His eyes narrowed, his gaze boring resentfully into her slender back. He’d taken a lot of trouble with her over the years, writing all those tiresome letters, carefully keeping her in reserve in case nothing better turned up, and he wasn’t about to let all those efforts go to waste—not now, when the tree he’d tended so carefully was about to bear some much-needed fruit.
Rory’s eyes narrowed on the doorway as Evie stepped inside the Savoy’s elegant restaurant, and even before she had vanished from view, he began planning how to get her away from these people.
12
Between renovations for the shop, some last-minute research for the upcoming Epicurean Club banquet, more dress fittings, and bookstore reconnaissance to survey her competition, Evie kept busy, trying not to dwell on the duke or Anna’s words of caution about him during the week following their evening at Covent Garden. When the two women took Clarence to the Adelphi to seeGeorge Bernard Shaw’sArms and the Man, Anna made no mention of the duke at all, for which she was grateful.
Much to her surprise, a note arrived from Mrs. Anstruther, inviting her to an upcoming afternoon-at-home. Evie had never attended such an event, but she knew it was akin to a large afternoon tea, and she accepted the invitation with pleasure.
She also heard from Delia, a short note dashed off in the other woman’s usual chaotic style, informing her she’d be arriving home within a week, expressing delight at the prospect of bringing Evie out for the season, and offering advice not to trust her cousin Max’s opinions about anything because men, it must be said, were maddeningly obtuse on any subject of consequence.
Evie, however, was finding the duke maddening for reasons that had nothing to do with supposed masculine obtuseness. She knew Anna had been right to warn her. A man like him usually only wanted one thing from a girl like her, and though she didn’t really think him to be that sort, she couldn’t ignore the possibility. Tales of innocent women used and ruined by men of the aristocracy were the stuff of countless newspaper stories and penny dreadfuls, and every time she found herself remembering those magical moments in the duke’s ballroom, she ruthlessly reminded herself of harsh realities.
Whenever she thought of his midnight-blue eyes staring at her mouth, she forced herself to open a scandal sheet and read the gossip about him and the lovely Helen Maybridge, and each word complimenting Lady Helen’s extraordinary beauty, grace, and impeccable breeding helped Evie to banish any romantic notions about him from her mind.
There were some moments, however, when the idea that his intentions toward her might be honorably romantic flashed through her mind, but those were easily quashed. For one thing, it was ridiculous to think he could have any interest in a spinster with freckles and an overbite when he had in his sights the most beautiful debutante in London. And besides, as lovely as it was to live like an aristocrat, to treat herself to the rich foods, beautiful clothes, and luxurious accommodations they enjoyed, Evie was clear-eyed enough to know that she fit into the aristocracy about as well as square pegs fit into round holes.
No, it was far better to dream of the sort of man with whom she could make a happy life, a man like Ronald Anstruther, for instance. A colonel’s son was a perfectly suitable match for a girl like her, and as she sat across from him sipping tea during his mother’s afternoon-at-home, she told herself it didn’t matter that the idea of kissing him seemed as exciting as kissing a doorjamb.
Still, all her mental discipline paid off. By her second dancing practice with the duke, Evie had regained her composure. Romantic daydreams of the duke’s eyes no longer invaded her mind, and thoughts of being in his arms while they danced no longer brought a tingling anticipation. The sight of his bold, dashing hand on a letter delivered with her breakfast tray brought no quickening of her pulse, and the suggestion it contained that she share a picnic dinner with him instead of ordering her usual room service evoked simple pleasure but no euphoric thrill. Evie set the letter aside, happy to conclude that she was back to being her former sensible, middle-class self.
But late that afternoon, when she returned from her shop to the Savoy, she found that her new wardrobe from Vivienne had been delivered, and all her efforts to remember caution and good sense went to the wall. The moment she opened the first box and saw the exquisite dinner gown of peacock-blue taffeta the dressmaker had made for her, Evie tossed aside her boring old blouse and skirt, sent her new gown to be pressed, and bathed with her new, lusciously scented soap. She also shoved aside her usual reticence and summoned the maid Westbourne had arranged for her to have.
