Page 31 of Loving a Beast of a Marquess
“I should hope not.” Evangeline folded her arms and glared at the small plaque with her mother’s name: Guinevere Pevton. Evangeline had few memories of her mother, but the ones that remained were ones of overwhelming love and warmth.
If her mother were still here, they would not be in this position. She would not have the inconvenient memories of what the Marquess looked like above her, his dark hair mussed and his blue eyes bright, and she would not have to remember the way her body sang whenever he approached.
Her mother would have found both Evangeline and Emily excellent matches and guided them as to the best thing to do. Instead, it was Evangeline struggling to keep her head above the water as the Marquess destroyed the last of her peace by simply beingthere.
“Promise me you will not marry him,” Evangeline said urgently, hardly knowing the reason for such urgency yet knowing it must be so. “Even if he does ask.”
“Aunt Dorothea would never allow such a thing to happen.”
“It’s unlikely,” Evangeline admitted, “but you must promise anyway.”
Emily sent her a sidelong look that suggested she thought Evangeline was crazy but eventually said, “I promise.”
“Now, we must think about how we can prevail upon Mr. Trimly to offer,” Evangeline said, linking her arm through her sister’s. “You have not forgotten Mr. Trimly, have you?”
Emily’s blush indeed suggested she had not forgotten about Mr. Trimly, and Evangeline entertained them both with outrageous and outlandish plans for compelling Mr. Trimly into immediate matrimony with her sister, and by the time they ventured back indoors, having wandered around the gardens for almost an hour, both girls were pink-nosed and giggling, and Evangeline was fairly certain the Marquess and his handsomeness was well and truly forgotten.
“Evangeline,” Aunt Dorothea called as Evangeline was about to walk into the drawing room. “I’ve decided to host a small gathering.”
This was the perfect opportunity.
“I have no objection,” Evangeline said, stepping away from the drawing room door and further into the hall toward her aunt, “but pray ensure Mr. Trimly is invited.”
“Why he is merely—”
“I understand who he is,” Evangeline interrupted, “but you are interested in Emily marrying quickly, are you not? He is a young man in search of marriage and seems more than taken by my sister—and she with him. In that sense, it is the perfect match.”
“Oh, but I had visions of her marrying an Earl at least,” Dorothea said mournfully. “Consider, my dear, what an alliance that would be.”
Evangeline stepped closer and lowered her voice. “Perhaps that might have been possible while Papa was still alive, but every day that passes piles more suspicion on our heads. If we do not marry soon, the shame of that incident may ensure we do not marry at all.”
Dorothea wrung her hands as she looked at Evangeline, but Evangeline did not let her expression falter for an instant. Her aunt knew what was at risk, even if she did not wish to think about it. After all, it had been her aunt’s command that they return to society and pretend as though nothing had occurred.
“You’re right,” Dorothea said, laying a brief hand on Evangeline’s shoulder. “You are free to marry whomever you wish—as long as it is not the Marquess.”
Evangeline allowed herself a grim smile. “Fear not—I think I can promise you I willnevermarry that man.”
* * *
Aunt Dorothea’s ‘small gathering’ soon turned into a large event with dinner, dancing, and cards.
“I have invited the Earl of Riffy as well,” Dorothea said the morning of the event. “I have not just thought of your sister.”
Evangeline glanced up from where she was attempting to compose a letter. “And has he written to accept the invitation?”
“He called yesterday while you were out, and he accepted it himself.”
“How very gracious of him.” Evangeline dipped the nib back in the ink. “Are you thinking I might marry him, dear aunt?”
“You seemed to get on exceedingly well the last time you met.”
“We did,” Evangeline said, “and yet I cannot but feel he is playing a part.”
“He may not be in love with you yet,” Dorothea said, patting Evangeline’s cheek fondly, “but that is not to say he shall never be.”
And yet, Evangeline felt, it was deeply unlikely he would be. He said all the right things, yes, but that did not translate to real feeling. His eyes held a distinct lack of anything resembling passion when they regarded her; she was, to him, merely a means to an end.
But he was an agreeable flirt, and she did not need her husband to love her—merely to marry her. If he was prepared to give her his name and allow her to live in his house as his wife, she would be quite prepared to turn a blind eye when he did, eventually, fall in love—with whomever that might be.
