Page 17 of Loving a Beast of a Marquess
Zachary frowned as he considered the daughters. The eldest, with her pointed chin and the defiant gleam in her blue eyes, was more beautiful though there was a certain wildness to her he wasn’t sure even his temper could tame. There was also little chance she could accept his hand, and he would never force a lady into matrimony.
The younger daughter was a gentler creature, with golden brown locks and hazel eyes that appeared green in some lights. Pretty, rather than beautiful, she was still a suitable match—and an easier companion, he suspected. Still, there wasn’t that tug of attraction he felt toward Evangeline despite his best attempts to quell it. At least now, after he had behaved so abominably, she well and truly hated him.
“Consider it,” his mother said, patting his arm and rising. “I must see Lady Pevton. Do your best to stop offending the family, my love. You know life will be easier.”
Life would be entirely less complicated if he merely admitted defeat and concluded the best thing would be to leave and await the Duke’s return at his own home. Yet, every time he contemplated that, an image of Evangeline, a smug look in her eyes, appeared at the front of his mind, and it was enough to deter him.
He would not leave, no matter what she did to chase him away.
ChapterEight
To Evangeline’s disgust, the Marquess continued to interfere with her—and more importantly, Emily’s—marriage prospects. For a start, he insisted on sitting in the drawing room and scowling so forbiddingly at their suitors that, regardless of their intentions, they inevitably fled.
If the suitors—or their mothers—were determined enough to stick around, the conversation was reduced to a few dull comments about the weather. Evangeline didn’t mind so much for herself. She’d already decided that she intended to marry Mr. Linfield out of convenience although the boy himself had yet to learn of her plan, but she cared deeply for Emily. Her sister was sensitive, and Evangeline knew she wouldn’t last long with the Marquess as her guardian.
Emily needed to be married and fast, but the Marquess appeared to be doing everything in his power to dissuade any other gentleman from so much as talking to them. Emily, in particular, felt this the hardest though she didn’t appear to realize the Marquess was at fault.
“I never thought marriage would be simple,” she sobbed to Evangeline one evening, “but I thought it would be possible to find at least one gentleman with a mind to marrying me.”
Evangeline patted her sister’s head grimly. “It shall all be put to right. You’ll see.”
“But what shall we do if no one offers for us?” Emily raised a tear-stained face. “Are we to live off the Marquess’ generosity as Aunt Dorothea has lived off Papa’s?”
“I won’t let that happen,” Evangeline said, pulling her sister closer. “Besides, that would be assuming he has generosity to spare.”
“I don’t think he can be that bad, Angie.”
“If that were the case—” But Evangeline did not dare finish that sentence because if she allowed herself to believe the Marquess was, in fact, not as bad as he made himself out to be—as thetonbelieved him to be—she might be tempted to pity him. There lay the route to madness.
“There is Mrs. Clementine’s ball tomorrow,” Evangeline said, bracingly. “We shall wear our best dresses and dance, and there will be no gentleman who can refuse such a lovely face as yours, Emmy.”
Emily sniffed. “But you are the prettier sister. Everyone says so.”
“Me?” Evangeline laughed. “I am all hard edges, and few gentlemen find that appealing after a while. You have true softness.” She threaded her fingers through Emily’s golden-brown hair, so much lighter and softer than her own. Sometimes, she wished she had also been blessed with hair that gleamed gold in the sunlight and framed her face with such artistic precision—but then, Emily would not have been special for her gentle beauty, and Evangeline would never take anything away from her sister.
“Are we going to be all right?” Emily asked after a moment.
“All right?” Evangeline took hold of both Emily’s hands and squeezed. “We will be just fine. I promise.”
* * *
Their best dresses were fine silk. Emily had a rose gown on that brought out the delicacy of her features while Evangeline wore white. They were, as Dorothea put it, some of the best-dressed girls in town, and when they entered the ballroom, a flutter of voices arose at the sight of them.
“You see,” Evangeline whispered. “He cannot ruin this for us too.”
“Who cannot?”
“Never mind.” She scanned the room for any of Emily’s beaus. She had several, but the men that were drawn to her quiet, fanciful nature were not always the sort to defy a scowling Marquess. “There! Look. Your dear Mr. Trimly is speaking with Maria. Shall we speak to her?”
“Angie, no—he left so abruptly the last time he came to visit—”
Deaf to her sister’s complaints, Evangeline marched them over to where Maria looked as though she was desperately attempting to escape the earnest attentions of Mr. Trimly—a man about whom Evangeline could see little to appeal, yet who had, by some miracle, attracted her sister.
After waiting a few minutes for Emily to settle into conversation with Mr. Trimly, who turned to her with such enthusiasm it was clear the Marquess had not dimmed his passions, Evangeline left in search of a certain Mr. Linfield. She found him, conveniently, by the punch bowl, and as she approached, his eyebrows rose.
“Lady Evangeline,” he said, “I have been hearing rumors about you.”
She sighed. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, what now?”
