Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

W hen Beatrice called gaily out, "Oh, I know! Let us play parlor games this evening!" Evan knew it spelled trouble. This was not only because virtually any idea that came from Beatrice's lips was destined to leave someone in tears, but also because everyone knew that parlor games at a house party implied that improper things were destined to occur under a thin veneer of social acceptability.

He also knew that trouble was ahead from the poisonous glance that Beatrice shot, however fleetingly, in Frances' direction.

Whatever dreadful scheme Beatrice was concocting would not be happening, not on Evan's watch.

"Splendid idea, my dear!" Southgate chimed in. Though the man might be derelict in his primary husbandly duty, he tried to make up for it by offering extra attention to all his other husbandly duties, and thus offered full-throated support for all his wife's ideas, even the harebrained ones.

Hounton, too, was happy to comply. Evan was positively cursed with agreeable people, it seemed.

"That sounds delightful," agreed the viscount. "What shall we play?"

Evan shot Winchester a pleading glance as Beatrice's eyes lit with mischief. The earl gave him a subtle nod, and Evan felt a rush of gratitude that he'd have at least one ally in this nonsense.

Beatrice pretended to think about it in a manner that indicated she'd had ideas prepared all along. "Oh!" she said brightly, as if struck by a sudden impulse. "Do you know what is always good for a laugh? The Bridge of Sighs!"

Oh, absolutely not. Leave it to Beatrice to choose the most indecorous game of the bunch. In that game, ladies were to sit on the back of a gentleman who perched on all fours like a horse. He then carried her about in order to be embraced by each of the other gentlemen at the party. Liberties were taken with alarming frequency.

"I think perhaps that game is better suited to a more closed set of friends, Lady Southgate," Winchester said, toying with the stem of his wine glass. His tone was perfectly pitched to lack any censure for the suggestion while remaining firm that he would not allow such a plan to go forth.

If Winchester ever turned his skills from pleasure to politics, Evan thought approvingly, he could give Evan's father—the Duke of Graham and a famed politician—a run for his money. Evan would certainly support Winchester over his blasted father, not that he wanted to think about the man just now.

Beatrice, never one to give up easily, pouted. "But—" she began, her eyes darting again towards Frances. Unmarried ladies were popular targets in Bridge of Sighs, and Frances would no doubt be mortified by the attention.

Not to mention how the thought of the assembled gentlemen pawing at her made Evan's fists clench—because he was a gentleman, of course, and respected the dignity of all young ladies. Nothing to do with Frances in particular.

It was Lady Mary who chimed in next, her manner as adept as that of her brother.

"You must forgive me, Lady Southgate, but I fear my sensibilities are too fragile for such a thing. Perhaps we might enjoy Charades instead?"

Frances' head raised at that; it was the first time Evan had seen her full face all evening. The gleam of interest in her eye made a weight lift from his shoulders.

"Or what about Blind Man's Bluff?" chimed in Southgate, no doubt eager to soothe his wife's distress at the mention of Charades, a game that worked in riddles and wordplay and thus was unlikely to end in any grabbing, caressing, or any other inappropriate activity that Beatrice enjoyed.

Frances' chin dropped back down and Evan's spirits sank accordingly.

The rest of the group offered excited approval for Southgate's idea. At the head of the table, Winchester raised a wry shoulder as if to say, that's not so bad, is it?

Evan supposed not. As opposed to Beatrice's first suggestion, which openly courted scandal, Blind Man's Bluff was the kind of innocent naughtiness that was more likely to end in good-natured hilarity than the open mocking of one of the players.

Even so, he reasoned as the group filed into a parlor, where servants were hastily moving aside furniture to prevent injury, he stuck close to Frances' side.

Something had awoken in Evan when he'd heard the vile, awful way her parents had spoken about her, when he'd seen the way that she'd cringed away from the words that clearly stung like lashes from a whip. Or, not awoken, precisely. Revived, perhaps.

He'd felt protective over her before, after all. It had been his first impulse—or one of the first, at least, after he'd looked beyond her beguiling looks—when they'd arrived at the party, before he realized her treachery…

Treachery, he increasingly felt certain, belonged only to her parents, not to Lady Frances herself.

He wanted to protect her from it. And that was normal. It was fine. It was both normal and fine. Anyone might have these feelings about the dear friend of their little sister.

He kept telling himself that, kept insistently reminding himself that she4 was his sister's friend , so as to forestall the even more insistent memories of the way she'd felt when he'd kissed her, of the way she'd looked today when he'd nearly kissed her again.

The way it had felt like a stab to the chest when she'd pushed away from him, when she'd run from him.

He simply would not think about those things, he promised himself time and again, only to break that promise moments later.

"All right," Beatrice said, clapping her hands together merrily. She was clearly enjoying her role as temporary leader of this little enterprise. "Who shall be our first blind man, hm?"

