How to Marry a Marquess (Wedded by Scandal) Page 6

  With a nod, he pushed through the throng, skirting the dance floor, and headed toward the footman by the terrace. He was the latest suitor in the dwindling line of men trying to win her hand in marriage. The viscount was handsome, favored among the ton by ladies and gentlemen alike, and boasted an income of fifty thousand a year. Mamma was in raptures over the man’s obvious keen regard for her daughter. Evie, of course, did everything in her power to ensure her replies during conversations were noncommittal. Her actions when they walked together gave him no encouragement that she would welcome advances of a romantic nature. Yet the dratted man was not easy to discourage and was quite relentless in his pursuit. Very unusual, for all other suitors had melted away with little fuss once she had shown resistance and a nature contrary to their expectations.

  Evie would be flattered by the viscount’s regard if her heart hadn’t been irrevocably entangled elsewhere. All her instincts for these sorts of predicaments told her he would propose marriage to her on their carriage ride. She would hate to bruise his feelings, which was inevitable upon her refusal, so she had to deter him tonight.

  Lord Ponsby returned with a glass of champagne that she took with a thankful smile.

  “May I call on your father tomorrow before our ride? I have a matter of urgency to discuss.”

  She peered into his earnest face, a pang traveling through her heart. “Why?” she asked softly, surprising herself. Normally she would have deflected him with the delicate methods she had honed over the years, but there was something in his earnestness that gave her pause.

  “Surely you have not mistaken my affections? Can there be any doubt I admire you, Lady Evelyn? You are poised, beautiful, well connected, and a lady who understands her place in society and her role as a genteel lady. It is evident you were trained well, the very picture of female respectability and correctness, and you would make an excellent mistress for my home,” he said with a warm smile, oblivious to the horror icing through her veins.

  Well trained…female respectability and correctness. He made her sound dreadfully boring. And wasn’t she? What risks had she taken with her life, what pleasures had she partaken in? “I thank you for the sentiments, my lord, but I do not return your regard, and I cannot in good conscience encourage you to speak with my father.”

  “My lady…I…I…” He was flustered, no doubt at her forwardness. “You are overwrought from the crush, surely you cannot mean to reject out of hand the deep admiration I have for you.”

  “Forgive me, I have no wish to bring you distress, but I must be honest. I have no tender feelings for you. My heart is engaged elsewhere,” she said softly.

  His lips went taut, and disproval darkened his eyes. “I’ve just recalled I committed to a previous dance with Miss Dawson, nor do I believe I shall prevail myself upon you for the carriage ride.”

  She would lose the friendship of his dear sister and his affable company. Her throat closed. “Think nothing of it,” she said graciously. “I understand, and I relieve you of your commitment to me.”

  The viscount hurried away. Suitor number three of the season discouraged with simple honesty. She took a sip of her champagne, curious at the hollow sense of victory. Life had become predictable and uninspiring; discouraging suitors had become tedious. Though she had never boasted of uncommon beauty or superior intellect, Evie enjoyed a peculiar degree of popularity among the young swains, and even the admiration of several connected ladies of the ton. She was quite aware something was missing from her life, and she felt the keen loss of that something which she’d never had.

  She hungered for a place to belong. Evie pressed a trembling hand to her stomach. It felt unusual to be so alone amid friends. Her eyes strayed to the Marchioness of Belmont’s gentle rounded stomach that was quite evident to Evie below the high-waisted gown. Yearning struck her heart, the desperate ache of it smarting her eyes. The ache for a similar happiness had never been more evident. If only her heart hadn’t been so dreadfully stubborn. It would not allow her to settle for an unhappy union based on monetary gain with little or no tender regards, not since she was quite aware how possible happiness and love was in a marriage, despite her mother’s arguments to the contrary.

  “I see little has changed.”

