Thirty or more people attired in evening finery occupied the chairs and settees, as well as every nook and corner. Panic clawed its way up her throat, stealing her breath, and restricting her lungs.
This was a mistake.
She shouldn’t have come. Not just to dinner, but to Ridgewood Court.
How could she have failed to consider the guests living within a reasonable carriage journey?
Buffleheaded nincompoop.
Too late to turn tail and run now.
Or was it?
Long ago, she’d ceased caring what people thought of her; when she’d been accused of marrying Arnold Chatterton for his immense wealth. Ridiculed for doing so, given his reputation for whore-mongering and other more abhorrent habits. Scorned and shunned because of the vulgar company he kept. Yet those same elitist hypocrites skulked into his bank for loans on a regular basis.
She’d held her head high and never let on how the whispers, cutting looks, and judgments wore away at what little self-respect she had left.
They didn’t know the truth of it.
Most people still didn’t, and it would remain that way.
She scanned the room again, noting a few more friends, acquaintances, and neighbors. Not all strangers then. This might be bearable. While married, she’d managed larger, much more raucous crowds many times with no lasting ill effects.
Save her nerves wrought ragged for a week afterward.
Which was one reason she avoided large assemblies.
Her attention snared on a dark-eyed man towering above the others, and his well-formed mouth slid upward a fraction as he acknowledged her regard.
Bother and blast.
The disturbing Duke of Sheffield.
Expression bland, she forced her gaze away even as her stomach toppled over itself in the unnerving manner it did when she sensed a man desired her. Other women might be flattered, possibly encourage the beau’s interest.
Not she, by juniper.
On a night not so very different than this, just such a man had ruined her. Destroyed her life. Stolen her future.
Oh, she could feign politesse when necessary, but for the most part, she avoided men, trusting few other than James Brentwood and Victor, the Duke of Sutcliffe.
Mouth firmed, she took in the others present, aware that Sheffield’s keen focus never left her. With a little start, she realized her skin didn’t crawl with the knowledge. She hadn’t considered he’d be here. She ought to have. After all, he’d been at Theadosia and Sutcliffe’s wedding ball.
She dared a covert peek at him.
Eyes hooded, he still stared, but not menacingly.
No, if anything, she’d say he appeared intrigued.
Hadn’t she made it clear that night she’d no interest in him?
Or any man for that matter.
Which is exactly what she’d said to him when he’d asked her to dance for a third time at the ball. Surely, he must’ve known doing so was outside the bounds.
Or, perchance, he was as dense as mud too. Must be an inherent characteristic of immensely good-looking men. Beauty and brawn but a distinct shortage of brains.
Ironic that beautiful women were often accused of being flighty and lacking in intelligence, when she’d met an equal number of men who fit that description.
A moment later, her cousins, Theadosia, and Rayne glided up to her, their troubled gazes a contrast to the welcoming smiles framing their mouths. They formed a protective semi-circle around her, their bearing guarded.
Her nape hair raised.
Her protectors were in full defensive mode.
Why?
“Everleigh, don’t tell me you’re still in half-mourning? It’s been almost two years since Father Chatterton and Frederick died. Your . . . devotion is touching.”
Caroline’s high-pitched sarcastic drawl rose above the quiet murmuring, succeeding in doing what Frederick’s widow intended: drawing every eye to Everleigh.
Mortification fixed her to the Aubusson carpet.
How many of those staring knew her secret shame?
Humiliation burgeoned from her middle, sweeping up her chest and neck, and infused her face with heat.
Swathed in a shockingly immodest carmine-colored gown, Caroline’s abundant bosoms were on full display. She lifted a sherry glass to her rouged, smirking lips as she stepped from the shadows where spiders and centipedes and other unpleasant creepy crawlies were wont to loiter.
Some nerve she had pretending any affection for Arnold. Father Chatterton, indeed. Not once had she addressed her father-in-law half so kindly.
Features stern and expression steely, the Duke of Sheffield folded his arms, and leaning one broad shoulder against the doorframe leading to the music room, regarded Caroline with the same distaste as one might warm elephant dung between one’s toes.
Theadosia jutted her chin toward Caroline the merest bit.
At once, her sister Jessica and brother James shifted to block Caroline’s view. The Dowager Duchess of Sutcliffe followed their lead, and with the distinguished banker, Jerome DuBoise, in tow, she also took to the field like a general leading the troops and commandeered Caroline’s attention.
Known for flaunting Society’s rules, even Caroline didn’t dare insult her host’s powerful mother and continue targeting Everleigh.
Childless and older than Everleigh by fourteen years, Caroline most certainly wasn’t grieving. No, she’d tossed off mourning weeds a mere six months after her husband’s ill-timed death. The only person who’d loathed Frederick Chatterton more than Everleigh was standing across the room enjoying the drama she’d stirred.
“Ignore that witch.” Ophelia’s overly bright smile belied her clipped words. “She’s still furious you inherited everything.”
That wasn’t the only reason Caroline despised Everleigh. Few knew why save those standing around her now and Nicolette Twistleton who speared Caroline a lethal glance as Nicolette wended her way toward them.
Dear Nicolette, still fiercely protective of Everleigh.
Frederick had delighted in boasting to his wife that he’d sired a child with Everleigh whilst Caroline remained barren after sixteen years of marriage. His cruelty inflamed her hatred of Everleigh, and she made a point to bare her needle-sharp claws and draw blood at every opportunity. Given they’d lived in the same house until Chatterton died, life had been hellish day in and day out.
