The Irish Upstart

chapter 14



Lydia knew.

They all did. At the end of the evening, Evleen sensed Lydia’s displeasure as they climbed into the carriage. She could tell from the thin, tightened line of Lydia’s lips and the way her sharp nose kept twitching. Charlotte and Bettina had tiny smirks on their faces and kept casting Evleen furtive little glances. Amanda kept her eyes averted, as if she couldn’t bear to watch the unpleasant scene that was sure to come.

“Well!” said Lydia the moment the groom closed the carriage door. “I can hardly believe what I just heard, Miss O’Fallon. When I think how your latest misstep will dishonor this family, I am scandalized and utterly appalled.”

“What have you heard?” asked Evleen, sounding but slightly curious. Above all, she must maintain her calm. Also, she must keep the skepticism from her voice because she very much doubted Lydia Trevlyn was truly scandalized. It was not difficult to read the woman’s mind. Behind all that forced indignation, she was no doubt gloating over the social downfall of this Irish upstart she so very much resented.

But whether Lydia was scandalized and appalled or not, this was a horrible moment and Evleen wished she were anywhere but here.

Lydia proceeded to describe her shock when she heard—she would not say from whom—that Evleen had been seen in the garden wantonly kissing Lord Corneale.

“That is completely wrong,” protested Evleen in a deadly calm voice. She tried to explain the true circumstances, but Lydia was bound to believe what she wanted to believe, and her efforts were hopeless, as she knew they would be. Charlotte and Bettina were equally set in stubborn disbelief. Evleen could explain until dawn and her words would fall on three sets of deaf ears. How I want to get home, she thought, desperately trying not to let them see how upset she was, and how ashamed, even though she’d done nothing wrong. Although she seldom cried, she planned to retreat swiftly to her bedchamber the minute she got home. She would crawl into bed, pull the covers over her head and let the tears flow. Mustn’t let her feelings show now, though. “So what do you intend to do?” she asked, pleased her voice was not shaking. “You can send me back to Ireland, if you like. The way I feel now, I would be happy to go.”

Her question further antagonized Lydia. “If it were up to me, I would send you back in a second, but it’s not, is it? Since Lord Trevlyn appears to have a fondness for you, far be it from me to even suggest you leave.” She released a weary sigh, as if the heavy burden of Evleen’s deplorable conduct lay entirely on her shoulders. “I shall strive for tolerance, though God knows how sorely stressed I am. You come from a backward country. Naturally you do not know how to conduct yourself in Polite Society. What a pity that you never learned your manners—”

“Or your morals,” Charlotte interrupted with feigned indignation.

“Or how to dance the waltz,” added Bettina with a giggle.

Evleen fought back a rush of bitter resentment. Why hadn’t they warned her she should know the waltz and all the other dances? Why hadn’t they offered to teach her? But such questions would be useless to ask. She was the intruder, thrust upon them. They had not wanted her in the first place. Most assuredly, they did not want her now.

By the time they arrived home, Evleen felt thoroughly desolate and heartsick. She planned to say a quick goodnight and hasten to her bedchamber, but before she could, Lydia declared she would say a final word. Forced to stand in the grand entryway, Evleen concealed her tears, clutched her fan, and grimly listened to Lydia’s final admonition.

“We shall do what we can for you, but it’s difficult at best to work with a girl who simply does not have the correct background. You cannot dance, politely converse, or even hold your fan correctly. You cannot sing, paint, or play the piano. In other words, you have no talent to speak of, which is a most deplorable lack, and, I think, an impossible situation for a young lady looking for a husband. Worse, though you claim otherwise, your morals are questionable. And you think you can be a member of the ton? Well, I think not.”

As her two older daughters looked on, barely concealing their enjoyment, Lydia sternly advised, “You had best stay out of sight the rest of the Season. If you cannot, if you must accompany us, please keep your mouth shut, and, as much as possible, just sit in a corner. I must admit, you’re not a bad looking young woman by half. You’ll never find a husband in the upper ranks of our society, but perhaps... well, I cannot promise, but despite your deficiencies, you might find a husband of a lesser class. A well-to-do merchant, perhaps, or a vicar, or an officer in the navy or military, provided he’s not a first son.”

“Or a second,” said Charlotte.

“Or a third or a fourth,” Bettina added with great amusement, and they all, except Amanda, joined in her laughter.

