Page 87 of Evie and Louis: The Story so Far

“Na, Da can’t abide London, ye ken. Ma’s here, though, catching up with all her old friends.”

“Excellent. Tell her to call on me when she has the time. I’m at Beverwyck for now and I should be pleased to catch up with her.”

“I will do.”

“I suppose I ought to introduce you,” Lady Balderston said, and it was only now that Rosamund noticed the slightly odd atmosphere as Muir and the comte faced each other. Mr Godwin was obviously aware of it too, as his gaze darted nervously from one man to the other.

“Monsieur Le Comte, would you allow me to introduce Mr Muir Anderson? Mr Anderson, Louis César de Montluc, the Comte de Villen.”

The two men faced each other, and Rosamund shivered as she saw the look in the comte’s brilliant blue eyes. They seemed to burn, as though lit by an azure flame under the bright light of the ballroom.

“Monsieur,” Muir said, and bowed, interest flickering in his tawny eyes.

The comte inclined his head very slightly, saying nothing. To say the atmosphere had plummeted to arctic temperatures was an understatement.

Mr Godwin cleared his throat, looking ill at ease and like he was desperately racking his brain for something to say. Whilst he was floundering, Rosamund did her best to step into the breach.

“We were wondering if Miss Knight was here this evening, my lady. Have you heard if she has returned from Scotland yet? She was a guest of Mr Anderson’s family, and he was hoping to speak to her this evening.”

Rosamund wondered if she imagined the temperature plunging another several degrees, or the way the comte appeared to seethe with repressed energy. She had always found him a very calming and relaxing presence in the past, so this seemed most peculiar. Lady Balderston was obviously aware of it also, her eyes alight with interest as she gave Muir another contemplative once over before glancing back at the comte. Whatever the issue was, he seemed to have himself back under control now, his expression as bland as his beautiful countenance could allow.

“I believe they are back in town, yes. I noticed the knocker back on the door this morning as it happens. As to whether Miss Knight is attending tonight, I’m afraid I cannot say.”

With some relief, Rosamund realised people were taking their places for the next dance and looked expectantly at Muir.

“My dance, I think, my lady,” he said with a warm smile, before offering her his arm.

“If you would excuse us,” Rosamund said, and allowed Muir to escort her onto the dance floor.

Louis,

I am so sorry. I do not know what to do, how I am ever to speak to you again. I do not want to cut you from my life. I will not do so, but I do not know how it can be otherwise. I am trapped.

―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Evie Knight (daughter of Lady Helena and Mr Gabriel Knight) to Louis César de Montluc, Comte de Villen.

3rd July 1842, Mrs Palmer’s Summer Ball, Piccadilly London.

Louis stalked around the edges of the ballroom, quite unable to hide his restlessness. Over the years, he had become adept at hiding his emotions, at wearing the elegant mask of the refined Comte de Villen, whilst the real man simmered inside. These people did not know that man. If they did, they would think twice about being in his company, and tonight, the mask was in danger of slipping. Muir Anderson was everything he had feared. Handsome, young and thoroughly decent, he exuded an endearing if rough charm and good humour, and in different circumstances, Louis might have liked him. As it was, he had never felt such a rush of resentment and hostility towards a man who did not deserve his enmity.

People moved out of his way, taking one look at him and deciding it was for the best as he cut his way through the crowd, searching for Evie.

Barnaby hurried towards him, his expression one of concern. “Come and have a drink,” he suggested. “There’s a card game in the library. You could bankrupt a few noblemen, make you feel better,” he suggested with a wry smile.

Louis snorted, not deigning to answer.

“Well, at least stop pacing up and down,” Barnaby implored, as he kept pace with Louis. “It’s like watching a panther prowling about the ballroom, wondering who he’s going to pounce on first.”

Louis slanted him a glittering look and Barnaby huffed out a laugh.

“Yes, well, I’m not in any doubt who’s first, admittedly.”

“Where is she?” Louis growled, tugging his pocket watch free and scowling at it.

“Ah, as to that. Er… Louis,” Barnaby said, tugging at his arm.

Louis stopped pacing, turned to look at Barnaby and then followed his gaze. The entire ballroom fell away. The people, the noise, the chatter all disappeared like mist, his entire being riveted on the woman who had just entered the room.

She wore a gown he had designed for her. A ripe pink, it hugged her voluptuous curves, and his hands itched with the desire to slide them lovingly over the swells of her magnificent breasts, the dramatic line of her waist as it flared out to her hips and lush bottom. Desire and love and longing burned inside him until he was nothing but sensation and need, teetering too precariously on the edge of sanity to behave with any sense. And yet then he saw the stiff set of her shoulders. He saw the bloom in her cheeks had vanished, her complexion pale and wan, the joy he usually sought and found in her eyes entirely gone.