Page 43 of Evie and Louis: The Story so Far

Evie nodded. Her dance with Mr Lane-Fox had been a tad awkward, what with her gently rebuffing his attempts to flirt with her—not that he’d seemed dreadfully bothered—and then with her trying to tell him how wonderful Viv was without being obvious about her intentions. She would much rather have been dancing with Louis. However, there was that other matter….

“Well, I only had the two left, it’s not my fault. If you’d wanted another you should have asked me earlier. Though I must tell you Papa said I ought not dance with you so often,” she admitted. Not that she had the slightest intention of listening to that piece of advice, but she’d thought it might be prudent not to disregard his request so soon.

Louis’ gaze sharpened, his expression growing serious at once. “He said that?”

She nodded. “He says I ought not favour you so. I’ve told him repeatedly we are only friends, that you have no designs upon me, but he doesn’t pay the least bit of attention!”

He was quiet now, his tension unmistakable, and Evie wondered if she ought to have told him. She hoped she had not hurt his feelings. Louis was far more sensitive than most people realised. They saw the beautiful face and elegant figure, the wit and the charm, and assumed he was utterly confident. It wasn’t true, and he was easily hurt—not that he’d ever admit it—but especially so if the remarks came from those he esteemed, and he held her father in high regard.

“Papa is dreadfully overprotective, Louis. You know that. It’s not because he doesn’t like you.”

“Monsieur Le Comte,” he corrected, appearing distracted as he guided her through the over-excited crush of people… not that anyone could overhear them with the din being made by the revellers.

“I haven’t offended you, have I?”

“Non, non. Ne t'inquiète pas,” he soothed, though he did not turn to look at her.

“Where are we going, Monsieur Le Comte?” she asked, realising they were heading away from the ballroom.

“To get some air. It is too hot in here.” He looked at her then, his expression clearing. “If you wish to?”

“Oh, yes, please. It’s far too stuffy. I should like some air, though do you think we ought? We don’t have a chaperone.”

Evie glanced around, a little unnerved, wondering if they were being observed.

“Don’t you trust me, ma chérie?” he asked, quirking one dark eyebrow at her.

She pulled a face. “Silly. Only people will talk.”

“Half the world is on the terrace, I regret to inform you,” he said dryly. “We shall be far from unchaperoned.”

“Oh, look. It’s snowing!” Evie exclaimed as they moved through the open doors.

Though ‘half the world’ was rather an exaggeration, there were certainly enough couples here for propriety. Evie laughed and tipped her head back, turning in a circle as tiny flakes of snow left their chill touches upon her overheated skin. She straightened to see Louis gazing at her, a look in his eyes she could not read.

“You have snowflakes in your hair,” he whispered, and then reached up to brush them away. “There,” he added, before stroking her cheek with the back of his fingers. His touch was warm and gentle against her rapidly cooling skin, far too intimate, and brought the colour rushing back to her face.

“Thank you,” she said uncertainly as he took a step back.

Evie looked away from him, her gaze falling to the large sapphire pin she’d given him for Christmas, nestled in the folds of his immaculate cravat.

“Are you too cold?” he asked, his gaze moving over her bare arms and shoulders.

Evie shook her head. “No. Not in the least. It’s a relief to be out of the heat. Actually, I’m also glad to have the chance to speak to you privately.”

“You are?” he said, his voice soft, his gaze never leaving hers. He had remarkably thick eyelashes. How had she never noticed that before?

“Yes. I wanted to thank you.”

“Oh.” Those thick lashes swept down now, shielding that vibrant blue from her gaze and whatever it was he was thinking.

Evie thought he sounded a little impatient, and sensed he did not wish her to thank him.

“For my Christmas presents, I mean. Madame Blanchet is beside herself with curiosity to know who designed them for me. So am I to tell the truth? Was… Was it you, Louis? It seems impossible that you could have done such a thing, but I cannot think who—”

“Do they please you?” he asked, evading the question.

“You know they do. They’re exquisite. I’ve worn nothing so lovely in my life and so many people have asked me about them, who designed them. It makes me furious to give that wretched woman the credit, but it was the only way I could persuade her to make them up for me and hold her tongue. Otherwise Mama and everyone would start asking awkward questions.”