One of these was Miss Woodthorpe’s young brother, John.
The Woodthorpes had come to call, bearing a gift from the manor. Mrs. Dower could scarce wait to give to her gardener the rose slips sent by the squire’s wife. When Miss Woodthorpe and their elder brother accompanied Mrs. Dower out into the garden, John seized the opportunity offered him by fate and declared himself to Evelyn.
Evelyn was stunned when John grabbed her hands, flung himself on his knees before her, and launched an impassioned accolade to her eyes. “John!” she spluttered, laughing.
John looked up at her, considerably annoyed. “Is that any way to treat a fellow who is pouring out his heart to you?”
“You haven’t the least feeling for me and I know it,” retorted Evelyn. She pulled her hands free and begged, “Do be sensible, John. We’ve known one another simply forever.”
He got up, somewhat sheepishly. “I’ve little taste for making a cake of myself, but dash it, you’ve become the high kick of fashion, Evelyn, so what else is a fellow to do?”
“Have I really?” Evelyn asked, a smile teasing at her lips.
John Woodthorpe flashed a wide, knowing grin. “As if you don’t already know it! Why, you are the envy of all the other females of my acquaintance, including my own mother, because you’ve attached these three fine London gentlemen to your skirts as well.”
Evelyn hastened to disabuse him of the mistaken notion that she had done any such thing. “Oh, but Mr. Hawkins is too utterly polite
not
to ply his gallantries, while Lord Waithe and I are only the very best of friends.”
John looked askance at her, totally disbelieving. His voice heavy with sarcasm, he said, “And I suppose that very cool customer Sir Charles is to be relegated to the same category as that importune artist I discovered here last week mooning over how the light fell ‘so pleasurably across your alabaster brow’!”
Evelyn laughed at his disgusted tone, even as faint color rose in her face. She shook her head. “Hardly that, no.” She would not say so to John Woodthorpe, even though he was one of her oldest boon companions, but in the last few weeks she had become altogether too aware of the gentleman in question.
Her companion’s brows rose at her reticence. “Well, I see that I shall get nothing more out of you on that score,” he said.
“No, you shan’t,” said Evelyn coolly, even as her thoughts turned. She had heard much about Sir Charles from Viscount Waithe and others, and she had found all of it to be fascinating.
Sir Charles Reginald was an Exquisite, every inch the Tulip, a Pink of the
Ton.
His fastidiousness in dress and fashion was known to be considerable, and his way of tying a neckcloth was closely scrutinized by those who aspired to dandyism. He was said to be deadly with a pistol, and even though he disliked the sweat and exertion required by the sport of fencing, he was a match for any of the half-dozen known masters of the blade.
His greatest claim to admiration and envy, however, was his uncanny ability with horses. Even amongst those of his peers who also indulged a passion for excellent horseflesh and equipages. Sir Charles was something of a legend. He was a member in good standing of the Four-Horse Club, and his yellow-bodied phaeton and team of bays were said to be among the most expensive, and quite the fastest, in all England. There was no one now who cared to challenge him to a race, for he got more out of his team then could any other driver. In short, Sir Charles Reginald was a consummate whip.
All this and more Evelyn had heard, but little of it had made as great an impression upon her as had the gentleman’s personality. Upon first making Sir Charles’s acquaintance, she had been thrown off balance by him. All that she consequently heard only confirmed her startled conviction that Sir Charles Reginald was destined to be important to her life.
She had learned for herself of Sir Charles’s perfect turn of phrase and his exquisite compliments, for he quickly made her the prime object of his gallantry.
While Viscount Waithe was soulful in countenance and anxious to please in his attentions, his compliments seemed clumsy in comparison to Sir Charles’s urbanity. Sir Charles with his dry, quick wit, his lingering eyes, and his double entendres had the power to set her pulses to tumbling in confusion.
On the very heel of Evelyn’s thoughts, the viscount and Sir Charles were announced and her heart leaped. She hardly heard John Woodthorpe’s resigned mutter as she rose to greet the two London gentlemen. “My lord. Sir Charles! This is a pleasant surprise indeed.”
Viscount Waithe saluted her hand in a lingering fashion. “You are in exquisite looks today, Miss Dower.”
