Page 92 of Bookshop Cinderella

His hand tightened around his glass. “I’m not the one who needs that sort of bolstering.”

“Look at it this way. A lavish party like this gives the scandal sheets something to talk about besides Evie.”

“Except they’ll all be wondering why she’s not here. Every day that passes with no engagement announcement only further cements the idea that she’s been nothing more to me than a mistress, and that in light of the scandal, I’ve set her aside.”

“I do wish you’d let me see her, talk to her—”

“No.” He took a swallow of his drink.

“What about your sisters? If they went with me, if we assured her we would welcome her into the family with open arms, that we’d do all we could to help her, it might allay her fears about the whole thing and persuade her to change her mind.”

“No. You’ll do nothing, Delia.” He turned his head, giving her a hard stare. “Don’t interfere.”

She sighed. “Oh, very well. But what are you going to do?”

He shrugged, accepting the inevitable. “Nothing.”

“What?”

“What would you have me do, Delia? I won’t push her to marry me. And I won’t have youor my lovely, interfering sisters pushing her either. I did that to Rebecca, and we all know the result. I won’t do it to Evie.”

“Evie’s not Rebecca.”

“No,” he agreed and gave a humorless laugh. “Instead of allowing herself to be charmed, cajoled, and strongly persuaded to change her mind about marrying me, she’s more likely to just dig in her heels and harden herself further against the idea.”

“I expect you’re right. She is very stubborn and proud. But there must be something you can do. You’re not giving up, surely?”

“God, no. I thought I’d wait a bit longer, then go see her.”

“You realize time is not on her side?”

“Of course, but I see no other course that has a prayer of working. This way, I’m hoping she’ll relax her defenses and perhaps soften. I can only hope it also gives her the chance to miss me.”

“If you call on her with no engagement in place, you give the papers the chance to say she’s resumed being your mistress.”

“I can’t help what they say. All I can do is work to slowly, gently persuade her to marry me. Show her, if she’ll let me, what being a duchess would be like, and hope she’ll see her way to taking it on. That isn’t something that’s going to be done in a week. For this to work, it has to be a long, slow courtship, and that might take a year, or two, or even more. If...”

He paused and took a deep breath, saying a silent prayer. “If it works at all.”

“It will,” Delia said, holding up her own drink and clinking it against his. “It will. I have no doubt.”

Max wished he could be that sure. But when it came to Evie, he knew it was best not to take anything for granted.

***

There wasn’t a cabin sight. Evie leaned out from the cab stand at the corner of Wellington Street and Russell Street, the train of Anna’s burgundy-red crushed velvet gown over her arm to keep it off the dirty sidewalk. She peered up and down, left and right, but among all the vehicles clogging traffic, she couldn’t see a single hansom or growler in any direction.

It was, she judged, about a quarter to eight, and if she didn’t hurry, she wouldn’t be able to see Max before he went in to dinner. If that happened, what with all the inevitable courses, followed by port, coffee, cards, and who knew what else, it could be hours before she had another chance to talk with him.

Nothing for it, she decided, turning to start up Wellington Street toward the Savoy. She’d have to walk. A bit ridiculous in this ensemble, but she had no choice.

She hurried as fast as her tight corset would allow, but after a few minutes, she realized walking wasn’t going to work. She had just crossed York Street when, suddenly, a roaring crack of thunder sounded, followed by the flash of lightning, and then the heavens opened and rain began to pour down, torrents of it.

With a cry of dismay, she hiked the train higher and broke into a run, thanking God she was wearing flat slippers instead of court heels. Pelted by the downpour, she ran as fast as she could, round the corner onto the Strand, pausing for traffic at Savoy Street, where the hem of Anna’s gown was splashed by a hansom as it went by. Then, across the Savoy courtyard, past the liveried doorman, and into the hotel. By the time she reached the concierge desk, she was soaked to the skin.

“The Duke of Westbourne’s dinner party?” she panted as the concierge looked up.

“Miss Harlow?” His eyes widened, telling her she must look a fright, but true to the Savoy’s reputation for unflappable conduct on the part of its staff, the man merely pointed toward the far end of the foyer. “Penzance Room,” he told her. “To the right, at the end of the corridor.”

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