Learning to Waltz (7 page)

In any case, he and Viscount Latimer had gone to enjoy a couple of days’ shooting with a friend near Nuneaton. He’d promised to call upon his return, but probably she would never see him again.

She never put much faith in promises.

“I’ll leave you two to your port.” Amanda rose from the table. “And in case I don’t see you before you leave tomorrow, have a pleasant visit.”

Evan stood as well. “Good night, then.” When the door had closed behind her, he sat down again.

Latimer poured a glass for each of them and took a sip. “You’re mighty quiet tonight, Haverfield. Is it something to do with your widow? I’m surprised m’ sister didn’t ask at dinner.”

Amanda hadn’t needed to ask—she’d gotten his report earlier. “About the trip tomorrow…  I can’t go, Frank.”

Latimer brought his fist down on the table. “Damn it, Haverfield. You said at breakfast you would go. I’m counting on your company.”

“I know.” He’d cogitated on it all afternoon and finally made up his mind. “But the boy is near death.”

“And is there any earthly thing you can do to stop it?”

Evan pressed his fingertips against his eyelids until he saw stars. Then he rubbed his hands down his face and returned the only possible answer. “No.”

“Of course not. So why—”

“She’s so alone.” He got up again, wandered over to the window, and spoke into the darkness beyond. “They’re going to bleed him tomorrow.”

“So what? Prinny does it for fun.”

Evan spun to face him. “Prinny’s not five years old. And they could take twenty pounds of blood without putting a dent in his bulk.”

Latimer let out a crack of laughter. “True enough. But the fact remains, it’s done all the time. Why the drama?”

Evan turned back to the window. “She’s afraid of it. I’m not sure why.”

“Just one of those maggots women get in their heads, I expect.” Glassware clinked as Latimer poured himself more port. “Do you love her, Evan?”

Evan jumped. “What? Are you crazy? I’ve only just met her. I…” He jabbed one hand through his hair. “I don’t know.”

“Surely you ain’t thinking marriage?”

Evan sighed and came back to the table. “Lord no. It’s impossible, even if I wanted it.”

Latimer leaned forward, hands slapping down on the polished mahogany. “Then what do you think you’re doing, man?” he exploded. “There’s already gossip. Does that help her? How long do you think she’d survive in this town on your
carte blanche
, or even the appearance of it? Or are you planning to move her to London? Or maybe Northridge. Your family would love that!”

Evan surged to his feet. “I’m not
planning
anything, you jackass. And if you think I’d—”

“And what if she gets another maggot in her head and decides
she
loves
you
? Does that help her after you leave town?”

Evan glowered at his friend for a long moment. It was all true, every blasted word of it. He dropped back into his chair and downed his port. He needed something stronger, something to knock him out for a week, or a year.

When Latimer spoke again, his voice was gentle. “That’s just it, man. You’re not planning, you’re not thinking. It can’t work the way you want it to, and it can’t work the way you
don’t
want it to. Best to let it go.” He refilled Evan’s glass and stood up, yawning. “I’ll see you in the morning. We leave at eight.”

Evan was ready in plenty of time. What sleep he’d had made him wish he hadn’t gone to bed at all. So he was in place, seated behind the leader with reins in hand, when Latimer arrived in the stable yard.

“Hey,” Latimer exclaimed, “that’s my curricle and my horses.”

“Yes, well, the early bird gets to drive.” It wasn’t very funny, but at least it showed his good will. One did not discard twenty years of friendship over a bit of truth-telling, no matter how unpalatable it was. And he much preferred to do the driving—it gave him something to think about besides what might be happening in a certain humble cottage on Whately’s high street. Cervantes had called absence
that common cure of love
—well, that remained to be seen. If it even
was
love.

It was an easy two-hour drive to Mr. Sherill’s estate. They could not talk about those unpalatable truths with the groom up behind them, and it was a subject best avoided in any case. Latimer was full of chatter but thankfully did not require much of Evan’s attention. An occasional chuckle or grunt seemed to satisfy him.