Only Rayne’s presence had made living at Keighsdon Hall bearable.
“Why is Caroline here?”
With an expert flick of her wrist, Everleigh splayed her hand-painted lace fan. She cut Theadosia a side-long look. Had she known in advance, her friend would’ve told her—warned her. Of that, Everleigh had no doubt.
“Surely you understand I cannot stay if she remains, Thea,” Everleigh said.
Theadosia presented her back to the drawing room’s occupants.
“She arrived with the Moffettes,” Thea said, with an apologetic grimace. “I’d forgotten they’re distant relations to her, on her mother’s side, I believe. They’re mortified she imposed upon us. Mr. Moffette admitted he considered trussing her like a goose and stuffing her in the larder when they left, and Mrs. Moffette all but told Caroline she wasn’t welcome, but the daft woman paid her no mind.”
Probably because she’d anticipated seeing Everleigh and couldn’t resist inflicting more wounds.
Known for her pleasant temperament, Theadosia pinched her lips together and a slight scowl wrinkled her forehead. “Given her reputation for histrionics, I feared she might say things better left unsaid and cause an ugly scene if I insisted she leave at once.”
“Since Uncle Frederick died, she’s been hopping from relation to relation, like a starving flea looking for an ever-fatter dog.” Rayne made a rude noise and wrinkled her nose. “She wears her welcome out in a hurry.”
Arnold’s ward, and a welcome ally against the Chattertons, Rayne had soon become like a sister to Everleigh. After his death, it was only natural the two continue to live together, but at Fittledale Park, the pleasant estate Everleigh purchased outside Colchester. Keighsdon Hall, where she’d experienced nothing but misery, was sold and the monies donated to a children’s home.
Caroline had nearly had an apoplectic fit when Everleigh turned her out. Not penniless, as she deserved—and claimed to all who would listen—however. She’d blown through the five thousand pounds in short order, sold the modest but comfortable house in Kent Everleigh had gifted her, and, henceforth, relied upon the goodwill and generosity of her numerous kind-hearted relatives.
“Thank goodness the Moffettes are off to their daughter’s to spend the holiday with their first grandchild.” Gabriella’s hazel eyes rounded in distress, and she sliced a glance over her shoulder. “She won’t stay on when they leave, will she?”
“Only an utterly gauche bacon-brain would do so.” Ophelia—an exact replica of her sister tonight, except she wore the palest blue gown and Gabriella the softest green—also slid Caroline a covert peek.
Nicolette edged nearer, murmuring, “That sounds precisely like something Caroline Chatterton would do. I’m not above shoving her in the lake and hoping she catches lung fever.”
Everleigh laid her hand on Theadosia’s forearm. “Forgive me, but I’m afraid I’m off as soon as my carriage is readied. I shan’t subject myself to that woman’s animosity. Two years of her enmity was more than enough.”
“No. Please don’t go.” Theadosia shook her head, her strawberry blonde hair glinting gold in the candlelight. “You are one of my dearest friends, and I so want you to celebrate Christmastide and Twelfth Night with us.”
“And your birthday too,” Gabriella said, slipping an arm around Everleigh’s waist.
Everleigh had hoped thirty-one December might pass without anyone remembering her four-and-twentieth birthday.
“Besides, do you have any idea how hard it was to convince Grandfather and Grandmother to allow us to stay at Ridgewood for weeks?” Eyes wide, Gabriella bobbled her head in a silly fashion and grinned at her twin. “When we live but four miles away?”
Ophelia chuckled as she adjusted her glove on her arm. “That did indeed take a great deal of finagling, and they only permitted it if you act as our chaperone. Else we’ll have to go home and miss part of the festivities. Grandmama and Grandpapa are ever so stuffy. Why, they snuff the candles at precisely nine o’clock every night.”
Poor darlings.
Gabriella and Ophelia had lived with their paternal grandparents since their parents had died of typhoid when they were five. A widow, Everleigh’s mother didn’t think she could provide for the twins, nor was there room in her modest cottage. Still, the cousins had visited one another often.
“Everleigh, you deserve some joy and happiness,” Nicolette said, and the others agreed with overly bright, encouraging smiles and nods.
“I shall make it clear to Caroline she is not invited for the duration. I don’t care if that’s unchristian or impolite. She’s just mean-spirited and will put a damper on the house party.” Theadosia regally inclined her head toward the butler.
Grover acknowledged the sign with an equally noble dip of his chin before leaving the room.
Everleigh must’ve been the last to arrive downstairs. Now dinner could be served.
Theadosia touched Everleigh’s elbow. “I understand if you’d rather a tray were brought to your room tonight, but please don’t leave. I have ever so many wonderful things planned for the yuletide. I don’t want you to spend it alone again and . . .”
She glanced round the circle of women, then took Everleigh’s hand in both of hers. “And . . . we know what day tomorrow is, dearest.”
The day Meredith had died.
Tears blurred Everleigh’s vision, and she dropped her gaze to her hand clutching the fan.
“I shouldn’t have come. I’ll only dampen everyone’s spirits with my doldrums.”
“Nonsense, darling.” Nicolette hugged Everleigh. “We only all agreed to inundate Thea and Sutcliffe for weeks because we care so much for you.”
Despite her shameful past, her friends loved her. “Thank you, but I’m just not—”
“Papa?”
A child’s frightened voice called out.
Everleigh, along with her friends, swung their heads toward the doorway.
“Papa?” Sobbing echoed in the corridor.
“I want my Pa-pa!”