Despite her misery, Evleen could almost laugh at the outrageous fate Lydia predicted for her. “I shall bear that in mind, Mrs. Trevlyn,” she said solemnly, and with as much dignity as she could gather, left for her bedchamber.

“At least she didn’t dance with Montague,” Charlotte said when Evleen disappeared from sight.

“Poor Montague,” Bettina exclaimed. “Did you see how embarrassed he was when he found out she couldn’t waltz?”

“Had to lead her off the dance floor,” Charlotte said in disgust. “He could hardly wait to get rid of her. And to think, I was—well, I hate to admit this, but I confess I was slightly worried Evleen might try to steal Montague’s affections.”

“Hardly likely,” said Lydia Trevlyn, “All that worry was for naught, although I shall confess I, too, thought the girl might be a threat.” After a pause, her tightened lips relaxed into a broad smile. “But I most certainly was mistaken, wasn’t I?”



* * *

The next morning, while Thomas was still floating in that murky, semi-conscious state between deep sleep and wakefulness, his first thought was that something, he could not think what yet, was bothering him. The first thing he remembered was that he went with friends to Boodle’s after the ball last night. A rare occurrence. Ordinarily, he had no interest in gambling—a total waste of time and money, as far as he concerned, but... ah, yes, he remembered now, he was trying to keep his mind off Evleen because... now he had it, she had rejected him last night.

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

What a blow to his pride. Never in his life had he been so rudely dismissed. Come to think of it, no young lady had ever addressed him in such a manner. Wide awake, Thomas swung his legs to the floor, sat up on the side of the bed, ran his hands through his wavy dark hair, and pondered. Had he said something wrong? Done something wrong? No. As always, he’d been a perfect gentleman, The fault was hers, not his, and why he, a man secure within himself with no need to feed his vanity, should be concerned about what some little chit from Ireland thought of him, he had no idea. His life was in good order. He had no need of her, or any woman.

Only...

A sense of loss suddenly assailed him. Somehow, for some reason he could not begin to fathom, he had thought she held a modicum of affection for him. Fool that he was, he had assumed she experienced the same joy he’d experienced on the trip across Ireland. Never had he enjoyed a journey more. Conclonomaise... The Whispering Arch... had she forgotten that special look that passed between them? It was a look full of unspoken desire, of tacit attraction, or so he thought. More likely, he had been mistaken. That message of desire he’d read in those sapphire blue eyes was naught but a product of his wishful thinking.

But what about that kiss in the carriage the other night? Could it have been only his imagination that she had returned his kiss, and more than willingly? He didn’t think so.





But you’ve got to stop thinking about her.

Whatever he thought, it didn’t matter. The girl was seeking a good match, as was every girl, so who could blame her. Face it, he was not a good match and never would be. For the first time in his life, he felt a deep resentment he’d been born a second son. If only he were Montague. He knew that if he were, he would lay his wealth and title at the feet of Miss Evleen O’Fallon.

Thomas went to the window, assailed by a terrible sense of bitterness as he gazed at the gardens below.

He was not Montague, he was a lovesick fool, and it was time to return to Tanglewood Hall and see to his horses. Why wait? He would leave today, as soon as he said his farewells.

Downstairs, he encountered Penelope at the breakfast table, just finishing eggs and ham, and in a fine mood. “Good morning, Thomas,” she said, beaming at him. “Did you enjoy the ball last night?”

“I most decidedly did not,” he grumpily replied. “Just coffee,” he said to the maid as he sat down. “I shall be returning to Tanglewood Hall today.”

Penelope regarded him carefully. “I thought you planned to stay a while.”

“My horses—”

“In good hands, as you very well know what with your groom and stable boys.” She cocked her head. “It’s something else, isn’t it?”

“You’re being absurd again.”

She ignored him. “Could it be Miss O’Fallon? Oh, my word.” Her eyes went wide. “It is, isn’t it? And after what happened last night... oh, dear.”

Had something bad happened to Evleen? An uneasiness stirred within him, but he cautioned himself not to so much as blink an eye. “Really?” he asked with great casualness, “what about last night?”

“You cannot believe what happened to the poor girl. It seems she didn’t know how to dance, not even the waltz from what Montague told me. And then, as if that weren’t enough, there was some ugly business involving that awful Lord Corneale...”

