At least I have had one good dance before the end of my time in society,she mused with a weary heart, as she turned back to the basin and splashed her face with the cold water, hoping it would be enough to wash away the tears that were so determined to fall.
Ten minutes later, looking more presentable though perhaps a little puffy around the eyes, Evelyn walked into the dining room, guided by her oldest brother.
At the far end of the table, the chair squealing as he pushed it back, was a stranger. He was neither tall nor short but of middling height, with an unruly shock of dark hair that looked so thick it could probably withstand a gale. Some gray was creeping in at the temples and appeared to be fading the color from a rather bushy mustache that sat beneath a somewhat rodent-like nose. Twitchy.
He was not as old as she had anticipated, perhaps forty-five or so, with a nervous demeanor. Not handsome, not like Hugo, but not ghastly either.
“This is my daughter, Lady Evelyn,” her father said, as if it were not obvious.
The gentleman bowed his head, fidgeting with the tail of his fob watch. “A pleasure, Lady Evelyn,” he said in a hoarse voice.
“Evelyn, this is Miles Wilson, the Baron of Hemstich,” her father said with a tight smile. A warning that she was to behave.
Evelyn curtsied. “It is nice to meet you, Lord Hemstich.”
It was an unusual name. Bavarian, maybe. Although he did not have any discernible accent.
Will I have to journey to a foreign land? Live there?Her grasp of languages was not terrible, but she did not know any German whatsoever. The romantic languages were where she had mostly dedicated her studies.
“Come and sit,” her father instructed.
Putting on a smile that made her cheeks hurt, she headed around the table to her usual spot and sat down. The baron was beside her, in a seat that normally went unoccupied, for her brothers tended to sit on the opposite side of the table as if she were a leper and her femininity might be catching.
The servants moved forward without delay to serve the first course, though Evelyn did not know how she was going to force any food down. She had no appetite, her stomach full of rocks, each one etched with another disappointment.
He might be pleasant,she told herself.One should not judge by appearance alone, and he is not terrible to behold.
After a few spoonfuls of soup that made her feel increasingly queasy, Evelyn glanced at the gentleman she was probably going to marry.
“Are you Bavarian, Lord Hemstich?”
An odd look flickered across his face as he dabbed his mouth. “No, but I understand the confusion.”
He did not elaborate, returning his attention to the lurid green of his watercress soup.
“I hear you are only in London for a short time,” she continued, if only to avoid having to eat any more of the first course. “Are you a gentleman of business?”
There was that look again, more decipherable this time: it was the expression of someone who could hear a fly buzzing nearby.
“That is not your concern,” he said crisply, as if she had insulted him.
She forced another smile. “Apologies, Lord Hemstich.” She paused. “Do you like London? Do you visit frequently?”
“Not if I can help it,” he replied without bothering to look at her.
Of course…
She could already imagine herself in some drafty manor somewhere, isolated and depressed, penning constant letters to Selina as her only means of contacting the outside world. Maybe she would share more of these awkward dinners with him, starved of conversation and company.
It took every speck of willpower she possessed not to grab her bowl of soup and hurl it at the wall, exploding at last after twenty-two years of pushing everything down. Alas, her sense of discipline was stronger than that; she could not even bringherself to make a sarcastic remark that it was customary to get to know one’s betrothed before a wedding could take place.
Instead, she just stared down into that green, flecked sludge and spooned in mouthful after tiny mouthful until she was almost in a trance, able to block out everything else but the taste of salt and watercress.
“I thought that went rather well,” Evelyn’s father said proudly, once the baron’s carriage had pulled away from the townhouse.
Evelyn stood in the hallway with her arms crossed and her mood grim, staring at her father with a brazenness she had rarely dared to muster before. Either he was being deliberately obtuse, or he really could not see what a disaster that dinner had been. For her, at least.
“He did not speak to me,” she said coolly. “He has no interest in me. I annoy him, even without saying a word. Surely, there are other options?”
