out. Evleen asked, “What is it, Amanda?”

The girl started to blush. “I want more than anything to be just like you.”

Evleen was taken aback. “I?” she asked, pointing at herself. “I am not exactly your mother’s ideal of female perfection.”

“I don’t care what mother thinks. I admire you because you don’t simper. You’re strong and independent, and you think for yourself.” She sighed. “I would give anything to be like you.”

“Then be like me,” said Evleen.

“How?”

“Well, it’s very easy. You hold your head high, keep your shoulders back, and do what you think is right, not what other people want you to do.”

“I shall try.”

“Good. That’s all there is to it.”

Evleen was proud of herself for sounding so completely confident. Underneath, all she could hope for was that her insecurity didn’t show, not only to Amanda, but later tonight, to “all those people who count” at Lady Claremont’s ball. Would Lord Thomas be there? She should not be thinking about him, but, all the same, she was.



* * *

The ball was well underway when Evleen and the Trevlyns stepped into Lady Claremont’s ballroom. At first, Evleen felt overwhelmed. Never had she seen so many tiers of lighted candles flickering on crystal chandeliers, heard such stirring music, seen so many people so elegantly attired. In truth, “everybody who was anybody” was here, just as Lydia predicted. May I not commit any gaffes tonight, Evleen sternly resolved as she stood with the Trevlyns, near a row of chaperones. Her conduct would be so impeccable Lydia Trevlyn would find not one little thing to complain about. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about knowing the dances. In the ugly dress she was wearing, there was little chance any man would ask her to dance.

“Don’t forget your fan,” Amanda whispered from behind her own fan.

Evleen held her fan clutched to her side. She considered placing it in front of her mouth as Amanda had done, but it was just too silly. She left it where it was.

Montague appeared and gave them both a warm greeting. Evleen knew she shouldn’t ask but couldn’t resist. “And where is your brother tonight, Lord Eddington?”

“My brother has left for Tanglewood Hall, his estate near Abingdon.”

Her heart sank. She knew she should not be disappointed, but she was.

“You will have to make do with me,” said Montague with a supercilious smirk. “Would you care to dance?”

Not really. Not with this vain, overdressed fop, but what could she say? It was beyond her that he was actually Thomas’s brother, the two were so different in so many ways. But this was the night she must be flawlessly correct, no matter what. She gave him her most gracious smile. “I would be delighted.”

He led her onto the dance floor, but when the music began, she froze in dismay. A waltz! As her thoughts churned, Montague placed one hand on the back of her waist, while with the other, he held her arm straight out. He stepped forward to begin the dance, but she, not knowing which way to step, stood rigid, feeling at once both awkward and gauche. Panic swept through her as she looked around at all the graceful dancers floating by. No use. She would disgrace herself if she even made an attempt at the unfamiliar steps. Only one thing could she do, no matter how humiliating. “I... I am terribly sorry, Lord Eddington, but I don’t know how to waltz.”

“Would you care to try?” he asked. “I should wager one twirl around the floor and you’ll catch on.”

“I think not,” she replied, knowing it would take more than one of Montague’s twirls for her not to make a fool of herself. “Please, may we leave the floor?”

Montague appeared nonplused, but only for a moment. “Quite all right, Miss O’Fallon. I shall return you to your chaperone. Perhaps later, when the orchestra plays something... uh, more simple, we shall dance.”

Evleen could feel a blush of shame creep over her cheeks as Montague led her to the sidelines. When they arrived, he added to her humiliation when he proceeded to ask Charlotte, “Would you care to dance? It appears Miss O’Fallon, doesn’t... er, care to waltz.”

As if the whole world wouldn’t know that socially inept Miss O’Fallon did not know how to waltz!

Numb with embarrassment, Evleen stood at the edge of the dance floor and watched as Montague swept Charlotte into his arms and whirled her away. As the two dipped and twirled to the strains of the lively waltz, she saw how skilled they were, how exceedingly graceful, thus making her mortification so much the worse.

She wondered why Lydia Trevlyn had mislead her. Quickly she found the answer. To make a fool of me–discredit me in the eyes of Montague and all the rest.

Evleen found a chair in a remote corner where she sat, wishing she could make herself invisible. The orchestra struck up another waltz, followed by a quadrille, which she also couldn’t dance. She felt dowdy, clumsy, awkward and awful.