Evelyn laughed gaily. “I shall not take you so fully to task for exaggeration as I should, my lord. I shall only say that you are a great deal too kind.”
“One can never exaggerate your beauty. Miss Dower,” said Viscount Waithe fervently.
Evelyn laughed again. She had remained flattered by Viscount Waithe’s admiration and she genuinely enjoyed his company. However, she preferred to think of him with all the fondness of a younger sister, much as she had always regarded John Woodthorpe.
Though she suspected that Viscount Waithe was enamored of her, she had never been tempted to think of his lordship in those same terms, and because his lordship did not press the issue she could persuade herself the majority of the time that the viscount was simply being terribly kind in playing the part of a devoted admirer. At least, she preferred to believe it was so.
Evelyn turned then to offer her hand to Sir Charles, appreciation in her eyes for the picture that he presented to the world. His dark hair was carefully curled, the height of his stiffly starched shirtpoints were fashionably exaggerated, his silk waistcoat was palest yellow, and his well-cut coat spanned a generous breadth of shoulder. If his unusual height or the thinness of his long shanks did not perfectly conform to the epitome of fashion’s taste, it was generally agreed that his polite manners, his quick wit, and courtly flirtations more than made up for these deficiencies.
She smiled up at him. “Sir Charles, welcome.”
“The warmth of your greeting is all one could ever require, Miss Dower,” he said. He bowed over her hand, his lips deliberately brushing her fingers.
The color rose in her face and Evelyn thought propriety would be best served if she should retrieve her hand. As she did so, the gentleman smiled at her. Evelyn had the uncomfortable feeling that he was well aware of how he always managed to overset her, and she felt a prick of annoyance.
“Pray be seated, gentlemen. My mother stepped out into the garden for a few moments, but she will be back directly and will be most pleased to discover that you have come to call.”
The gentlemen expressed themselves happy to wait on Mrs. Dower’s return and acknowledged John Woodthorpe’s greeting. The conversation settled into general talk of the weather and other mundane topics, and even as Evelyn did her part as hostess, smiling and adding a few words when warranted, her thoughts were otherwise occupied.
Sir Charles Reginald, with his lazy sardonic smile and his enigmatic gaze, most nearly fit her ideal of the romantic hero.
Evelyn had begun to weave little fantasies about Sir Charles, casting him into whatever contretemps her fertile imagination and the ample inspiration provided by her reading of romances could provide. Always Sir Charles won through all obstacles in his heroic exertions to rescue the fair maiden, whose role was naturally that of her own.
Sir Charles took the opening given him by a short discourse between the viscount and John Woodthorpe to hand her a slender roll of parchment bound by a thin satin ribbon. “A small offering of my eternal devotion,” he said softly.
Evelyn accepted it and slid it into her pocket for later perusal. “Thank you, sir. You must know that I always appreciate your verses,” she said equally quietly.
The enigmatic look in his eyes momentarily shortened her breath, and she looked away hastily. Evelyn felt some relief when her mother and the Woodthorpes returned at that moment, for as always Sir Charles had put her out of countenance.
Evelyn treasured the sonnets and verses that Sir Charles presented to her. If she had known with what carelessness he dashed them off, or that his past masterpieces were generously scattered among several of the ladies of London, she might have been less awestruck at receiving them. But she did not know, and so she attributed Sir Charles’s offerings with a uniqueness that was quite wide of the mark.
Mr. Peter Hawkins might still embody her romantic ideal in physical appearance. Even at the height of her gudgeon, she had never found fault with his tall, athletic build, his handsome face, or the charm of his smile. His vivid blue eyes were perhaps, at times, more knowing than she liked, but nevertheless the expression in his glance always warmed her. Oh, indeed, Mr. Hawkins was still very much the picture of romance.
However, Sir Charles had breathed the very essence of life into it.
Through the past weeks, she had gained a greater understanding into Peter Hawkin’s character, and she admired and respected him. She knew now that she had gravely underestimated his interest in her. Upon reflection of their conversation at her come-out, she had come to understand that it had not been at Lady Pomerancy’s urging that he had offered for her. Her mother had simply misstated the matter to her. Evelyn faced the unmistakable. It had been her stung pride that had prevented her from divining the truth. If she had not been so blinded, she would certainly have questioned her mother more closely, for she knew that lady’s disorganized communication style too well.