  The smooth voice slid under her defenses with ridiculous ease. Her heart lurched, and her hand reflexively tightened on the champagne glass. Westfall. What was he doing at Lady Beaufort’s ball? The past several months had seen him shunning the glittering whirl of high society. Many rumors swirled about Richard because none understood him, and Evie had begun to realize the small part of him that she thought she knew, the part she had fallen in love with, might exist no longer. Some called him vindictive, merciless, others called him the dissolute Westfall, and shockingly, it was gossiped that those in the dregs of London slums referred to him as the Saint. She had heard that tidbit from maids as they whispered below stairs. The Saint. She had hardly known at the time what to do with such revelations.

  “Will you not face me?” His drawl was mocking.

  “Perhaps I need a few moments to gather my composure.”

  “Rattle you, did I?”

  “You must admit your presence after ignoring so many of my invitations is decidedly…discomfiting.” The more notorious his reputation had become, the less frequently they’d had opportunities to socialize. She had dreadfully missed their friendship, and the opportunity to seduce him to her way of thinking.

  A breath of air passed too close to the nape of her neck, and she stifled a gasp. Surely he had not dipped his head and inhaled. Had he? It was not in his nature to act so wickedly toward her. Though the ball was a crush, and everyone seemed overly busy just trying to maneuver through the crowd, an eagle-eyed gossiper might have seen.

  “Walk with me to the gardens,” he commanded softly.

  She faced him and tilted her head back to look him in the eyes. “Hello, Richard.”

  A smile tugged at his lips, drawing her gaze to the mysterious scar running from his forehead down to his chin on the left side of his face. Around the time he had found his daughter Richard appeared with it and had been indifferent to society’s rabid curiosity. She, too, was curious but trusted him to reveal how he had attained the disfigurement when he was ready. He seemed so dark and sinister in appearance tonight. A fierce, painful longing surged through Evie’s heart as years of deeply held yearning pulsed through her.

  His gaze moved over her appreciatively. “Hello, Lady Evelyn.”

  The warmth with which he’d normally greet her had been replaced by cool, polite constraint. She arched a brow. “When did our friendship change to standing on such formality?”

  He shifted inappropriately closer, a deceptively graceful quality in his movement, one that she most assuredly admired. She stood her ground, refusing to allow the dratted man to rattle her.

  “You are beautiful tonight…Evie.”

  She’d dressed in a high-waisted rosebud pink silk gown with a daringly low neckline. It bared her shoulders, and three rows of lace alternating with gauze ribbon edged the hem. At the front of her dress, a small corsage of white silk rosebuds emphasized her perfect skin. Her hair was piled atop her head and wound with more gauze ribbons and silk rosebuds. She wore tiny pearl earrings that matched the three strings of pearls around her neck. “I’m always lovely.”

  He watched her with impenetrable eyes. “Still ungracious in accepting compliments, I see.”

  “Did you expect some change because we have not seen each other in four months and a week?”

  A dark eyebrow arched at her precision in recall, and a blush warmed her cheeks. Drat.

  “It sounds as if you missed me, dreadfully, too.”

  “I also see you are still adept at self-flattery, my lord. I am relieved some of the former traits from the old Richard remain.”

  He smiled, and she forced her silly heart to beat to its normal rhythm. He was still such a handsome devil. Though he had a distressing and myst
erious scar running from his forehead to his cheek, it did not detract from his innate beauty. Most in society were hard pressed to meet his regard directly, and even a few debutantes had fainted upon looking at him, creating quite a stir. But not her, never her. He was decidedly wicked, with an air of danger, inherent power, and ruthlessness that surrounded him. It should have made her wary; unaccountably, Evie only found him more appealing. If only he would conform himself to the norms expected to those belonging to their society, then the battle she waged to capture his heart would be less…difficult.

  “Four months and three days are more accurate,” he said unexpectedly.

  Warmth slid through her veins, and it was impossible to contain the smile bursting on her lips. “I am reassured of our mutual affection.”

  “Are you well, Evie?”

  “As can be expected.”

  “And Lady Gladstone?”

