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Authors: Shirley Kennedy

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BOOK: The Irish Upstart
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I don’t know that I care to,

she answered, raising her head high, as if she were Lady Jersey herself.

He sprang down from the carriage, swept off his hat and bowed.

I’m relieved I found you. Your family is concerned. They’ve been looking for you.

She looked surprised.

How strange
.
We were merely out taking in the sights of London. We were about to return home.


But how could we, Evleen?

asked Patrick.

We were lost, remember? You said so yourself. You were worried because you forgot what street Grandfather lives in.


Patrick,

she began, but when Thomas started to smile, she could not suppress a smile of her own.

Oh, very well, I admit it. We had a lovely day, up until I realized we were lost.

Her smile deepened, revealing dimples he’d not noticed before. They made her look even prettier than he already thought she was.

It would appear we are in your debt again, sir. That is, if you could kindly take us home?


My pleasure.

He’s being so gallant
, thought Evleen,
even though I just came close to insulting him
. She decided she had been much too shallow, much too glib, and she had best be honest and set him straight.

In truth, I was overjoyed when I saw you. What started out as a lark was turning into a nightmare.


I can imagine
.
In a strange city, not knowing your way home.


And getting hungry, too,

said Patrick.

She hardly heard him. Something was passing between Lord Thomas and herself again. Their gazes locked, just as they had that day at the Whispering Arch.
I shouldn’t be, but I feel so drawn to him
.
She
got control of herself and shifted her gaze away.

I trust we are not imposing.

Chagrined, she realized that last remark sounded stiff and contrived, which in actuality it was, since she’d been trying to conceal her inner turmoil.

He, too, seemed compelled to make a deliberate effort to set the spellbinding moment aside and motioned toward his curricle.

Come along, it’s not as far as you think. Patrick, you can ride in the groom’s seat in the back.

He added playfully,

You can be my ‘tiger.’ You’re just the right size.


Excellent, sir, Patrick called and eagerly scrambled into the small seat.


Let me hand you up,

said Lord Thomas. Quelling her first response of,
I can help my own self up
, Evleen obediently took his hand and allowed herself to be assisted to the high seat of the curricle. When she was seated, arranging her skirt around her, he went round, climbed in beside her, and took up a light blanket.

It’s chilly,

he said, and started tucking the blanket in around her. At once, a feeling of security and contentment flowed over her. She was accustomed to taking care of herself, yet how snug and warm she felt in the care of a man whose strength and character she respected and admired. She had another feeling, too, which had nothing to do with security but, rather, with her keen awareness of the gentle pushing of his hands against her thighs, remote though they felt through the blanket. His head was bent directly in front of her. If she leaned but a few inches forward, she could kiss that spot by his ear where a tendril of his dark hair fell casually. Suddenly he looked toward her, his gaze a soft caress, so full of things unspoken she could hardly breathe. Thus they remained, until he finally looked away, sat straight, took up the reins and urged the horses into the crowded roadway. After a silence made almost unbearable by the unspoken emotions swirling around them, he, not turning his head, softly asked,

Evleen O’Fallon, is there something between us?

Her heart pounded. Never had she been so physically affected by a man. But what was the sense of it?


You know what Mama says,

Patrick called from the back.

Patrick and his big ears! She might have known. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Not another word, Patrick, please, please
.


Evleen, you must never love an Englishman.

She twisted around and glared.

Patrick, without doubt I shall kill you the moment we get home.

She noticed Thomas’s shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

You’re laughing?

she asked, feigning high indignation.

He answered,

Patrick is absolutely right, you know. We Englishmen are conceited, overbearing, and exceedingly selfish. Highly unsuitable as husbands. Better a handsome Irishman.


I most certainly agree,

she answered lightly. The emotion-filled moment was over. She positively must see it did not happen again. In fact, to further her resolution, she had a question of her own.

And what about you, Lord Thomas? Surely there must be a woman in your life. You never said.

He took his time, seeming to concentrate on maneuvering his curricle around a slower-moving coach before he answered,

It is my father’s wish that I marry Miss Bettina Trevlyn. Eventually I probably shall.

Her spirits plunged. So ridiculous, but she could not let go.

Do you always do what your father tells you?

He cast her a lopsided grin.

Actually, no. Since I’m only a second son, my father leaves me to my own devices. However, in this instance—


Do you love her?

Oh, how rude. She fought the urge to clap her hand to her mouth, astonished at what had just popped out.

