Between the Devil and Ian Eversea (6 page)

Chapter 6

M
ISS
D
ANFORTH WAS DANCING
a quadrille with Simon. The young man looked dumbstruck by his luck, and frequently stumbled over his own feet. Ian would warrant young Simon had danced that particular reel a hundred times in his life if he’d danced it once. Miss Danforth smiled radiantly at him each time he stumbled, as if he’d done it on purpose for her entertainment.

Ian frowned faintly.

His sister appeared at his elbow.

“Good evening, again, Genevieve. Did the dancing exhaust your husband?”

She rolled her eyes. She was so confident of her husband’s vigor that insults and jests regarding his age rolled off her. “He was pulled into an impromptu meeting. Something regarding an investment he’d like to make.” She paused. “It’s thoughtful of you to be . . . kind . . . to Miss Danforth, Ian.”

He smiled a slow, grim smile. “So thoughtful of your husband to warn me not to corrupt her.”

“Oh. Did he?” She didn’t sound surprised, however. “You can see where he might be sensitive on the topic, however.”

She was teasing him. Mostly. He tried to work up righteous indignation, but it was difficult to remain self-righteous when it came to Genevieve. Especially since she was so
happy
with the duke that she all but walked about glowing like a medieval saint.

And also because he wasn’t exactly proud of cuckolding the man with his former fiancée.

He sighed. “I’m not a corrupter of
innocents
, Genevieve.” The implication being that the duke’s erstwhile fiancée had hardly been an innocent, and had been rather complicit in the whole episode.

Genevieve made a noncommittal sound.

And said nothing for a time.

And then, “She’s very pretty, Miss Danforth,” she said carefully.

He sighed. “I suppose she is. Then again, so many women are, to my everlasting gratitude.”

And, he was certain, Miss Danforth was quite accustomed to being called pretty, quite taken with herself and quite accustomed to wielding her eyelashes and big eyes to get what she wanted from men. Yet she was the veriest child, for all of that. The blushing. The blinding smile. The awkward conversation. He had seen it before, a million times it seemed, and now it distantly amused him, and when he wasn’t in the mood to humor it, it irritated him. It posed no challenge. He had no use for it.

“How very blasé you are, Ian.”

“Yes,” he said simply, not in the mood for a lecture.

He looked about for his brothers, or his cousin Adam or someone who could be persuaded to sneak up to the library to join him in draining his father’s brandy decanters in order to make whatever dancing ensued more interesting for them. He didn’t see any of them. He supposed he’d have to settle for ratafia in the short term.

“I wish you trusted me, Genevieve.”

“I wish I did, too,” she said lightly, with a playful little tap of her fan.

And it wasn’t until then that Ian was certain that she didn’t. Not really.

It stung a bit, but he supposed he ought not be surprised. He hadn’t earned his reputation as a rogue by not applying himself to the task.

“Falconbridge is charged with finding a match for her,” his sister said. “Preferably a titled or at least spectacularly wealthy one. Those were the terms of her father’s will.”

“Dukes are hardly thick on the ground, though, are they? Though the Duke de Neauville’s heir is of age, and could use a wife, no doubt. As all heirs do. I’ve spoken to him at White’s. Fine manners. Not too much of an ass. He’s perfectly inoffensive.”

Genevieve laughed. “I suppose one can do worse than perfectly inoffensive.”

He shrugged. “My felicitations to Miss Danforth and the poor devil she
does
marry. Speaking of which, here comes
your
poor devil.”

But Genevieve had stopped listening to him, because she’d already seen her husband moving across the crowded ballroom, aiming for her like a ship aims for shore.

H
AVING ABRUPTLY ABANDONED
Genevieve for the punch bowl, he gave a start when he saw a pair of eyes peering through a tall potted plant. He leaned closer.

“Oh, good evening, Miss Charing.”

“Good evening, Captain Eversea.” Miss Josephine Charing’s china-blue eyes blinked. She was a pretty, garrulous young lady with a big heart and a brain comprised primarily of feathers and air. She was lately engaged to Simon Covington.