  “Mamma is cheerfully employed with urging my brother to find a wife and provide a new heir for our family line.”

  A soft noncommittal grunt escaped him.

  “And how is your daughter?” she asked softly.

  His eyes shadowed. “Well.”

  His reply was so chillingly succinct she could only stare at him helplessly. Two years had passed since the ton discovered he had an illegitimate daughter, yet Evie had only four occasions upon which to see her, the most recent a few months past at her dear friend Adeline’s, now the Duchess of Wolverton, twin boys’ christening. Richard guarded his little Emily with a fierce protectiveness, which the ton gleefully hated him for. The missed opportunity to stick their vicious barbs into tender flesh was deeply resented. She understood his protective caution, but it shredded her heart that he also kept his daughter from her. On more than one occasion she had sent an invitation to tea, and there had been no reply.

  “Will you take a turn with me in the gardens? There we should have relative privacy to converse,” he said smoothly, then frowned, his eyes shadowing. “It will not bode well for society to see us alone.”

  “Would you not prefer to dance?” Though her heart lurched at taking such a bold step, she did not want him to believe for even a moment she was scared to be seen in his arms, hopefully waltzing.

  His gaze scanned the crowd, and it was quite easy to see the disdain he felt for the gathering. “No.”

  His presence at society events excited malicious speculation, which the ton made no effort to curtail, and it was evident now in the whispers stirring the air around them, the pointed suspicious looks directed her way. Perhaps it was best he had declined to dance, for the last time they partook in such a pleasure, society had not been kind—the cartoons had been horrific, and her mother had been insensible with mortification. She ignored the pinprick of unease at being the regard of their speculations. “There are a frightful number of guests in the gardens being wicked no doubt. Perhaps it would be best if we visited the conservatory.”

  They maneuvered through the crush, he a few discreet paces behind her. They entered the entrance hall and Lord Beaufort inclined his head to Richard with a smile. He ignored the earl and his countess, walking with purpose ahead. From the few gasps and twitters, his action had been noted, and it would appear in the morning scandal sheets that Lord Westfall had given Lord and Lady Beaufort the cut direct.

  A pang went through Evie’s heart at Lady Beaufort’s evident embarrassment. Richard had changed from the amiable and caring man she had known over the years. Once, she’d asked if he was a libertine, and he’d said no, a claim he was unable to boast any longer. Now he was the most dangerous degenerate according to several scandal sheets, uncaring of society’s views and expectations. He despised high society for some unfathomable reason, and he made no effort to conceal his distaste. And she was being inexcusably reckless. Despite their friendship and the cravings in her heart, his reputation did not allow for them to be alone. Although her logical mind argued her to caution, she continued through the side door leading to the terrace.

  They exited, and she moved to walk beside him. “You were quite rude just now. What have they done to suffer your disdain?”

  “Their existence offends me,” he said flatly.

  “You have the sensitivity of a battering ram,” she muttered. “Lady Beaufort is still struggling to be accepted by society after her daughter eloped to Gretna Green with her music tutor. Your actions gave society more reason to condemn her.”

  “You chide me as if I might feel remorse.”

  “I daresay you ought to feel some regret. I never knew you to be unfeeling.”

  He shot her a derisive glance. “A boy of eleven was caught poaching on their land. A pair of pheasants to feed his little sisters. The gamekeeper caught him. Do you know where that boy is now?”

  She frowned. “No, but surely you cannot resent the earl and the countess for handing over a thief to the magistrate.”

  “A thief?”

  “Well, yes,” she said carefully. “He did take something that did not belong to him.”

  “That boy of eleven years was sentenced to seven years’ hard labor for a pair of birds. Would you like your liberty to be taken for food?”

  Shock coursed through her. Seven years? “It is the law,” she said faintly.

  “Then it is easy for me to deduce you would treat your tenants with similar contempt, Evie.”

