must ignore her,” said Amanda as she and Evleen stood together in the ornate drawing room. “She’s a silly old lady who doesn’t know any better. I shall go set her straight this instant.”
“No, you mustn’t,” Evleen replied. “Your mother will strongly disapprove if you do.”
“There are times when you must do what you know is right.” Amanda flashed Evleen an admiring smile “You taught me that. You do not deserve such treatment and I shan’t allow it. Here I go. Wish me luck with Lady Chatsworth.”
Evleen watched gratefully as Amanda moved away. Truly, the girl had changed of late. Evleen wasn’t sure if she should take credit, but Amanda had recently discovered she had a backbone. Her new attitude showed in the way she held her shoulders back and the manner in which she looked people square in the eye.
Lord Thomas had been busy acting the host. Evleen surreptitiously watched as, deeply grieved, yet alert to the comfort of his guests, he moved among the crowd accepting condolences. Finally he came to her. She held her breath, not knowing what he would say. What a relief when he took her hand in both of his and said warmly, “I’m glad you could come today.”
He listened carefully as she told him how sorry she was about Montague. When he finished, she hesitated, wondering what more she should say, deciding it was best he know what was in her heart. “I know there have been stories going around, but—”
“But we shall pay no attention to them, shall we?” he said, a world of love, concern, and comfort in his dark eyes. He bent toward her and in a soft voice said urgently, “I must see you later, Evleen, after the guests have gone.”
Someone interrupted. With a quick nod he moved away, but nonetheless she felt a vast relief, He wasn’t angry. Thomas wants to see me. She felt suddenly buoyant and had to suppress an urge to laugh aloud, which most certainly would not be seemly at a funeral.
Not long after, the butler took her aside. “His lordship would like to see you, Miss O’Fallon.”
Thomas’s father? What could he possibly... ? She had met the Marquess briefly when four male servants carried him down for his son’s funeral. He appeared to be in pain, and as soon as the services were over, was carried back upstairs. “He wants to see me now, this very minute?”
“Now, Miss.”
An oddly primitive warning sounded in her brain. This was not going to be good, she knew it. With each step up the massive winding staircase, she grew more apprehensive.
* * *
“Do come in, Miss O’Fallon,” said the Marquess.
As Evleen entered the bedchamber and seated herself, her heart went out to the white-haired old man sitting with his bandaged foot propped upon a low stool. He had lost a son. He was obviously in pain. Thomas mentioned once what a robust man of action his father used to be, but obviously not anymore.
Evleen offered her sincere condolences, then sat back to hear what the Marquess had to say.
He wasted no time. “Were you aware my son wants to marry you?” He fastened her with his piercing gaze.
She was taken aback and had to collect her wits before she replied, “I suspected as much, but I wasn’t sure.”
“And what will you say when he proposes?”
The effrontery! If this were anyone but Thomas’s father, she would surely get up and leave. At least she readily knew the answer. “I would say yes. I love Thomas very much, although I have yet to tell him so.”
The Marquess cocked his head and examined her thoroughly. “You’re pretty enough. Well-spoken, too, I see.”
She’d had enough. He had a reason for saying all this and she wanted to know what it was. “With all due respect, sir, what are you getting at?”
He wasted no time in replying, “Young lady, what I’m getting at is that I do not want Thomas to marry you.”
This had not been a good day to begin with. Now the effect of the Marquess’s words seemed to her the final, shattering blow. Over the lump growing in her throat, she managed to inquire, “May I ask why?”
“Do not take this personally, Miss O’Fallon. You’re a lovely woman, obviously well-bred, but you’re not...” He appeared to be searching for the least hurtful word.
“Quality?” she inquired, hardly able to speak. A wave of bitterness struck her. “What you mean is, I am ‘below your touch’ as you English so quaintly