They spent the afternoon shooting with a congenial group of fellows, houseguests like themselves. Here too, Evan found his mind was largely free to wander. The conversation consisted of muted words like “Look, over there,” followed by a gunshot, then “Oh, jolly good shot!”

The birds had nothing to say on the subject.

But the evening’s dinner party was agony. If Dante had needed another circle for hell, he might have chosen tedium. Mr. Sherill and his mother had invited everyone they knew, it seemed, most of them strangers to Evan. The gentlemen talked of nothing but hunting and horses—which should have made him happy but didn’t—and the ladies appeared peculiarly undistinguished in beauty, conversation, and accomplishments.

Was that merely because of his fixation on a woman who was not there? Deborah Moore could claim no greater talent for conversation than his fellow guests and no superior accomplishments, either, unless one counted cooking and mending and teaching children to read. More practical than playing the harp or painting mediocre watercolors, but hardly lady-like. And beauty?
He
saw it, but Latimer did not.

So why do I find her so captivating?

The following afternoon, they headed home behind Latimer’s new team of bays, purchased from Mr. Sherill. They proved strong and fast, if not fast enough to suit Evan. He’d hoped to reach Whately early enough for a brief visit to Mrs. Moore, but there was scarcely time to seek out Amanda before dressing for dinner.

He found her in the library. “The favor I asked of you—I hope it was not too great an imposition?”

“Heavens, no. I was thrilled to have something to do. They threw me out of Reston Park. Thought Meg and Julia had head colds, but the doctor says it’s influenza. Most of the household has it now. I wanted to help, but I think they wanted to get rid of me. Can you imagine?”

Evan could. Amanda was much too high-spirited for a sickroom. “Is it serious?”

“Oh no, the girls are already on the mend. The ball is just two weeks away, they’ll have to be healthy by then.”

“Tell me, how did you find Mrs. Moore?”

”She couldn’t see me when I first called, but I had better luck today. We visited for ten minutes, but I think it was just out of courtesy. She looked every bit as ill as the Restons, only she can’t blame it on influenza.”

Evan opened his mouth to ask after the boy, but the viscount walked in and he dropped the subject.

Much of the dinner conversation revolved around the Latimers’ upcoming house party. It had been Frank’s plan, which meant there
was
no plan to speak of. “I was in London last month and invited most everyone I saw. Including your sister Lady Witney and the earl. Other than that, let me think: Walton and Westwood and Lord Hartwell and—”

“A fine collection of rakes and gamblers,” Evan said, working his way through the stewed rabbit. “Don’t you know any respectable people, Latimer?”

The viscount set down his fork and leaned forward. “Well, this is interesting. I ran into Sudbury and his eldest sister in Bond Street, and when I mentioned
your
name, what do you think
she
said?”

“I can’t begin to imagine.”

“She said
‘Indeed!’
in
such
a tone, and then she lifted her eyebrows at Sudbury and said, ‘Lowell, dear, we don’t have any plans for New Year’s, do we?’” He grinned, wiggling his eyebrows up and down. “She’s a beautiful girl, don’t you think?”

Evan choked on his wine. “Lady Blythe? She’s pretty enough, but hardly
respectable
. She’s a flirt and a tease, and sooner or later she’s going to compromise some poor clod. Scares me to death. She’s coming here?”

“Don’t know yet.” Latimer turned to his sister, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. “Did anything come in the mail while we were gone?”

“Not from Lady Blythe,” said Amanda.

“Anyway,” Evan said, “why would she be angling for me? You’ve got a title—she should try for you. Why don’t you court her and put the rest of us out of harm’s way?”

Latimer cleared his throat. “Well—have you met the younger sister? Lady Honora?”

“No.” Evan sat back with his wine glass and a sigh of discontent. “Is she prettier than Blythe?”