She again wore that falsely innocent look, her eyes wandering towards Frances. Evan stepped forward.

"Surely it must be Southgate, as this was his grand idea," he said, letting a shard of ice enter the smile he directed at Beatrice. He saw the flash of ire in her expression as he thwarted her.

She had always had a spark of meanness in her, one that Evan had easily disregarded when they'd been little more than casual bed partners. His willful blindness sickened him now; it was in his name, after all, that Beatrice was directing her wrath at Frances.

Southgate, fortunately, was unaware of the tense undercurrent to this exchange. He smiled broadly and stepped toward Lady Mary, who held the blindfold in her hands.

"Quite right," he agreed. "Lady Mary, if you would, tie it loosely so I can cheat at my leisure."

She laughed at his joke and indeed did ask he asked, leaving the blindfold so loose that Southgate had to hold it in place with one hand, leaving him able to search for a quarry with only the other.

The first round of the game was straightforward enough. The group scattered, leaving Southgate in the middle of the room to lurch, attempting to follow sounds until he found a target. He made a show of the thing, loudly narrating that he felt certain a pretty lady was near before seizing upon the back of a settee. He then complimented, to many giggles from the assorted group, how a la mode ‘her' fashion must be, given the feel of the fabric, only to feign shock when he learned he'd grasped an item of furniture and not a person at all.

While Evan might have admired the good nature with which Southgate made himself the butt of the joke, as opposed to anyone else—the opposite tack to the one Beatrice would have taken, he knew—he instead ignored Southgate to watch Frances.

She'd deftly avoided him all afternoon, her actions just as obvious as his, given that he'd been actively pursuing her. She'd plastered herself to Lady Mary for the ride back to Winchester Manor, then had spent the afternoon listening to the elderly Westfords pontificate on how the local flora had changed in the fifty or so years since they'd moved to the neighborhood.

It wasn't a dreadfully boring topic, he supposed, but it did not merit the level of attention that Frances had granted it. For hours .

But now she was as trapped as him, confined to the parlor by the rules of the game. Slowly, he moved around the room towards her, pretending his focus was on evading Southgate.

"Frances," he murmured when he was close enough that he could have pulled her into his arms—not that he would , he told himself sternly, just that he could .

She glanced over her shoulder at him, first surprised, then annoyed. That irritation lifted some of the weight off him, too. Her spirit was still in there. She'd not been crushed.

"Go away," she breathed, sidling away.

He followed her.

"I want to speak with you," he whispered.

Her glare was cutting. He bit back a smile.

"It's Blind Man's Bluff," she hissed back. "You have to be quiet ."

He glanced over to Southgate, who was loudly praising the talent of his fellow players at evading him so expertly, even as he stood mere inches from Lady Mary, who was stifling her giggles with a hand against her mouth.

"Somehow I think I'll be fine," he said, intentionally speaking a little more loudly, just to poke at her.

She lifted her nose in the air. "Fine," she whispered. "But I want to play properly. So do be quiet."

He lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender but did not retreat. She recommenced ignoring him, though the stiffness of her shoulders told him she was highly aware of his proximity.

Across the room, Southgate heaved an aggrieved sigh and turned on his heel, not catching Lady Mary, only to make so quick a beeline for the Earl of Winchester that it was quite obvious he'd cheated. Even so, the difference between his exaggerated bumbling and his deft pursuit of their host was so comical that even the unpleasant Lord Reed let out a chuckle.

The earl acknowledged his defeat with a bow to Southgate, who playfully basked in the polite congratulations of the other players. Southgate then put the blindfold over Winchester's eyes and spun him around while the players found new positions to trick their next pursuer.

Evan followed Frances, not even trying to hide what he was doing.

She gave him an unimpressed look. "What are you doing?" she demanded.

They were practically elbow-to-elbow against the wall. He blinked down at her. "Oh, are you there? Happy accident."

She made that charming little growl at the back of her throat.

Winchester was not so dramatic as Southgate, though he did make a good show of it, bumbling a bit before landing his hand gingerly on the elbow of old Mrs. Westford, who cackled with delight. Winchester helped her don the blindfold while her husband crossed to the middle of the room, yielding his cane like it was a sword.

"Get back, you fiends!" he called. "She's my lady wife, I say, and she shall catch me and me alone!"

He continued to make similar proclamations, making his location unmistakable, as his wife avoided him, instead moving about until she found Hounton, who'd been hovering, evidently worried that the elderly woman would stumble without her vision to aid her.

"I demand a forfeit form the lady!" Westford demanded grandly. "Or else it's pistols at dawn, Hounton!"

"Well, we can't have that," Mrs. Westford said conspiratorially to Hounton, who was young enough to be her grandson. "You're much too handsome to be shot."

As Hounton flushed a bit, Mrs. Westford crossed to give her husband a kiss. He accepted the forfeit gladly, then shot a mock glare at his would-be rival.