  Uncertainty sifted through her. There was an undercurrent in his tone she was unable to decipher. He’d sounded disappointed in her defense of the earl. They slipped through the gardens and toward the glass house. They entered the well-tended conservatory, the laughter and excitement of the ball a distant buzz. “I do not agree the boy should be given such a harsh sentence, but I cannot defend his thievery as you easily do.”

  Richard’s lips curled. “As expected from a lady of society.”

  There it was again. The veiled disdain he felt for the ton. The lump in her throat grew larger. It had become distressingly clear these past few months that he equated her with everyone in society. The bonds of their friendship had been straining, quite severely. “It relieves my mind to know that you are in attendance tonight,” she said softly. “It has been a while since we’ve had any occasion to converse.”

  “Ah…I thought that had been deliberate. I was met with chilling incivility upon our last encounter.”

  Evie could feel her face redden. “You attended Lady Welsh’s ball with…with your mistress. Certainly you did not expect me to own to our acquaintanceship and dance with you?”

  “I expected kindness.”

  And in his eyes, she spied a peculiar coldness he’d not normally reserved for her. It pained her to see it. “You were introducing her to our society. I thought you would desire for me to speak with her.”

  “Shocking that I expected you to be civil.”

  “Richard, surely you understand my reputation would have been sullied if I had conversed with her.”

  “Your reputation was never in danger. Mrs. Cranston is a widow who has seen better times, but she was never my mistress.”

  “There are rumors she has been the mistress of Lord Percival. Her reputation and connections are dubious, and to bring her to the—”

  “The hypocrisy of the ton sickens me.” The anger he was controlling was blatant in his hard stare. “I have tupped more than one of the ladies there who cut her most unfairly. They judged her for the acts they do so avidly behind closed doors.”

  Heat blossomed in her cheeks. “You’ve changed.”

  “Have I?”

  “Yes, and you are aware of it, Richard. Everyone refers to you as a disgraced lord, and Mamma has been reluctant to send you invitations to our balls.”

  “Disgraced?” His gaze was flinty. “It is your kind who are disgraceful.”

  Evie flinched, pain blooming in her heart. “My kind? What have I done that you would hold me in such contempt?”

  “That is precisely it, Evie, you have done nothing.”

  She faltered at his h
arsh tone. “Permit me to—”

  His unswerving gaze made her uneasy. “I will permit you nothing. You live in a gilded cage; one you are happy to reside within. You have no concept of the real world outside, of the sufferings that poor orphaned children, widows, and disabled veterans endure. People, Evie, people who hurt as we do, who bleed as we do. Your life is tea parties, balls, and musicales. You have no notion of the harsh realities of life, and you seem quite content with your ignorance.”

  She was shocked by his ruthless candor.

  He swore under his breath and raked his fingers through his thick raven-black hair, turning its careful disarray into a tangled mess. “Forgive me, I digress. I did not come here to quarrel.”

  Struggling for equanimity she scanned the room, seeking for a less distressing topic. She spied a flower array and walked toward it. “Such a beautiful arrangement, in all its particulars, wouldn’t you agree?”

  He dealt her a considering glance. “It is unlike you to quibble.”

  “I thought it best to converse about something else, or we shall spend the evening arguing.” She inhaled softly. “Why are you here, Richard?”

  “I received your note.”

  “I write to you all the time.”

  “The one where you heard the most odious and distressing news, and we must confer at once. That one.”

  Evie contained her wince. “I sent that weeks ago.” She’d written that letter with her heart aching desperately and anger scything through her veins.

  “And would I have been admitted to your parents’ parlor if I’d paid a social call?” he clipped icily.

  She closed her eyes briefly before snapping them open. “Forgive me, I am being contrary. There are…rumors once again linking your name to Lady Honoria. I wonder at their veracity.”

  His face shuttered. “I’ve not made my intentions public.”

  She stared at him, suddenly unable to speak. His intentions? “You called upon her twice, before noon, walked with her in Hyde Park, and danced with her at Lady Pomeroy’s ball last week. The scandal sheets have been voracious. You never dance when you deign to attend a high society event.”