Seven Minutes in Heaven(106)
No, that was too primitive.
He felt primitive. A man was dancing with his woman, his future bride, his . . . his everything.
“You are scowling at Viscount Herries, the future Duke of Beaumont,” Villiers said, sardonic amusement in his voice. “Dancing, quite possibly, with his future duchess.”
His words went down Ward’s body like molten lead. He’d be damned if Eugenia married a duke, or a future duke, or any man other than himself. “You are mistaken.”
“Well-matched in intelligence—surely you’ve heard that the young viscount is taking a medical degree, regardless of his rank? Their parents are great friends. Well, you would know that—isn’t he your cousin?”
“No,” Ward said flatly. “I am distantly related to him through my stepmother.”
Viscount Herries was as absurdly handsome as his father, the Duke of Beaumont. His features were perfectly even, as unlike Ward’s hard jaw and broken nose as could be. He must be older than he looked, if he was studying medicine.
As Ward watched, the man tightened his grip on her waist and, his eyes fixed on hers, spun Eugenia in a circle. She threw her head back and laughed. It was obvious to anyone that he was deeply infatuated.
Two young girls standing at the side of the room giggled behind their hands, watching the couple dance.
Damn it, Ward’s gut instinct had been right.
The future duke swept her in another circle, Eugenia still laughing, followed by another. One of the girls squealed when she was almost bumped, and Eugenia called a laughing apology over her shoulder.
“None of that matters,” Ward growled at Villiers.
“Both of them to the manner born,” the duke said dreamily.
Ward registered the sentence and growled. “She told you?”
“I’m her godfather,” the duke said, his voice sharpening. “Why should she not tell me about an insult she received from a presumptuous halfwit?” Villiers hadn’t weakened in middle age: he was a predator still.
Not that Ward would ever—He forced his fists to uncurl.
“As it happens, I am virtually your godfather as well as hers,” His Grace continued. “I nearly married your mother, and your father came close to killing me in a duel. Surely that creates a familial bond.”
The waltz was slowing at last.
“That bond gives me the liberty to tell you that Eugenia will have in Evan a man who respects and adores her. A man whose mother, the Duchess of Beaumont, is beloved far and wide for her brilliance, her wit, and her decorum.”
“That wasn’t always the case,” Ward said. It was a lame defense; the fact that the Beaumonts lived apart for many years was trifling compared to his mother’s actions.
“The Duchess of Beaumont is no Lady Lisette,” Villiers said. “What’s more, if Jem—that is to say our host, the Marquis of Broadham—knew that a man had rejected his daughter for being unworthy, he would slay him. Eugenia has wisely kept that detail from him.”
“Are you advising me to leave?” Ward didn’t bother to look at Villiers. Eugenia was curtsying before her partner, who was kissing her hand.
“Notice the way Evan’s leg extends at precisely the correct angle? He’s a born duke, that one,” Villiers said meditatively. “How is your bow? I don’t believe I’ve seen you at many society events.”
Ward’s hands curled into fists again. He’d had enough.
He strode forward, startling the two girls. Skirted a circle of chairs and headed toward the brightly lit dance floor.
The viscount hadn’t let Eugenia’s hand go after kissing it. Like a bath of freezing water, Ward realized that the man may be too young for Eugenia to marry. But he certainly wasn’t too youthful to be a friend—the kind that shares intimacies, as he had so blithely told Eugenia weeks ago.
His boots pounded on the wooden floor, and every person in the room turned to him. Including Eugenia.
She appeared to turn a shade paler but she said nothing. And she didn’t drop Evan’s hand.
“Edward Reeve?” the Marquis of Broadham came up at his shoulder. Taking in his disheveled appearance, he said, “Has something happened to your parents?”
He shook his head. “I came to see Eugenia.”
The marquis’s brows drew together at Ward’s use of his daughter’s first name. From the corner of one eye, Ward saw the marchioness put a hand on her husband’s sleeve.
No one spoke.
He could hear Eugenia’s breathing as she stared at him. He searched for words as her plump lips tightened into a line. But when at last she spoke, she was impeccably polite, as she had promised in their dreadful last conversation.