“Is aught amiss? It’s not like you to hide in a corner.”

“It’s what
you
do, isn’t it, Mr. Eversea? When too many girls want to dance with you.”

“Er . . . I may have done, on occasion,” he said carefully, a bit startled. “Sometimes one just likes to take a bit of a rest.”

“It’s challenging to be beautiful, isn’t it?” she said with an air of wistful authority.

“I suppose it is.” He was amused. And he was fairly certain Miss Charing had been at the ratafia a bit too enthusiastically. “Why are you behind the plant? Is something troubling you?” He regretted asking immediately. Confidences were the bailiwick of his cousin Adam Sylvaine, the vicar. But Adam wasn’t here. Feminine confidence in particular invariably panicked and baffled Ian. The things women fussed over!

“Is some
one
troubling you?” he added, almost hopefully. He could easily dispatch any rogues who might be a little too free with their hands or words. He almost hoped that was the case. He was feeling restless and irritable and wouldn’t have minded taking it out on someone who deserved it.

“It’s just . . . well, I’m afraid,” she confessed on a whisper.

“Who are you afraid of?” He was instantly alert. He scanned a practiced eye over the ballroom but saw no one who appeared unduly menacing. Unduly drunk, certainly.

“Have you seen Miss Danforth?”

He blinked again. “Yes. Are you afraid of Miss Danforth? She didn’t appear to be armed when I saw her.”

She hesitated.

“My Simon is dancing with Miss Danforth.”

Ian peered in the direction she was looking. And so he still was. Serious Simon Covington, with his long sensitive face, who was so walking-on-clouds smitten with Miss Charing, was indeed dancing with Miss Danforth.

“Isn’t she pretty?” Josephine said querulously. Attempting to be magnanimous. But sounding panicked.

“Yes. But so are you.”

“You are kind,” she said distractedly, the second time he was accused of such a thing tonight, and neither time had been entirely sincere. It was a testament to how much in love she was with young Simon that she didn’t even look at Ian when she said it, when he knew that in days of yore the compliment would have enslaved her.

“Whenever he dances with someone else, he always looks for me. Not rudely, mind you. Otherwise he might trip over his dancing partner. And he hasn’t looked for me once since this waltz began. Not once,” she repeated mournfully.

“To be fair, you’re hiding behind a plant at the moment,” he pointed out.

“It was an instinct, I fear, after he’d gone round and round with her and seemed to have forgotten I existed.”

Ian turned to scrutinize the happily rotating couple. Miss Danforth was beaming up at Simon as though she’d never seen or heard anything quite so fascinating in her life. So convincing was it that even Ian wondered if perhaps Simon possessed hidden depths he’d so far failed to see.

He frowned thoughtfully.

“Don’t worry, Miss Charing. You see, I’m given to understand that Miss Danforth is a bit timid. And Simon is mad about you. If she should make eyes at him, I’ll call her out.”

Miss Charing laughed. “
I’m
not timid at all,” she said, sounding relieved. “Simon says he’s happy to let me do all the talking for the both of us. He says it’s a relief.”

“A match made in Heaven, surely.”

“Thank you, Captain Eversea.”

“At your service, Miss Charing. Will you step out from behind the plant now, so Simon
can
see you? Perhaps you ought to have a sandwich?” He reached behind him and surreptitiously shoved the punch bowl out of her vision to take her mind off it and gestured with his chin to the sandwiches.

“I do love sandwiches!”

As she busied herself with the selection of one, he took a look at Miss Danforth and Simon again.

He couldn’t help but notice that Simon seemed to be doing all of the talking.

S
IMON
C
OVINGTON RETURNED
Miss Danforth to the waiting cluster of friends, and like a shred of iron sucked into a magnet, immediately attached himself to Miss Charing’s side. Ian couldn’t help but notice he looked contemplative, however, and a bit wonderstruck, as though he’d just had a religious experience he was struggling to interpret.