When Penelope finished, Thomas smashed his fist to the table, causing his sister to jump and dishes and silver to rattle. “That randy old goat,” he declared, near-choking with indignation. “There is no way in the world she would have willingly kissed him. There’s got to be an explanation.”

“No doubt there is,” Penelope said soothingly. “I, myself, would rather kiss a toad than the infamous Lord Corneale. Come to think of it, the man resembles a toad. But why are you so angry?”

“I’m not angry in the least.” He ordered himself to calm down. If he didn’t, Penelope, with her keen perceptiveness, would guess the truth, if she hadn’t already. He watched as her face lit. Too late. Could he not have one single secret from this perspicacious female?

“Ah-ha,” she exclaimed. “You have feelings for her, don’t you?”

“They wouldn’t do me any good. Her mother is insistent upon a good match.”

“Aren’t they all?” Penelope answered, conceding the point. “It’s a shame, though. Miss O’Fallon might have a problem, considering her lack of polish.”

“What are you saying? Thomas asked, fighting back indignation. “Is this what we’re about? Is there nothing more important in our lives than how a lady holds her fan? How she waltzes?”

“You misunderstand,” Penelope replied with equal fervor. “Evleen O’Fallon is a charming, lively, beautiful young woman, and most certainly nobody’s fool. If she wished, she could reach the pinnacle of social distinction. In essence, all she needs is a bit of dance instruction and a few pointers on how to hold her fan.”

Thomas nodded in agreement. “One would think Mrs. Trevlyn and her daughters might have given her some pointers.”

“Are you daft?” asked Penelope, bursting into laughter. “You think they should have helped her? I guarantee, Lydia Trevlyn is delighted over Evleen’s social gaffes. Need I explain why?”

Montague. “No, I understand. But surely someone ought to help her...” an idea struck him “... why not you?”

In deep thought, Penelope was silent a moment. “I didn’t have the chance to speak to the poor girl, but I’m sure she must have been completely humiliated last night. Yes, I suppose...” Her expression brightened. She burst, “I’ll do it! I know all the steps, and teaching her should be great fun. Besides, Charlotte and Bettina are just too snooty for words. I would love to see their faces when Evleen turns into Cinderella at the ball.”

He chided, “Not a noble motive, Penelope.”

“You don’t understand women, Thomas.”

He could tell from the firm set of his sister’s jaw that she was not about to back down. But no matter. All he cared about was that Evleen would receive the help she needed. “Can you start right away?”

“This afternoon, if you like. I shall direct a note to our Irish princess, explain what I’m planning, and invite her to take tea. Then, if she’s agreeable, we’ll have our first lesson.”

“Fine. I’ll be here. Perhaps I can help.”

“I thought you could hardly wait to get back to your beloved horses.”

He hoped his face wasn’t turning red as he answered, “I have reconsidered. I’ve decided to stay in town.”

* * *

Another silly English custom, Evleen thought as she sat in the Trevlyns’ carriage and watched as the liveried footman approached the front door of the Marquess’s townhouse. She would have much preferred knocking on the door herself but had been sternly informed, it simply isn’t done.

“You sit in the carriage and you wait for the footman to knock,” Lydia had admonished. “The footman gives your card to the butler. The butler takes the card to the mistress of the household who then decides whether or not she is at home. Then the butler returns with the message.”

“But how can she decide if she’s home or not?” asked Evleen, bewildered. “If she’s at home then she’s at home, isn’t she?”

Lydia threw up her hands. “You simply do not understand.”

Evleen persisted. “But how could she be not home if she’s home? How—?”

“Just do as I say,” Lydia snapped, thoroughly exasperated. “And another thing—if you see the lady of the house peering at you from behind the curtains, you must pretend not to notice.”

Such nonsensical rules. Such a silly, frivolous society. Still, when Evleen received Penelope’s invitation to “take tea and discuss fans and waltzes,” she deeply appreciated the generous and tactful offer. If she was to have even the slightest chance of fulfilling her promise to her mother, she must make amends for her miserable performance of the night before.

At tea, Evleen discovered that despite her lingering despondency over the previous night, she was enjoying herself. Thomas’s sister was bright, pleasant, and stunningly attractive in her modish afternoon gown of yellow cotton batiste. Unlike the Trevlyns, she did not seem full of artifices. She also possessed a quick wit which, after the dullness of the Trevlyns, Evleen greatly appreciated.