However, that was all long past and done. The mistake could not be recalled. She had only her own remembered embarrassment to remind her how idiotic she had acted toward Mr. Hawkins, for he had not once alluded to her behavior.
Nor had he renewed his offer for her hand, said a tiny voice in her head.
Evelyn ignored it, as she reflected upon the other thing that had so turned around her opinion of Mr. Hawkins. She had learned from Viscount Waithe that Mr. Hawkins had once contemplated taking orders. When he had told it to her, Evelyn had stared at his lordship in such astonishment that he had sworn it was true.
“My cousin is a very good son, you know. I’ve never known a truer gentleman,” said Viscount Waithe.
“But why—?”
The viscount had smiled, a little lopsidedly. “Why did he not after all? Peter deemed himself to be too deficient in character for service in the Church. My cousin understands himself and his failings better than any other gentleman I can name, which, as I told him, is a genuine treasure for a man of the cloth. But he would have none of it and laughed and said he would have made a mull of it all.”
Certainly such an honorable man would never offer her less than an honorable proposal. Evelyn felt an odd regret that she had not understood Mr. Hawkins better then. Perhaps if she had, she would now have been planning for her wedding.
She shook off the faint desolation that rose in her at the thought.
Mr. Peter Hawkins was undoubtedly the type of gentleman that any lady would be very honored to accept as a suitor. But Evelyn knew that he would never whisper sweet, exciting words into her ear, nor would he ever pour out his soul onto paper for her breathless perusal; whereas Sir Charles was quite ready to do both.
Evelyn thought herself to be falling in love with Sir Charles, and she was happy to have it so.
For his part, Mr. Hawkins knew that Sir Charles had made a strong impression on Miss Dower. However, he assured himself that she was not like the London ladies. She was more levelheaded and perceptive of people than most other women of his acquaintance. Despite her inexperience, surely Miss Dower was too sensible not to see through Sir Charles’s fulsome compliments and exquisite lovemaking.
That afternoon when he entered the drawing room in his turn, however, it was unpleasantly borne in on him that Miss Dower was not as insusceptible as he had assumed her to be. As he was ushered in, he saw that Mrs. Dower was conversing with Viscount Waithe, Miss Woodthorpe, John Woodthorpe, and another gentleman, who was vaguely familiar to him, while Miss Dower and Sir Charles were seated on a settee a little apart.
In one swift glance, Mr. Hawkins took in the tableau. Viscount Waithe was holding up his end in a conversation that he had no interest in whatsoever, though his upbringing would never allow him to show by word or expression that it was so. Mr. Hawkins, knowing his cousin so well, read through the polite veneer and saw how the viscount’s head was canted just slightly so that he could keep Miss Dower and Sir Charles in the corner of his vision.
“Oh, Mr. Hawkins! How delightful of you to join us,” said Mrs. Dower. “I believe you must know everyone here?”
Mr. Hawkins nodded to the company, introducing himself to the gentleman seated with Miss Woodthorpe. There was a remarkable similarity in their features, and he shrewdly guessed that the gentleman must be another of Miss Woodthorpe’s brothers. Nor was he mistaken.
Mr. Woodthorpe expressed himself pleased to make the gentleman’s acquaintance. Mr. Hawkins recognized him to be of a more pompous spirit than either Miss Woodthorpe or the irrepressible John.
Sir Charles nodded upon Mr. Hawkins’s entrance, while Evelyn acknowledged his presence with an inquiry into Lady Pomerancy’s health.
“Her ladyship is very well, thank you, ma’am,” said Mr. Hawkins, regarding the couple thoughtfully.
Mr. Hawkins was aware that Sir Charles Reginald was a ready hand with the ladies. In London, Sir Charles’s flirtation had afforded him amusement. However, he did not find his friend’s activities quite so amusing as he once had. At first he had been disconcerted that Sir Charles would mark Miss Dower as a pleasant flirt. Then he had realized that anything else would have been even more surprising. Sir Charles Reginald was notorious for his keen eye for a good horse or an alluring woman, and certainly Miss Dower was a beautiful young lady.
As for Miss Dower, an unmistakable rose had mounted in her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled as she laughed at something that Sir Charles said, even as she gently and with obvious reluctance freed her hand from his.