What had
gone on
during that waltz?

He took a step toward them, tempted to investigate, when a flash of red at the corner of his eye spun him around with an unerring instinct.

A lush, dark-haired beauty appeared to be perusing the sandwiches.

He knew precisely what she was actually perusing.

He smiled, and as he spoke, aimed his gaze nonchalantly out over the ballroom.

“Good evening, Lady Carstairs. Are you looking for something to satisfy your appetite?”

He turned slightly, saw her swift little enigmatic smile without turning fully around to look at him. And she bent, just a little, to select a sandwich, which allowed him to admire the curve of her derriere outlined in garnet silk, which of course had been her intent. She was a widow and a friend of the family of the late Lady Fennimore, and she divided her time between Sussex and London.

“Presuming my appetite
can
be satisfied,” she said lightly. “You see, I’ve a taste for the unusual.”

“One need only make a special request to have it met,” he said gravely. “I’d be honored if you’d discuss your unique appetites with me during your visit to Sussex.”

And as she returned to her friends—without looking him in the eye—Ian reflected that it was a bit like five card loo.

If the Duke of Falconbridge was said to never lose at that game, Ian Eversea could be said to never lose at this one.

“
M
R.
C
OVINGTON WAS
telling me of the plans he has to build a house on the land near the . . . oh, what did you call it? The Academy of . . . the School for . . .” She paused, flustered, looking searchingly into his face, as though the answers to all of the world’s troubles could be found there.

“Miss Marietta Endicott’s Academy for Young Women,” Simon completed breathlessly, as if she’d said something too adorable.

Upon the conclusion of the waltz, Simon had escorted Miss Danforth back to where Ian stood with Miss Charing, and now the two of them were reminiscing about it.

Miss Danforth beamed at him. She swung her head to include the gathering at large. “Is he often like that, Miss Charing? Does he finish sentences for you?”

“No!” Miss Charing said, with something like alarm.

“But he’s so very clever! How
do
you keep up with him?”

Simon was scarlet with pleasure.

“I sometimes wonder myself,” Miss Charing said, studying Simon as if he was a stranger who’d just donned a Simon costume.

“I enjoy all of Miss Charing’s sentences so thoroughly I’m happy to let her do most of the talking,” Simon maintained stoutly. Mollification transformed Miss Charing’s features.

Momentarily.

“I must say, your gift for conversation must be contagious, Miss Charing, for I found Mr. Covington to be positively scintillating. I hesitated to say one word lest I miss one of his.” Miss Danforth smiled at him.

Simon beamed and croaked quietly, gleefully, wonderingly, to the gathering at large, “I’m scintillating!” Like a drunken parrot.

“You see, I’ve been a bit of a wallflower for some time, and it’s very helpful to me when someone guides the conversation along, for I fear I’m a bit out of practice.” She lowered her eyelashes.

“You did very well!” Simon defended. “Very well, indeed! Isn’t she doing well?” he demanded of the gathering at large again, swiveling his head to and fro.

“
Very
well,” Ian said dryly.

Miss Charing darted a panicked glance at Ian.

Miss Danforth looked up at him, saw the frown, and that pink rushed into her cheeks again, and she jerked her head abruptly away toward the ballroom floor. Away from him. A peculiar little thing, given to blushes and gushing, it seemed, and thoroughly intimidated by him. Such a child! Where had she been kept before she was sent across the ocean to England? Surely she hadn’t been raised in a convent?

Just then his sister Olivia, stunning in willow green silk, limped toward them, leaning on the arm of Lord Landsdowne, whose face was a picture of somber solicitousness, as if Olivia were breakable.

“What happened, Liv? Did you kick a ne’er-do-well a bit too hard?”

“So witty, Ian. It was a rather too enthusiastic turn in the reel, I fear. My ankle went one way and I went the other. I shall live to dance again. I simply need to rest it a bit. Which sadly leaves Lord Landsdowne partnerless for the next reel.”