The Book Of Scandal (5 page)

Evelyn paused at the window and gazed up at the starry night. “Mary,” she muttered. “Mary will not allow him to take me from here.”

P rincess Mary didn’t seem as keen to keep Evelyn close at hand as Evelyn had hoped. Frankly, the princess looked a bit uncomfortable with Evelyn’s request to help her.

The princess was seated at her writing table, hard at work at her morning correspondence, prettily dressed in white muslin with a wrap of brown silk on her shoulders that matched the brown bandeau wrapped around her locks. She blinked large blue eyes at Evelyn. “Lord Lindsey is here? In London?” she asked for the third time.

Mary was two years older than Evelyn, but sometimes she seemed far younger. Evelyn clasped her hands tightly in a bid to be patient. “He is indeed, Your Highness.”

“And he wants you to go home?” Mary asked again.

“To Eastchurch Abbey. In Gloucestershire.”

“Yes, of course,” Mary said. “I don’t rightly know what to say. He is your husband, after all.”

“In name only,” Evelyn said quickly. “You’ve remarked it yourself.”

“Yes, but I hardly expected him to come for you. That seems rather dramatic, does it not?”

Romantic, she meant, Evelyn thought. Mary loved tales of romance. Evelyn believed it was because she’d been cruelly robbed of romance herself ten years ago. She’d fallen in love with the Dutch Prince Frederick. The king and queen consented to an engagement, but Mary was not permitted to marry until her older sisters—three of them—had wed. That, of course, was practically impossible, as the king and queen were notoriously protective and kept their daughters at home, finding various reasons not to consent to a royal match that would send them to the Continent.

Three years later, while Prince Frederick and Mary continued to wait, he died from an infection.

Now, Mary harbored romantic notions about Prince William, Duke of Gloucester.

“How were you and Lord Lindsey married, if I may ask?” Mary inquired. “Was it something you and Lord Lindsey sought for yourselves, or did your families seek it for you?”

“I, ah…” It had been ages since Evelyn had thought of it. She glanced anxiously at the window, where gray clouds were beginning to cover what had been a pale blue sky.

At the time, Evelyn had been happy with the match. She knew of Nathan’s reputation for sowing his oats, but he was three years her senior, and she believed he would settle down like most men seemed to do when they married. “Our families, actually,” she said slowly. “I knew him, of course—but our parents are fast friends. I did not think of him in…in that way until my mother suggested it.”

“Did your parents disregard your feelings, then?” Mary asked curiously.

“No,” Evelyn said, looking guiltily at Mary once more. “That is to say…I had no feelings to disregard. I was eighteen years of age and fonder of the idea of being a mistress of a grand house than I was of being married. I agreed to the match.”

“Ah,” Mary said thoughtfully. “I always rather liked Lord Lindsey. He’s very charming.”

“Too charming by half,” Evelyn snorted. “He’s charmed quite a number of women, if you take my meaning.”

Mary smiled. “He’s handsome—you cannot possibly deny that he is.”

“Passable,” Evelyn said with a shrug, “if one prefers that sort of square build.” If there was one thing that could be said for her husband, he possessed a very masculine build.

“And he’s clever,” Mary said, enjoying their little game.

“Oh yes, clever, indeed! I think he pays the luxury tax with his winnings at the card table.”

“There, you see? That is clever!”

Evelyn smiled. “If one admires profligacy,” she countered.

Mary laughed. “I think you are too hard on him, madam! Men like a bit of sport. And I hate to think of the poor man needing you at home while you are here with me.”

A tick of regret registered in Evelyn’s heart. “Our wedding was ten years ago, Highness. Unfortunately, we…we did not prove to be as compatible as one might have hoped.”

“I think men and women are not naturally compatible,” Mary said with all the authority of a courtesan, in spite of her woefully sheltered life. “We are all so different, really. Men and their sport, women and their children…”

“Your Highness, I don’t want to go back to Eastchurch Abbey. There are so many dark memories there. I want to stay in London—”

“Near Dunhill?” Mary asked with a sly smile.

Evelyn paused, weighing her response. Of course Mary knew about Dunhill, for Evelyn had told her. Yet she wasn’t certain if Mary thought it another romantic adventure, or if she disapproved. “Near you,” Evelyn said carefully. “I would miss your company dreadfully.”