“Where shall we begin your lessons?” Penelope asked when they’d finished tea.

“Anywhere,” Evleen answered half humorously. “It appears I need improvement in all areas.”

“Then let’s do fans.” Penelope unfurled and fluttered her ivory fan. “You see, you don’t clutch it, you just hold it lightly.” She placed the fan in front of her face and peered playfully over the top. “This means follow me.” She placed the fan in her left hand. “Means I’m desirous of an acquaintance.” She closed the fan and drew it across her forehead. “Means we’re being watched.”

A wry smile curved Evleen’s lips. “How did I happen to say, ‘Take me to the garden, Lord Corneale, and give me a big, sloppy, slimy kiss’?”

When they stopped laughing, Penelope remarked, “I’m not sure exactly how Lord Corneale got such a message, but perhaps...” she rested the tip of the fan on her right cheek “—did you do something like this?” At Evleen’s nod, she said, “Then that’s likely what you did. In essence, it means yes.”

For the next hour, Evleen practiced with her own fan, learned fast, and enjoyed herself in the bargain. It was good to laugh again, although, come to think of it, she had never in her life spent such a frivolous afternoon. Back in County Clare, work and worry filled their lives. The money—the illnesses—the struggle to stay warm despite the damp, creeping cold left little time for fun as fancy-free as this.

Just as she was confident she’d mastered the language of the fan, Lord Thomas appeared in the doorway. Evleen caught her breath at the unexpected sight of him, standing there in that casual stance of his, with that lop-sided grin on his dark, handsome face. “I thought you were leaving London today,” she said.

“Obviously not,” he replied. “Penelope has recruited me to help teach you the waltz.”

She remembered the previous night and the callous manner in which she’d rejected him. What must he think? “I’m sorry about last night.”

“Say no more.” He went to her and held out his hand. He signaled to Penelope, who had seated herself at the piano. “Play us a waltz, sister, slow if you please, and we shall have Miss O’Fallon waltzing in no time.” He placed his hand around her waist. “Now, put your hand on my shoulder, don’t look down, step back with your right foot, and off we go.”

Soon she was waltzing. “You have a natural bent for it,” Thomas declared after only minutes. Feeling herself move gracefully, in perfect tune to the music, she knew he was right. Such fun! The remains of her blue funk disappeared. Later, when Montague came to see what all the commotion was about, he, too, waltzed her around the room and proclaimed she was a first rate waltzer. “You’ll do fine, Miss O’Fallon,” he said, his eyes warm with admiration. “I shall claim all your waltzes at the next ball.”

Thinking of Lydia’s reaction if he did, her spirits dipped, but not for long. “We shall see,” she said, giving him an enigmatic smile. Nothing could ruin this delightful afternoon.

When she made ready to leave, her heart was full of gratitude. She tried to express her thanks, but Thomas wouldn’t hear it. “Come back tomorrow, Miss O’Fallon,” he told her politely. “We shall learn the quadrille.”

When Penelope was alone with Evleen at the front door, she asked pointedly, “Er... that mud-colored gown? Will you be wearing it again to Lord and Lady Trent’s ball next Friday night?”

“You needn’t be polite,” came Evleen’s laughing answer. “Lord Trevlyn hired a dressmaker and I’ve already been fitted. With any luck, at the next ball I’ll have my own gown, not that hideous hand-me-down.”

“Marvelous.” Penelope clasped her hands with delight. “I have so enjoyed this afternoon.”

“As have I.”

“I have never met anyone quite like you.” Penelope’s warmth was sincere. “I predict that fair, fresh beauty of yours and that fiery Irish spirit will make you the belle of the ball.”

Despite her new friend’s encouraging words, and her pleasurable afternoon, Evleen was struck by an odd twinge of worry. “I don’t know that you’re right,” she said quietly, “but even if you are, what with one thing and another, I’m not sure being the belle of the ball is the best thing for me.”

Penelope sighed heavily. “What you mean is, the more successful you are, the more jealous Lydia and her daughters will become.”

“I suppose, but surely they would do nothing to harm me.”

“Oh, no, no, of course not,” Penelope quickly answered, but she didn’t sound too convinced.

