times it seemed, and now it distantly amused him, and when he wasn’t in the mood to humor it, it irritated him. It posed no challenge. He had no use for it.
“How very blasé you are, Ian.”
“Yes,” he said simply, not in the mood for a lecture.
He looked about for his brothers, or his cousin Adam or someone who could be persuaded to sneak up to the library to join him in draining his father’s brandy decanters in order to make whatever dancing ensued more interesting for them. He didn’t see any of them. He supposed he’d have to settle for ratafia in the short term.
“I wish you trusted me, Genevieve.”
“I wish I did, too,” she said lightly, with a playful little tap of her fan.
And it wasn’t until then that Ian was certain that she didn’t. Not really.
It stung a bit, but he supposed he ought not be surprised. He hadn’t earned his reputation as a rogue by not applying himself to the task.
“Falconbridge is charged with finding a match for her,” his sister said. “Preferably a titled or at least spectacularly wealthy one. Those were the terms of her father’s will.”
“Dukes are hardly thick on the ground, though, are they? Though the Duke de Neauville’s heir is of age, and could use a wife, no doubt. As all heirs do. I’ve spoken to him at White’s. Fine manners. Not too much of an ass. He’s perfectly inoffensive.”
Genevieve laughed. “I suppose one can do worse than perfectly inoffensive.”
He shrugged. “My felicitations to Miss Danforth and the poor devil she does marry. Speaking of which, here comes your poor devil.”
But Genevieve had stopped listening to him, because she’d already seen her husband moving across the crowded ballroom, aiming for her like a ship aims for shore.
H AVING ABRUPTLY ABANDONED Genevieve for the punch bowl, he gave a start when he saw a pair of eyes peering through a tall potted plant. He leaned closer.
“Oh, good evening, Miss Charing.”
“Good evening, Captain Eversea.” Miss Josephine Charing’s china-blue eyes blinked. She was a pretty, garrulous young lady with a big heart and a brain comprised primarily of feathers and air. She was lately engaged to Simon Covington.
“Is aught amiss? It’s not like you to hide in a corner.”
“It’s what you do, isn’t it, Mr. Eversea? When too many girls want to dance with you.”
“Er . . . I may have done, on occasion,” he said carefully, a bit startled. “Sometimes one just likes to take a bit of a rest.”
“It’s challenging to be beautiful, isn’t it?” she said with an air of wistful authority.
“I suppose it is.” He was amused. And he was fairly certain Miss Charing had been at the ratafia a bit too enthusiastically. “Why are you behind the plant? Is something troubling you?” He regretted asking immediately. Confidences were the bailiwick of his cousin Adam Sylvaine, the vicar. But Adam wasn’t here. Feminine confidence in particular invariably panicked and baffled Ian. The things women fussed over!
“Is some one troubling you?” he added, almost hopefully. He could easily dispatch any rogues who might be a little too free with their hands or words. He almost hoped that was the case. He was feeling restless and irritable and wouldn’t have minded taking it out on someone who deserved it.
“It’s just . . . well, I’m afraid,” she confessed on a whisper.
“Who are you afraid of?” He was instantly alert. He scanned a practiced eye over the ballroom but saw no one who appeared unduly menacing. Unduly drunk, certainly.
“Have you seen Miss Danforth?”
He blinked again. “Yes. Are you afraid of Miss Danforth? She didn’t appear to be armed when I saw her.”
She hesitated.
“My Simon is dancing with Miss Danforth.”
Ian peered in the direction she was looking. And so he still was. Serious Simon Covington, with his long sensitive face, who was so walking-on-clouds smitten with Miss Charing, was indeed dancing with Miss
“How very blasé you are, Ian.”
“Yes,” he said simply, not in the mood for a lecture.
He looked about for his brothers, or his cousin Adam or someone who could be persuaded to sneak up to the library to join him in draining his father’s brandy decanters in order to make whatever dancing ensued more interesting for them. He didn’t see any of them. He supposed he’d have to settle for ratafia in the short term.
“I wish you trusted me, Genevieve.”
“I wish I did, too,” she said lightly, with a playful little tap of her fan.
And it wasn’t until then that Ian was certain that she didn’t. Not really.
It stung a bit, but he supposed he ought not be surprised. He hadn’t earned his reputation as a rogue by not applying himself to the task.
“Falconbridge is charged with finding a match for her,” his sister said. “Preferably a titled or at least spectacularly wealthy one. Those were the terms of her father’s will.”
“Dukes are hardly thick on the ground, though, are they? Though the Duke de Neauville’s heir is of age, and could use a wife, no doubt. As all heirs do. I’ve spoken to him at White’s. Fine manners. Not too much of an ass. He’s perfectly inoffensive.”
Genevieve laughed. “I suppose one can do worse than perfectly inoffensive.”
He shrugged. “My felicitations to Miss Danforth and the poor devil she does marry. Speaking of which, here comes your poor devil.”
But Genevieve had stopped listening to him, because she’d already seen her husband moving across the crowded ballroom, aiming for her like a ship aims for shore.
H AVING ABRUPTLY ABANDONED Genevieve for the punch bowl, he gave a start when he saw a pair of eyes peering through a tall potted plant. He leaned closer.
“Oh, good evening, Miss Charing.”
“Good evening, Captain Eversea.” Miss Josephine Charing’s china-blue eyes blinked. She was a pretty, garrulous young lady with a big heart and a brain comprised primarily of feathers and air. She was lately engaged to Simon Covington.
“Is aught amiss? It’s not like you to hide in a corner.”
“It’s what you do, isn’t it, Mr. Eversea? When too many girls want to dance with you.”
“Er . . . I may have done, on occasion,” he said carefully, a bit startled. “Sometimes one just likes to take a bit of a rest.”
“It’s challenging to be beautiful, isn’t it?” she said with an air of wistful authority.
“I suppose it is.” He was amused. And he was fairly certain Miss Charing had been at the ratafia a bit too enthusiastically. “Why are you behind the plant? Is something troubling you?” He regretted asking immediately. Confidences were the bailiwick of his cousin Adam Sylvaine, the vicar. But Adam wasn’t here. Feminine confidence in particular invariably panicked and baffled Ian. The things women fussed over!
“Is some one troubling you?” he added, almost hopefully. He could easily dispatch any rogues who might be a little too free with their hands or words. He almost hoped that was the case. He was feeling restless and irritable and wouldn’t have minded taking it out on someone who deserved it.
“It’s just . . . well, I’m afraid,” she confessed on a whisper.
“Who are you afraid of?” He was instantly alert. He scanned a practiced eye over the ballroom but saw no one who appeared unduly menacing. Unduly drunk, certainly.
“Have you seen Miss Danforth?”
He blinked again. “Yes. Are you afraid of Miss Danforth? She didn’t appear to be armed when I saw her.”
She hesitated.
“My Simon is dancing with Miss Danforth.”
Ian peered in the direction she was looking. And so he still was. Serious Simon Covington, with his long sensitive face, who was so walking-on-clouds smitten with Miss Charing, was indeed dancing with Miss
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