avail. She was suffocating. At last, desperate for breath, she shoved at him hard and managed to back away from him.
“Just what were you doing?” she demanded in a shaking whisper.
“Why, kissing you, my dear,” he answered equitably, “just as you wanted me to.”
“I wanted you to?” she asked, dumbfounded. “Just how did you decide that?”
“You said it with your fan, my sweet.” He reached for her again. “Give me credit for knowing the signals.”
His lips were about to descend upon hers again, but she managed to break from his grasp and duck away. “You are mistaken, sir,” she gasped. Wanting only to remove herself as far as possible from this disgusting man, she started down the path but halted when she heard a tittering, followed by hastily retreating footsteps.
Had they been seen and overheard?
She could have wept with dismay. Naive though she was concerning the rules of the ton, she strongly suspected that getting caught kissing a strange man in the dark corner of a garden constituted a major infraction. Even ignorance of the waltz would be a minor transgression in comparison. She shuddered to think what would happen if this got back to Lydia.
As she started back along the path, she reflected upon what a horrible night this had been, beginning early when she discovered not knowing how to waltz was akin to social suicide. Then she had insulted Lord Thomas who would probably never speak to her again. Then her ignorance of the language of the fan had led her to signal the wrong message to Lord Corneale. All unknowingly, of course, but who would believe her? She doubted any of these stiff-rumped members of the Polite World would give her the benefit of the doubt.
And then the ultimate disaster—she and Lord Corneale had been discovered. She could only pray that whoever had seen them would not spread the news.
Sick with worry, Evleen reentered the ballroom. She remembered the fan, still clutch in her hand. Fan language indeed, she thought with deep irony. Resisting an urge to toss the lace-and-ivory root of her problems in the nearest waste receptacle, she wondered if there was a fan message for please, God, get me out of here. Let me go home to Ireland, and soon.
Chapter 14
Lydia knew.
They all did. At the end of the evening, Evleen sensed Lydia’s displeasure as they climbed into the carriage. She could tell from the thin, tightened line of Lydia’s lips and the way her sharp nose kept twitching. Charlotte and Bettina had tiny smirks on their faces and kept casting Evleen furtive little glances. Amanda kept her eyes averted, as if she couldn’t bear to watch the unpleasant scene that was sure to come.
“Well!” said Lydia the moment the groom closed the carriage door. “I can hardly believe what I just heard, Miss O’Fallon. When I think how your latest misstep will dishonor this family, I am scandalized and utterly appalled.”
“What have you heard?” asked Evleen, sounding but slightly curious. Above all, she must maintain her calm. Also, she must keep the skepticism from her voice because she very much doubted Lydia Trevlyn was truly scandalized. It was not difficult to read the woman’s mind. Behind all that forced indignation, she was no doubt gloating over the social downfall of this Irish upstart she so very much resented.
But whether Lydia was scandalized and appalled or not, this was a horrible moment and Evleen wished she were anywhere but here.
Lydia proceeded to describe her shock when she heard—she would not say from whom—that Evleen had been seen in the garden wantonly kissing Lord Corneale.
“That is completely wrong,” protested Evleen in a deadly calm voice. She tried to explain the true circumstances, but Lydia was bound to believe what she wanted to believe, and her efforts were hopeless, as she knew they would be. Charlotte and Bettina were equally set in stubborn disbelief. Evleen could explain until dawn and her words would fall on three sets of deaf ears. How I want to get home, she thought, desperately trying not to let them see how upset she was, and how ashamed, even though she’d done nothing wrong. Although she seldom cried, she planned to retreat swiftly to her bedchamber the minute she got home. She would crawl into bed, pull the covers over her head and let the tears flow. Mustn’t let her feelings show now, though. “So what do you intend to do?” she asked, pleased her voice was not shaking. “You can send