It was going to be long night.

“Good evening, Miss O’Fallon.”

Lord Thomas! Looking exceedingly handsome in his formal clothes, he stood before her, bending in a smooth little bow.

Startled, she leaped to her feet and blurted, “But I thought you weren’t coming.” She regretted her words instantly, not wanting him to know she thought of him at all.

“I changed my plans, obviously.” His forehead furrowed in an inquisitive frown. “Why aren’t you dancing?”

“I... have a headache.” She hated to lie, but she’d be even further humiliated if he learned the truth.

“A headache?” he asked, obviously unconvinced. He smiled with beautiful candor and said, “You look lovely tonight. I cannot imagine why you’re hiding in a corner. In fact, I would have thought you’d have captured every man’s heart by now and become the belle of the ball.”

“Obviously not.” She knew he was just being polite because how could he think she looked lovely when her hair was awful and she wore this ugly dress? She knew she’d sounded cool, but her thoughts were chaotic as she tried to decide what to say next. If she was too friendly, he would ask her to dance, perish the thought.

“Do you realize we’ve never danced together before?” He extended his hand. “Let us remedy that lamentable state of affairs right now, shall we?”

The orchestra struck up another waltz. Oh, no. How many times tonight could she die of shame? What to do? She did not want to be rude, but on the other hand, she most definitely did not want Thomas to witness her making a fool of herself.

“I do not care to dance with you, Lord Thomas.”

For a fleeting moment, Thomas looked as if he had been struck. Quickly his face became a mask. “Well, then,” he said, obviously giving himself time to arrange his thoughts. He gave her a slight bow and with effortless grace continued, “Delightful to see you again, Miss O’Fallon. Good night. Have a pleasant evening.”

As she watched his broad shoulders disappear into the crowd, Evleen wanted to cry, Wait. Come back. I didn’t mean it. How terrible that she had allowed her pride to guide her feelings. She didn’t know how she could feel any more miserable, as well as guilty, besides. She should simply have admitted to him she couldn’t waltz, but she’d wanted to appear perfect in his eyes. But how foolish. Such vanity. She shouldn’t give a farthing what Thomas thought of her.

But aside from all that, even if she were skilled at waltzing, she should be searching for a rich man with a title, not a poor second son.

I’ll get over him, she thought, as a lump rose in her throat. I must.

At last the orchestra played music for a country dance she recognized, and she realized she could dance to that. Even so, she was sorely tempted to sit here, safe in this sheltered corner, until the ball was over. But she wasn’t a coward and she wasn’t a quitter. She returned to stand by Lydia, who had earlier informed her a young lady must not stray far from her chaperone unless dancing. The orchestra struck up another country dance, which she knew she could do, and when a young blade asked her to dance, to her relief, she found she actually enjoyed it. It was hard to know how to handle her silly fan, though. She observed the other young ladies and noted how they would flutter their fan, occasionally bringing it to their face, peering coyly at their partner over the top. Such silliness. Not me, not ever, she thought, and kept her fan to her side, occasionally raising it to let it rest on her right cheek. The gloves, too, were annoying. How she wished she could strip them off.

She was pleased that no waltzes or quadrilles had played for a time. She had been dancing every dance, with several different partners, when a florid-faced man of fifty or so, with a paunch and drooping eyelids, came up to Mrs. Trevlyn, eyed Evleen, and asked to be introduced.

Lydia demonstrated once again she could smile when the need arose. In fact, she appeared quite delighted. “This is William, Lord Corneale, Evleen,” she said eagerly, signaling his importance by raising a significant eyebrow as she further commented, “Lord Corneale owns one of the largest estates in England and is recently widowed.”

The older man bowed low to Evleen, all the time raking her body with lust-filled eyes. “Charmed to meet you, Miss O’Fallon. Where has a lovely girl like you been hiding?”

Evleen dipped a curtsy. After all that had gone wrong this evening, she was relieved she didn’t fall over. “I am delighted to meet you, sir.”

Lydia assumed a simpering smile. “If you’re wondering why her speech sounds a bit strange, Lord Corneale, our Evleen is fresh from Ireland. She’s the sister of young Patrick, who is now heir apparent to my brother-in-law’s estate. Just imagine, he was hidden away in Ireland all this time. Aren’t we lucky we found him!” She turned fond eyes on Evleen. “And of course his darling sister.”

