a good thing Darragh couldn’t see her now, she would be green with envy. Leaning closer to the looking glass, Evleen tweaked the tiny curls that Celeste had arranged around her forehead. Never had she looked so elegant, at least not since she was fifteen and they had lived in Dublin. Now she felt more confident, and sure that despite those veiled little warnings from Thomas and that funny hesitation of the maid, she had nothing to fear.
The grand, sweeping stairway was a perfect way to make an entrance. Evleen glided down the steps, head held high. Over her protests, Celeste had insisted she carry a white plumed fan, which she held regally high in one white-gloved hand, the gloved fingers of her other lightly touching the polished mahogany railing. Except there’s nobody to see me, she thought when she got to the bottom. Where was she supposed to go?
Pierce appeared and sensed her dilemma. “They are in the drawing room. Follow me.” He led her to a set of double doors, partially open, said, “Through there, Miss O’Fallon,” and withdrew.
She started to enter, eager to meet the whole family, heard voices, and stopped upon hearing her name.
“But it’s my dress,” wailed someone young and female, “not that... whatever is the girl’s name?”
“Evleen,” said another voice, equally young and female. “I hear from the servants she’s quite beautiful.” There was a giggle. “You’ll have to watch she doesn’t get her claws into Montague. Thomas, too, especially since he’s just traveled clear from Ireland with her.”
“Over my dead body. I shall snatch my dress right off her back.”
“But Charlotte, you didn’t even like the dress,” said another female voice, a sweeter one this time. “You always said the color didn’t suit you.”
“I don’t care about that. Celeste had no right to give it to her.”
Saints preserve us. Evleen’s spirits plunged like the bow of The Countess of Liverpool dipping into a trough. Suddenly the gown she adored was now but a mere garment, and worse, a garment its owner did not even want her to have. She considered turning on her heel and retreated to her bedchamber, but only for a moment. Since when did a true daughter of Ireland let the English get the better of her? She was here, and here she would remain, for Patrick’s sake, not her own, so she must at least attempt to make them like her. If they didn’t, perhaps they could at least get along.
Evleen squared her shoulders, took a breath, and swept into the drawing room. The first person she saw was a man with thinish hair standing by the fireplace. Although he was elegantly dressed, his small frame, slumped shoulders, and pinched face did not impress. He smiled when he saw her and said, “Ah, this must be Evleen. I am Lord Trevlyn’s brother, Walter. Come in, meet my family.”
“I would be delighted.” Evleen forced a smile, keenly conscious of four pairs of female eyes sharply assessing her.
“My wife, Lydia,” said Walter, nodding toward a thinnish, woman seated grandly upon an empire mahogany fauteuil-de-bureau. “These three young ladies are my daughters,” he went on. “Charlotte—” he nodded toward a pretty blonde girl of twenty or so. “Bettina—” he indicated a round-faced young woman working on her embroidery “—and my youngest, Amanda.”
Only Amanda, a plumpish girl with nondescript brown hair and the look of a frightened deer about her, returned Evleen’s effort at a smile. “You are most welcome, Evleen. I—” She appeared about to continue, but suddenly wilted, as if she had caught a signal that she should shut her mouth.
“So,” Lydia said loudly and sharply. “Won’t you sit down, Miss O’Fallon?” Evleen did as requested, seating herself upon a stripped green silk settee. “I hear you are from Ireland. Do tell us about yourself.” It was not a request, it was a command.
Sitting squarely in the center of the settee, her back as straight and stiff as she could make it, Evleen could feel the resentment aimed in her direction, not from timid Amanda, but from Lydia and the two older daughters. There was more than a bit of rancor here. In fact, she felt enveloped by a deep, thick cloud of hostility and hard feelings. She gulped a deep breath and determined to make the best of it. “Well, I’m from Ireland,” she began.
“We know that,” said Bettina, seeming to suppress a titter.
“From County Clare.”
Lydia interjected, “We know that, too. County Clare,” she repeated, seeming to muse, “that’s one