"That's right, young buck. She's my beauty; find your own."

And Mrs. Westford, who was eighty if she was a day, blushed mightily at her husband's compliments. Frances smiled at the couple's antics, but Evan also saw a gleam of victory in her eyes. She was, he realized with delight, enjoying the competition.

Hounton's round was quick; he stumbled into Lady Reed almost by accident after only a minute or two of searching. Evan openly followed Frances from hiding spot to hiding spot, while she blatantly ignored him.

Lady Reed complained through her round, angry that she was not as quick as Hounton, before seizing upon Beatrice, who looked in Evan and Frances' direction with a triumphant sneer.

Well, Evan thought, it had to happen eventually.

When Frances found a new hiding spot, this time back in a corner that kept her away from the main fray but offered little mobility if Beatrice came near, Evan again followed her.

"Will you stop it ," she muttered as Beatrice, blindfolded, paused, cocking her head to listen. "She's following you ."

Evan gave a derisive snort—but a quiet one, for he, now, too, found himself invested in the outcome. "She's following you ."

Frances clearly wanted to argue, but the round was beginning, so she dared not.

Given the way she moved, Beatrice was clearly cheating, but none of the players was rude enough to call her out on her unsporting behavior. She completely bypassed Lady Mary, even when Mary gave a well-timed (and decidedly sarcastic) achoo , and she paid no attention to where Mr. and Mrs. Westford had fallen into openly flirting with one another.

Although, Evan had to admit, he might have ignored that, as well, as the elderly pair had eyes for none but each other.

Frances poked him in the arm when Beatrice grew closer to their corner, causing him to jolt in mild surprise. She made a small shooing gesture with her hands, directing him to creep away from her. He gave her a frown of disapproval and she rolled her eyes.

Frances very nearly made her escape from their little corner, her footsteps silent on the carpeting. It was only the faintest whisper of her skirts against the paper wall hanging that gave her away.

Beatrice's mouth tipped up into a vicious little grin. She all but lunged for Frances and likely would have seized her with enough force to knock her down, except that Evan stepped directly into her path, leaving her to collide with his chest.

Beatrice, being Beatrice, did not waste this opportunity to let her hands wander over him. From behind him, Frances gave a derisive snort as Evan gently—and more slowly than he would have preferred, but he didn't wish to publicly embarrass Beatrice, not even when she probably deserved it—removed her hands.

She pulled off the blindfold. "Oh, Ev— my lord ," she amended with a coy little wink. "It is you ; I should have known."

She was making a spectacle of herself—of both of them, really—but Evan found it hard to be bothered, not when Frances was openly laughing. He ignored Beatrice and shot Frances a dry look over his shoulder.

"Does something amuse you, Lady Frances?" he drawled.

"Oh, not at all," she chortled. "It's just that you are so very bad at this game."

It was then that Evan decided he would, no matter what it took, catch Frances during the next round. He hadn't wanted to embarrass her, but she did not seem embarrassed in the least. No, she seemed like she was having a delightful time. Her sea-blue eyes were shining, and her smile was wide.

And perhaps he, too, had something of a competitive side.

So he did not offer a retort and he bore it patiently while Beatrice tied the blindfold around his eyes, even when she used the opportunity to brazenly press her breasts against his back. He waited until the rustle of movement as the players hid again settled.

And then he used every tool in his arsenal to find Frances.

He listened, cataloguing the whisper of clothing and the hissing of breath. The person shuffling to his left had to be Lady Reed; she could never stay still. And the slight clear of a throat to behind him was likely Southgate, though perhaps Westford.

His Frances was quiet as a mouse, so he listened for the silences.

He pulled on that sense of her, the one he'd honed over the last several days, the one that made him stand up and take notice every time she walked into the room. He did not need his eyes, after all, for his body to know her.

And yes, he cheated a bit, too; he was not too good to admit it. Beatrice had tied the blindfold slightly crookedly, just enough that he could tell, from the corner of his eye, what was a gentleman's boot and what was a lady's slipper. Nor did he turn up his nose at Lady Mary's helpful whisper as he prowled the perimeter of the room: " She's to your right."

Playing this game with Frances was worth far more than pride or sportsmanship in silly games.

He crept along until he sensed her nearness. He used his sliver of vision to make out the lacy edge of a lady's skirt. He paused, assessed, and then he pounced, grasping her gloved hand as he ripped off his blindfold triumphantly?—

Only to find himself looking down at a grinning Mrs. Westford.

"You found me," she teased, "just as I am sure you planned all along."

Not two feet further along in the direction he'd been moving, Frances laughed so hard she had to lean against the wall for support. As he watched her open glee, he couldn't help but smile himself. Her joy, he was now learning, was worth far more than the petty pleasure of winning. Just then, he would have agreed to lose eternally, if only it meant keeping her smiling just like that.