Evleen almost laughed aloud. What could be more insincere than Lydia attempting to show her delight that her husband was no longer the heir? She wondered what Lydia was planning. It appeared she wanted to pawn Evleen off on this odious man, but how could that be? Lord Corneale was obviously a first son, apparently rich as Croesus. Surely Lydia would want to snare him for one of her daughters. The answer was obvious. First son or no, this man with the lascivious smile was just too odious.

“Would you care to dance, Miss O’Fallon?” asked Lord Corneale.

“Why, of course, I would be delighted.” Such hypocrisy. She would rather be in Ireland digging potatoes than dance with this man.

Soon they were on the dance floor, she reluctantly on Lord Corneale’s arm. He danced tolerably well, she’d give him that, but up close he had a musty smell about him, rather like an old tomb. She could hardly wait until the dance was over. When it was, she was starting off the dance floor when he quickly asked, “Would you care for a stroll in the garden, Miss O’Fallon?”

By the Saints, no. “Why, I...” Hmm, what could she say? As she searched for a suitable excuse, she lifted her fan to rest upon her right cheek.

His eyes lit. “Very good.” Before she could think what to do, he took her arm and started to guide her from the dance floor.

She protested, “Lord Corneale, I didn’t mean...” but he didn’t seem to hear.

“Nothing like a stroll in the moonlight,” he stated with great enthusiasm, and led her out the side doors to a balcony, where a wide expanse of formal garden lay below.

She was in for it now, she decided. Might as well go along and be polite, although how he could have thought she wanted to step outside with him, she would never know.

They walked down a flight of stone steps to the garden below, started their stroll down a path barely lit by moonlight. “This is my favorite time of year for a garden,” he remarked. “The daffodils and snap-dragons are magnificent, would you not agree, Miss O’Fallon?”

“I can hardly see them in the dark,” she answered bluntly. She was growing leery. As they strolled along, his breathing came faster and faster. Could it be his excitement over daffodils and snap-dragons? Ha! She thought not. They passed a fountain, beyond which the path wound into a patch of darkness surrounded by high shrubbery. At the darkest spot, he halted. With a grunt, his arms went tight around her and pulled her close. Before she could utter a word, his wet, slimy lips pressed hard against hers. Ugh! She pounded his shoulders with her fist but to no avail. She was suffocating. At last, desperate for breath, she shoved at him hard and managed to back away from him.

“Just what were you doing?” she demanded in a shaking whisper.

“Why, kissing you, my dear,” he answered equitably, “just as you wanted me to.”

“I wanted you to?” she asked, dumbfounded. “Just how did you decide that?”

“You said it with your fan, my sweet.” He reached for her again. “Give me credit for knowing the signals.”

His lips were about to descend upon hers again, but she managed to break from his grasp and duck away. “You are mistaken, sir,” she gasped. Wanting only to remove herself as far as possible from this disgusting man, she started down the path but halted when she heard a tittering, followed by hastily retreating footsteps.

Had they been seen and overheard?

She could have wept with dismay. Naive though she was concerning the rules of the ton, she strongly suspected that getting caught kissing a strange man in the dark corner of a garden constituted a major infraction. Even ignorance of the waltz would be a minor transgression in comparison. She shuddered to think what would happen if this got back to Lydia.

As she started back along the path, she reflected upon what a horrible night this had been, beginning early when she discovered not knowing how to waltz was akin to social suicide. Then she had insulted Lord Thomas who would probably never speak to her again. Then her ignorance of the language of the fan had led her to signal the wrong message to Lord Corneale. All unknowingly, of course, but who would believe her? She doubted any of these stiff-rumped members of the Polite World would give her the benefit of the doubt.

And then the ultimate disaster—she and Lord Corneale had been discovered. She could only pray that whoever had seen them would not spread the news.

Sick with worry, Evleen reentered the ballroom. She remembered the fan, still clutch in her hand. Fan language indeed, she thought with deep irony. Resisting an urge to toss the lace-and-ivory root of her problems in the nearest waste receptacle, she wondered if there was a fan message for please, God, get me out of here. Let me go home to Ireland, and soon.