“Is it?”
“Tell her you love her. Marry her. Stop torturing both of yourselves.”
Nathaniel’s laugh was bitter. “She doesn’t want me, Julian. She’s made that perfectly clear. She wanted the dower house—now she has it. She wanted freedom—she will have that in due course as well. What she doesn’t want is me.”
“Are you blind? The woman moved into the dower house rather than leave your property entirely. She looks at you as though you were a delightful plum cake.”
“She’s here because she needs a husband to protect her fortune. That is also why she is near me, because I can protect her for the time being.”
“You are a fool, my friend.”
Before Nathaniel could respond, he noticed Lord Hazeltine offering Evelyn his arm. She accepted with a smile. They moved toward the dance floor.
Something dark and possessive clawed at his chest as he watched the man lead her into position for the waltz. The man’s hand settled at her waist with what Nathaniel considered excessive familiarity. Evelyn laughed at something Hazeltine said, her face tilting up toward his.
Nathaniel’s grip tightened on his champagne glass.
“If you shatter that, you’ll have glass in your palm,” Julian observed mildly.
“He’s holding her too close.”
“He’s dancing with her. That’s rather the point.”
“His hand?—”
“It is exactly where it should be. Nathaniel, if you don’t do something soon, she will find a husband tonight. Look around you—half the eligible bachelors in London are here, and they’re all watching her.”
It was true. Even as Hazelton spun her through the steps of the waltz, Nathaniel could see other gentlemen positioned around the dance floor, waiting their turn. Lord Ashworth. Mr. Thornfield. Even young Viscount Carey, who was barely out of university. They were here because he had invited them.
The waltz ended. Hazelton bowed over Evelyn’s hand, holding it longer than necessary. She curtsied, still smiling, as he escorted her from the floor.
Directly toward Lord Ashworth.
Nathaniel turned sharply and caught the attention of a passing footman. “Thomas.”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Find the Dowager Duchess. Tell her I require a moment of her time. In my study.”
“Your Grace.” Thomas bowed and hurried away.
Nathaniel did not wait to see if his message would be delivered. He left Julian where he stood and strode from the ballroom.
He paced to the fireplace, then back to his desk, then to the window that overlooked the gardens.
The library door opened behind him.
“You summoned me like a servant,” Evelyn said, her voice sharp with irritation. “How charming.”
He turned. She stood in the doorway, still flushed from dancing, her hair slightly mussed.
“Close the door,” he said.
She raised an eyebrow but complied. “I assume this is about my dance partners? Are you planning to warn me away from them as well? Or perhaps Lord Ashworth? I do hope you have prepared a comprehensive list of every gentleman in London who apparently finds me tolerable only out of spite toward you.”
“That’s not—I didn’t mean?—”
“What exactly did you mean, Nathaniel?” She moved closer, her eyes blazing. “When you told me that Lord Halston could not possibly have been interested in me for my own sake? When you made it clear that the idea of a man finding me genuinely attractive was laughable?”