* * *

For several days in a row, Evleen was invited back to the Marquess’s elegant townhouse, where, after tea, the dancing lessons continued. Evleen found each visit delightful. She thoroughly enjoyed the music, witty conversation, and, most of all, the close proximity to a man whose company she found increasingly pleasurable. As for Thomas, at first she found his motives were obscure. He had been charming, yet distant. His manners were so impeccable she had begun to wonder if his passionate kiss in the carriage was simply a moment of playful lust, of no deep significance at all. She had about concluded he was helping her out of pity when, on the last day before the ball, she discovered otherwise.

They were standing together, having just concluded a dance, when Penelope briefly left the room. Ordinarily they would have broken apart, but some strange force kept them close together, facing each other, as if they were part of a tableau. When she looked into his eyes, she found him gazing at her with such a burning hunger she was taken aback. She was about to pull away when he swept her into his arms and kissed her fiercely. Before she could even think how to respond, he had broken off the kiss, clasped her arms and firmly put her away from him. It was as if she were a forbidden pleasure, and he, after a momentary lapse, had regained his senses and did what honor decreed he do.

“Sorry,” he’d said, his breath coming fast. “Don’t tell me that shouldn’t have happened, I already know.”

Before she could even begin to answer, Penelope returned. If she noticed anything, she didn’t say, and the lesson went on as if nothing had occurred. At the end, Penelope glowed as she said, “I have taught you all I know, Evleen. You’ve done marvelously well. Just wait ‘til they see you at the ball tomorrow night. The dandies will be falling all over themselves, trying to get a dance with you.”

“That remains to be seen,” Evleen answered cautiously, aware there was still so much that could go wrong. “You have been the most wonderful teacher, Penelope, I can’t thank you enough.”

* * *

“Evleen, you look magnificent and just so beautiful,” exclaimed Amanda.

The night of Lord and Lady Trent’s ball had arrived. As Evleen regarded herself in her mirror, she knew she looked the best she had ever looked in her life. Magnificent and beautiful, Amanda had said. Well, she wasn’t sure about that. Still, she knew she looked her best in the white silk ball gown adorned with clusters of pink roses, a wreath of pink roses in her up-swept hair, and a diamond and ruby necklace, a present from Lord Trevlyn. At least she could hold her head high and not run and hide, as she’d felt like doing in Charlotte’s ugly dress.

And perhaps, with a bit of luck, she wouldn’t make a fool of herself this time.

When Evleen looked down from the landing and spied Lydia, Charlotte, and Bettina waiting in the front entryway, she could not resist a grand entrance. Sweeping down the stairs, head high, fan unfurled and held just so, she was secretly amused when an expression of astonishment crossed Lydia’s face, followed by chagrin, followed by a mostly unsuccessful attempt to force her lips into the semblance of a smile.

“Well, Evleen, I must say you look quite presentable this evening,” said Lydia. Almost choking, she managed to add, “I see the gown turned out tolerably well.”

“Tolerably well?” asked Amanda, who followed behind Evleen. “The gown is beautiful and so is Evleen.”

Lydia awarded her youngest daughter a thinly disguised look of warning before she addressed Evleen. “Bear in mind what I told you. Say as little as possible. Find a quiet corner if you can. I would hate to see you embarrass yourself again if someone should ask you to dance.”

Amanda, the only one who knew of Evleen’s dancing lessons, opened her mouth to protest, but Evleen gave her a quick nudge. “I shall heed your advice, Mrs. Trevlyn,” she replied with the meekness of a scullery maid.

“Good. See that you do.”

“And stay away from Montague,” Charlotte, looking beautiful all in white, admonished. “He’s close to proposing. I suspect tonight is the night.”

“Of course,” answered Evleen. No problem there. She didn’t care a fig for that wastrel, Montague. Despite herself, though, she’d begun to think a good deal about Thomas. She pictured their kiss of the day before and a warm flood of excitement coursed through her veins. The desperate way he’d grabbed her—the hunger in his eyes—oh, yes, he did care. And didn’t she? Had she not found his closeness so arousing she’d momentarily forgotten the waltz, Penelope, everything else except the exquisite joy of being in his arms?

Tonight, all she cared about was that Thomas would be there, that his eyes would light with admiration when he saw her, that they would dance every dance, spinning around the ballroom with eyes only for each other...

She caught herself and felt instant guilt. But you won’t feel guilty tonight, she informed herself sternly. Her pulse raced at the mere thought of being with him again. She was being selfish, of course, and less than honorable in ignoring her mother’s wish, but her holiday from honor would last only the night. Tomorrow she would remember her promise to her mother, but tonight she would follow her heart.