“Oh, and I would miss yours!” Mary cried. “But what can I do?”

“Perhaps if you had a word with the king. He won’t deny you.”

Mary didn’t seem particularly keen on that idea, but she did reluctantly agree to intercede with the king on Evelyn’s behalf.

That afternoon, Evelyn passed the time with Lady Harriet, the young daughter of Evelyn’s friend and fellow lady of the bedchamber, Claire French, Lady Balfour.

Claire was a distant mother at best, and seemed to chafe at the inconvenience whenever Harriet was deposited at her door, which happened more frequently of late, as Lord Balfour did not approve of leaving poor Harriet alone in the country when he was in London. The lass often sought the company of her mother, but her mother preferred the company of adults, and particularly, gentlemen.

Feeling sorry for the girl, Evelyn had befriended her, taking her under her wing. She was a lovely ten-year-old girl, with light brown hair and blue eyes. She had confessed recently to Evelyn that she longed to dance. Harriet would have a dance instructor one day as all girls of good breeding had, but in the meantime, Evelyn delighted in teaching her. On those afternoons when Mary was napping and Claire was away, Evelyn taught Harriet to dance.

They were practicing that interminable afternoon while Evelyn waited for Mary to speak to the king. Harriet was learning the quadrille, and side by side they moved, Harriet matching Evelyn’s steps, moving in time to the strains of a music box.

“When I am old enough to attend a royal ball, I am going to dance all night, and I shall wear a gown more beautiful than my mother’s.”

“I think you will be the loveliest girl on the dance floor,” Evelyn said, winning a big smile from Harriet. “Tomorrow,” she continued as she crossed behind Harriet, “we’ll go to the ballroom and practice. The quadrille requires a lot of room.”

Harriet snapped a startled look at Evelyn. “Mamma said I am not to go anywhere in the palace, that the queen doesn’t like me underfoot.”

“She doesn’t like any of us underfoot,” Evelyn clarified. “And she certainly does not like the ballroom opened. So it will have to be our secret.”

“Do you mean it, truly?” Harriet asked, her eyes shining with excitement.

“Of course!” Evelyn said. “I should never jest about such a thing! Watch your right foot, Harriet.”

“Pardon, madam,” a deep voice intoned.

The footman’s arrival elated Evelyn; she quickly moved to close the music box before breathlessly whirling about…and coming almost nose to shoulder with her husband.

She was expecting the footman to say Mary had sent for her—not deliver her husband.

His presence shocked her. He looked magnificent, wearing a coat of navy superfine and tan trousers. His waistcoat, embroidered in gold, hugged a trim waist, and his neckcloth looked as if it had just been pressed. He was as finely dressed as any member of the royal family, but that was not what caught Evelyn’s attention. It was his expression. It was cool and dangerously determined.

“His lordship Lindsey,” the footman needlessly announced from somewhere behind him.

“I would like a word, madam,” he said, his blue eyes settling very firmly on hers.

“Unfortunately, I haven’t time,” Evelyn said primly. “I am expecting an audience with the king at any moment—”

“Ooh, the king,” he said, sounding impressed. “Naturally, if the king calls for you, I will not delay you.”

Evelyn eyed him closely. He raised one brow, silently challenging her. “Would you give the footman leave, madam?”

She reluctantly glanced at the footman. Then at Harriet. “Lady Harriet, please go with Thomas, will you? I shan’t be more than a moment.”

The footman stood back, waiting for Harriet to come along. She went reluctantly, tilting her head back to peer up at Nathan as she went.

If Nathan noticed her, he gave no indication—his gaze was locked on Evelyn.

When they had gone, Evelyn said, “Whatever you have come to say, please say it and go.”

“Why the rush, love? Here we are, alone, in a room that connects to a room with a bed…” One brow rose above the other in invitation, and he smiled.

The very suggestion sent a tantalizing shiver down Evelyn’s spine; she quickly folded her arms across her body.

“No?” he asked, still smiling. “I rather thought as much.” He clasped his hands behind his back and glanced about the room, taking in the furnishings. The queen believed in economy—the rooms were sparsely appointed, but the furnishings were of the highest quality.

“So this is where you have lived.”

“Obviously,” she said. When in London, at least. Sometimes at Windsor and Frogmore. But she did not explain that to him.