In less than ten minutes, the maid arrived, a round-cheeked, dark-haired girl named Liza Moore. Perhaps it was because Evie’s new gown was so irresistibly lovely, or perhaps it was because the maid seemed more awed by dressing her than she was about being dressed, but either way, Evie found that having a maid wasn’t nearly as awkward as she’d thought it would be. In fact, by the time the last buttons had been fastened, she was wondering what had made her so reluctant in the first place. Not having to use the assistance of a doorknob to lace her corset or having to do up the many buttons of her shoes herself made dressing so much easier. And what a delightful indulgence it was to sit at her dressing table while someone else put up her hair.
Moore tentatively suggested she might like to try the newest hair fashion from America, assuring her that it would look a treat on her, and Evie happily acquiesced. After all, she thought, her glance sliding to the coroneted letter on her dressing table, it wasn’t every day a girl danced with a duke.
***
Max was usually pleased when people took his advice. But the moment Evie walked into the kitchens at Westbourne House, dressed to the nines in a low-necked evening gown with her soft brown hair piled atop her head in a fashion that looked ready to tumble down any moment, he cursed himself for his well-meant admonishments to employ the services of her maid.
For God’s sake, he thought as he slid his gaze over the slender column of her throat to the pale golden freckles scattered over her bosom, didn’t the girl have any sense of self-preservation? A buttoned-up blouse, necktie, and scratchy wool skirt would have been so much safer—for both of them. A nefarious thought, he knew, and most unworthy of him, and yet, as she turned to hang up her cloak of ivory silk, he couldn’t resist a study of her slim waist and the gentle outward curve of her hips, and at once, arousal stirred within him. By the time she turned again, his gaze was already halfway down those mile-long legs, and as she approached the table, he inhaled the spicy-sweet bergamot scent of her skin and realized to his chagrin it wouldn’t have mattered if she’d been wearing a sack.
“I see you iced the champagne this time,” she said and leaned over the table, peering into the opened picnic basket. “What did you bring to eat? More pâté, I hope?”
“I’m afraid not.”
She looked so let down, he couldn’t help a laugh, and the sound of it succeeded in hauling his hopeless masculine imagination away from scented skin, shapely thighs, and naughty red garters.
“I brought something even better,” he assured her as he began pulling things from the basket, latching gladly on to the safe, neutral subject of food. “The Epicurean banquet was last night, if you recall. I thought you might like to try some of the dishes Escoffier concocted from your ideas.”
He was rewarded for his trouble with one of her smiles.
“What a splendid idea! All the parties and banquets I’ve helped Delia plan, and I’ve never had the chance to sample a single thing. I always wonder,” she went on as she removed her gloves, “if any of it ever tastes as exciting and exotic as it seems when I’m reading about it.”
“Now’s your chance to find out. I had one of Escoffier’s assistants set some of last night’s leftovers aside. You won’t get to sample everything, I’m sorry to say,” he went on as he began unwrapping bundles, opening jars, and spooning food onto two plates. “None of the lamb, for it’s much too fatty to eat cold, and when I sampled the chilled lentil soup and fish shakshuka this afternoon, they weren’t particularly appetizing either. So, for tonight’s menu, we have skewers of roasted beef with yogurt sauce, cucumber and chickpea salad, and pilaf soufflé.”
“Pilaf soufflé?” She frowned, looking doubtfully at the concoction on her plate. “That’s not something I suggested. In fact, I’m not sure it’s even a true recipe of the Middle East, is it?”
“I have no idea, but a great chef is allowed to take creative culinary liberties like that. Escoffier,” he added, pouring yogurt sauce over their beef, “isn’t as concerned with the accuracy of these things as you are.”
“Had I known that,” she grumbled good-naturedly as she accepted her filled plate, “I wouldn’t have spent so much time finding truly authentic recipes for all the themed parties.”
“The Epicurean Club appreciated your efforts, though,” he assured her, reaching for the champagne. “Using your notes, I had a calligrapher do up the menus with a brief historical word about each dish.”
“Even the pilaf soufflé?” she teased.
“You’re not the only one who can do research,” he said as he poured champagne. “I spent an entire afternoon at the London Library, I’ll have you know, composing a report about pilaf.”