* * *

“Look, Evleen,” whispered Amanda, “everybody’s staring at you.”

They had just entered Lord and Lady Trent’s ballroom. Evleen wondered what Amanda meant, but soon she knew. The eyes of nearly every man in the room were fixed upon her as she stood, gracefully fluttering her fan, surveying the crowd with a queen-like bearing.

A waltz began. Young Lord Edgemont, whom she’d met the other night, appeared before her. “You look beautiful tonight, Miss O’Fallon, would you care to dance?”

“She doesn’t waltz,” said Lydia.

“Oh, but I shall try,” said Evleen.

All doubt concerning her ability to waltz faded quickly as Lord Edgemont led her through a series of dips and twirls. Totally at ease, she followed gracefully, as sure-footed as if she’d been waltzing all her life. Once or twice, as they whirled past Lydia, Evleen caught a glimpse of the incredulity on the older woman’s face.

When the dance was over, Montague appeared and claimed the next one. For once, his sardonic expression was gone, replaced by one of admiration. “I see my brother taught you well,” he commented.

“But where is your brother?” she asked, doing her best to make her question seem off-hand.

“Left, finally, for his estate.” He gave her a mocking smile. “I cannot imagine what kept him so long in town.”

“Oh.” Suddenly all pleasure left her. She felt hurt, and deeply disappointed. Why hadn’t he let her know?

“You seem downcast, Miss O’Fallon,” said Montague. “I do hope the news about my brother hasn’t ruined your evening.”

Never would she let her feelings show. “Downcast, Lord Eddington?” She tilted her head back and awarded him a dazzling smile. “Never. I intend to have a wonderful time tonight and dance until dawn.”

A quadrille followed. She would have danced it with Montague, but someone cut in. As the evening wore on, men were begging for her dances, showering her with compliments.

“Your eyes are like stars, Miss O’Fallon.”

“I am struck by your throaty Irish laughter, Miss O’Fallon.”

“You dance divinely, Miss O’Fallon. A fine country, Ireland, if it produces a girl as beautiful as you.”

Montague kept returning, claiming as many dances as he could. “It seems you have captured the heart of nearly every man present tonight,” he said as they waltzed and he held her as tightly as he dared.

Although she returned a dazzling smile and said thank you, Evleen found that what these strangers thought counted not one whit. All she cared about was that Thomas wasn’t here.

She had another concern, too. From the sidelines, Lydia Trevlyn had been staring at her. As the evening wore on, her expression darkened, until now, as the last dance ended, and Montague led her off the floor, it resembled a thundercloud.

Penelope caught her as she left the ballroom. “Sorry about Thomas,” she said.

“Quite all right,” Evleen answered with a forced smile, “although he did say he would be here tonight.”

“He left rather abruptly.” In deep thought, Penelope bit her lip. “I know him. I know something was bothering him, but I cannot think what.”



* * *

Ah, how delightful the smell of oats and new-mown hay!

In the stables at Tanglewood Hall, Thomas took a whiff of the sweet air as he brushed the flanks of his favorite Thoroughbred.

Why had he stayed so long in London? This was where his life would be, from now on. He would waste no more time making a fool of himself over a woman he couldn’t have. No longer could he endure the shame of losing control of himself again, as had happened, however briefly, the other day.

No excuse. After the incident in the carriage, he had warned himself to stay away. But then she needed his help, and he had offered gladly, unthinkingly. But he hadn’t thought ahead. He had not foreseen that with every dancing lesson, his longing for her would increase while his strict self-control decreased. Too many days of holding that soft, sweetly curved body in his arms had fanned his desire until yesterday, like some clumsy oaf, he’d grabbed and kissed her, with all the finesse of... he couldn’t think what, but a clown at Haymarket came to mind. He had come to his senses quickly, of course, and made some stupid remark, but his actions made him realize he must remove himself as far as possible from Evleen O’Fallon. In the state he was in, to stay one more day in London was sheer folly.

At least he had preserved his honor. A fine thing, honor. Nothing counted more in this small, tight society in which he lived. Trouble was, honor would not warm his bed at night. An increasingly lonely bed, he thought with irony. And when he woke in the night, as he’d been doing lately, honor would not do one damn thing to ease his maddening, increasingly powerful longing for Evleen O’Fallon.