He ignored her caustic remark and paused to touch the music box. When he opened it, a Limoges porcelain figurine of a dancing couple began to twirl around in time to a Handel piece. The box had been made especially for her—Pierce had commissioned it to commemorate the first time they’d danced.

Nathan lifted his gaze. “Yours?”

Evelyn hugged herself tighter. “Yes.”

“My money? Or a gift?”

Oh, how she despised his intrusion! “A gift.”

He smiled wryly. “I infer from your discomfort that it was not a gift from Princess Mary.”

Evelyn suddenly moved forward. She swept past Nathan, picked up the music box, and moved it to the mantel and out of his reach. She turned around. “What do you want?”

His eyes were shining with amusement now. He casually took in her gray and white gown. “Frankly, what I wanted when I entered this room and what I want now are not the same thing.”

His words stoked a familiar heat in her. “I have a day full of appointments, my lord,” she said, trying to put some distance between herself and his words.

“You may return to your appointments when I am gone.”

“Well, there is some news, at least. You will be leaving. Perhaps we might hasten that along if you will but tell me what you want.”

He grinned and moved closer. Too close. “There are many things I want, love,” he said to her breasts, and shook his head. “You are lovelier than I’ve ever seen you.” He touched her collarbone just above her décolletage.

Evelyn drew a sharp breath. “Don’t, Nathan. You have no right.”

“No right to admire my wife?”

“You have intruded into my private chambers—”

“As is my right as your husband—”

“Perhaps at Eastchurch. Not here,” she said angrily.

“Darling,” Nathan drawled, and brazenly laid his hand against her neck. “I may have access to your private chambers whenever and wherever I please until one or both of us is dead and buried.”

“I beg your pardon? What now, Lindsey? Will you resort to badgering me?”

“Badgering isn’t precisely what I had in mind,” he murmured.

Evelyn whirled away from him.

He chuckled low. “In all honesty, as much as I should like to ravish you, I’ve hardly the time for it at the moment. I’ve come only to see if you have reclaimed your senses and see clearly the situation in which we find ourselves.”

“Reclaimed my senses, as if my refusal to return to Eastchurch means I have lost my mind?” She laughed wryly. “How boorish, how very male of you, Nathan.”

“Have you considered it?” he calmly pressed.

“Oh, I’ve considered it, yes I have,” she said with mock cheerfulness that did not belie her anger. “And I find it is precisely the same situation in which we found ourselves three years ago. We are still on opposite ends, and always will be.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, you betrayed me, Nathan.”

“For the love of God,” he said, and sighed heavenward. “Not that again.”

“Yes, that again. Admit it—you abandoned me for Mrs. DuPaul.”

“That is absurd! I did no such thing!”

“I saw you, Nathan, have you forgotten? I saw you with her! At the lowest point in my life, you were in the arms of another woman!”

“You saw nothing, Evelyn. At the lowest point in my life, you were cold and distant and would have dragged us all into hell if we’d allowed you!”

That admonishment drew Evelyn up.

“And what does it matter now?” he demanded. “Three years have passed and for better or worse, you and I are different. But need I remind you, Mrs. Grey?” he said angrily. “We are still married!”

“In name only.”

Nathan’s gaze darkened; he suddenly caught her arm and pulled her so close that she had to tilt her head back to look at him. He studied her face. “I cannot help the fact that we are still married any more than I can help the fact that your name is my name. Your scandal is my scandal. Your actions are considered my actions, and I cannot protect us from ruin if you are in London consorting with God knows who! Is that clear?”

He must have thought she would crumble under his censure and his authority. Evelyn lifted her chin and looked him squarely in the eye. “I have not sullied your name. I do not consort. And I certainly do not fear the empty accusations made about me by the Princess of Wales. She has no credibility here.”

“Here? Evelyn, have you no sense of the people? The Princess of Wales has widespread public support! The populace finds the prince at fault. There are many who have begun to question the necessity of the monarchy itself!”

“How can they? He wasn’t accused of bearing a bastard child,” she shot back.

“Don’t be naïve,” Nathan said curtly. “His by-blows are all over this town. And the Lords Commissioners found no evidence to support the claim that Caroline bore a bastard child, but they found plenty of evidence to support the claims of bad behavior, and adultery by the Princess of Wales, which is still a treasonable offense with or without a child!”