Sorry. You don’t have to answer that.


Love and marriage do not necessarily go hand in hand,

he commented dryly.

So he did not love Bettina. Even knowing the futility of it all, Evleen felt greatly relieved.


What street do we live on, Lord Thomas?

Patrick called.


Arlington Street, a most prestigious address, by the way. Many dukes have lived on Arlington Street.


Which ones?


Well, let’s see, the Dukes of Hamilton, Beaufort, York. Matter of fact, the Duke of York died quite suddenly in his arm chair while living on Arlington Street. His body was removed to Saint James Palace, where it lay in state.

Evleen listened, her admiration for the man growing all the more. How considerate he was to take time to explain. Most men would have ignored Patrick, or told him to keep quiet, but not Lord Thomas. Despite herself, she sneaked a peek at his profile, so clean cut with that firm chin and straight nose.
I must stop this
, she thought, thoroughly disgusted with herself.

Lord Thomas spoke again.

Before we arrive home, I must warn you, you might be in for a difficult time.


Lord Trevlyn is angry?


He was sick with worry, but it’s not Lord Trevlyn I’d be worried about, it’s
...”
he hesitated, as if keenly aware a gentleman must never defame a lady.


You don’t have to say it,

she responded.

I know whom you’re talking about, but don’t say.

She cast a swift glance behind her.

He said softly,

Be aware they are not overly sympathetic and might cause trouble.


I know. But there’s nothing I can do about it, is there?

From behind, Patrick asked,

What are you two talking about?

Laughing, Evleen turned to look at him.

Some things are none of your business, little boy.


Fair enough,

Patrick answered equitably, sounding very grown up for an ten-year-old.

But I think I already know. You’re supposed to go with them to a rout tonight, and then next week, when your ball gown is made, you’re going with them to Lady Claremont’s ball, and you hope they’ll be nice.


Well said, Patrick,

commented Thomas.

Patrick asked,

Are you going, Lord Thomas?

He shook his head.

Routs and balls hold little interest for me, although I always receive an invitation. But I consider them a waste of time.

He glanced at Evleen.

So will you, I’d wager, after you’ve attended a few, but for now you may as well savor the so-called delights of London.


You sound old and jaded.


That’s better than young and naive.

She ignored the barb and inquired,

What exactly is a rout?


They are absolutely dreadful affairs. You’re in a for a rude awakening. In fact, it would almost be worth it to see you there, fighting for air, crushed in the crowd.

He smiled, thinking about it.


Does that mean you’re coming?

she asked archly.

He looked back to see if Patrick was listening. Apparently he wasn’t.

Who knows? Perhaps I shall be there. You needn’t worry. At a rout you would not have to fear I would get you alone.

Instantly she knew his meaning.

I don’t fear you, Lord Thomas, no matter where we are or what the circumstances.


Perhaps you should,

he said simply and turned his attention to driving the curricle.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 12

 

Misery sat on Evleen’s shoulders like a huge iron weight. She wished she could sink from sight when Lord Trevlyn called her into his study and chastised her for what he referred to as her

ill-thought-out escapade.


I cannot express to you how concerned I was.

He gazed at her with saddened eyes.

You’ll not do that again?

She assured him she would not, feeling terrible that she’d caused this kindly old man such great distress. She explained that in Ireland she was accustomed to roaming about as she pleased, with nary a thought for the hour of the day or the need for a chaperone.


Say no more, I understand.

Grateful to have his grandson back, Lord Trevlyn could not bring himself to be too harsh.

The incident is forgotten.

He glanced at the jeweled ormolu clock on the mantle.

Aren’t you ladies planning to attend a rout tonight? You had best get ready.


Must I go?

Trevlyn’s shaggy white eyebrows raised in surprise.

You would rather not?


Isn’t it obvious I don’t fit in with your so-called cream of society? After today, I should not even try.


But, my dear, I promised your mother you would be treated like one of the family. Bear in mind, when Patrick becomes the Earl of Alberdsley, he’ll hold a position of high rank and prominence. I shall do all within my power to ensure he’s educated for the position and feels at home among the ton. As his sister, you must feel at home, too. Please, for Patrick’s sake won’t you give it a try?

He gave her a warm smile of encouragement.

You can do it. You have the looks, the charm, the brains. You could be the most popular belle in London, if you cared to.

BOOK: The Irish Upstart
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ads

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