“Oh, you know I prefer fair women.”

“When do all these people descend upon us?” Evan asked.

“Over New Year’s. We’ll celebrate New Year’s Eve at the village ball.”

Evan grunted and drained his burgundy.

“I had to invite Sudbury,” Latimer said, on the defensive. “He’s the best of good fellows.” Evan shook his head. In Latimer’s book, that merely meant he was a clipping rider and an intrepid sportsman. “And I figured you might at least enjoy an innocent flirtation!”

“I do, Frank. But there’s nothing innocent about Blythe. She’s like a particularly bloodthirsty hawk.”

“Well, maybe some of those rakes you object to will come through. Don’t know Westwood that well, but perhaps Hartwell—”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Amanda interrupted. “We
did
get a letter from
him
. He’s engaged and wants to bring his fiancée.”

“Damn!” Latimer growled. “When did marriage become a contagious disease?”

Amanda ignored him. “And your sister sent an acceptance as well, Evan.” She sorted through a small pile of mail beside her plate and handed him a letter. “Here, you can read it for yourself.”

He skimmed his older sister’s familiar handwriting. She and Theo were spending Christmas with Mama and Papa but would be delighted to celebrate the New Year and Twelfth Night at Whately Manor.
Why, in heaven’s name?
Theo, the Earl of Witney, moved in a different realm than Latimer—politics, not horses, were the center of his world.

Alberta must have some reason for dragging her husband here other than the pleasure of Evan’s company. They’d seen each other quite recently. Probably she was hoping there would be some titled lady—or at least a rich one—she could talk Evan into marrying. It seemed to be a family project.

He let the horse pick its way through the darkness toward Mrs. Moore’s cottage. Regardless of Latimer’s objections, he had to see her, however briefly, and put his mind at rest. Yet oddly, he was not eager to arrive. He’d chased an almond around his plate for ten minutes while Amanda described all the preparations for the ball. Finally she asked about Frank’s new horses.
That
subject had already consumed more of Evan’s attention than he could stand, and he left them to it. Rude, no doubt, but no more so than sitting there in a brown study, absorbed in a depressing little world of his own.

Marriage!
Ugh. If only he could be sure of finding himself in Elizabeth’s sort of marriage. She and Philip were proof that one could be married
and
happy, even in Yorkshire. Thank heavens
he
would never have to live there
.
Evan supposed he would wind up settling down with Melanie Littleton, just as Mama wanted. The thought was disheartening. They would be comfortable and respectful, civilized in every way. And he would always wonder if he had missed his own
bright, particular star
somewhere along the road.

It sometimes seemed he must have met every eligible woman in England, but of course he had not. No doubt, among those some were pretty, some smart, some alluring; some might make him laugh, some might make him sing—though they’d regret that soon enough—and one of them might make him blissfully happy… if only he could find her.

Deborah Moore was pretty, and smart, and alluring. The first woman to deal him a knockout punch. But there was that other, ugly word, the one Latimer kept invoking—
eligible.
Whatever her birth and education might be, her current situation made her completely, definitively unacceptable. He bit down hard on the irony of it.

Despite her status, she was still subject to society’s rules. That was one of Frank’s truths the other evening. Evan had given Overley a tongue-lashing the other day for
his
improper attentions, but he was guilty himself. An unmarried woman receiving in her home a single, unaccompanied gentleman always risked ruin. How much more so in the dark of night. He would be doing Mrs. Moore no favors by exposing her to gossip.

He needn’t have worried. He never even saw the high street, so no one saw him except Molly. A lantern wobbled about in the yard as Evan approached the side gate. In its erratic light, he saw the girl returning from the far end of the garden, lantern in one hand and empty washtub in the other. She jumped when the gate creaked open, dropping the metal tub with a clatter onto the rocks that edged the little garden. But she ran to hold Lookout, bobbing a curtsy.