Eve looked at the list again. “Perhaps we should ring for a fresh pot.”

Jenny looked relieved, Louisa determined, and though the list of requirements grew longer, the list of names did not.

* * *

“Are you suffering a bilious stomach, Deene, or have you taken to glowering the matchmakers into submission?”

Kesmore’s question caused Deene a start, for the man had given no warning of his presence.

“And when did you take to lurking among the ferns, Kesmore?”

“Perhaps I’m lurking among the shy, retiring bachelors. It isn’t like you to be demonstrably out of sorts, Deene, particularly not in company with the fair flowers of Polite Society.”

No, it was not, which sorry state of affairs Deene laid directly at Lady Eve Windham’s dainty feet. “Cleaveridge is all but drooling on his partner’s bosom.”

“What a lovely bosom it is, too. Moreland’s women are a pretty bunch.”

This casual observation from a man who appeared to have no interest whatsoever in bosoms pretty or otherwise—save for that of his countess—made Deene want to stomp across the dance floor and pluck Eve from Cleaveridge’s arms.

“She’s up to something.”

“The ladies usually are. We adore them for it, and in polite company refer to it as a mysterious feminine quality.”

Deene turned to study Kesmore amid the shadows under the ballroom’s minstrel’s gallery. “With the exception of your recently acquired countess, I’ve yet to see you adoring a human female since you mustered out, Kesmore. One hears rumors about you and your livestock, however.”

“My livestock are lining the Kesmore coffers sufficiently to launch my daughters in style when the time comes. You insult the beasts at your peril.”

Though Kesmore’s voice was mild, Deene had the sense the man was genuinely protective of his pigs. This ought to be a point of departure for much raillery between former officers who’d served together under Wellington, but it was instead an odd comfort.

A man could apparently do worse than be protective of the woman who’d rejected his very first marital proposal… though Deene doubted Kesmore was actually jealous of the boar hogs courting his breeding sows.

“Cleaveridge does have an unfortunate tendency to stare at the wrong parts of a lady’s person, doesn’t he?” Kesmore kept his voice down, though as Deene watched Eve’s progress through the concluding bars of the dance, he wanted to shout at Cleaveridge to turn loose of Lady Eve.

At her final curtsy, Cleaveridge bowed to precisely that angle most convenient for ogling and even sniffing at Eve’s breasts.

“Deene.” Kesmore’s hand on Deene’s arm prevented him from starting across the ballroom. “Enderbend is making a charge from the punch bowl.”

“All of his charges start and end at the punch bowl.”

“Perhaps Lady Eve is on a charity mission to dance with all the hopefuls who will never graduate to the status of eligibles.”

She was on a mission to part Deene from his few remaining wits, making a strategic retreat the only sane course. “I’m off to play a hand of cards. Care to join me?”

Kesmore gave him an unreadable look. He had Deene’s height, though Kesmore’s coloring was dark, his build heavier, and somewhere in the middle of Spain his features had lost the knack of smiling.

“Take this.” Kesmore shoved an empty glass against Deene’s middle and limped away. Deene could only watch in consternation as the crowd parted before Kesmore with the hasty manners shown a man condemned to limp for the rest of his life.

Consternation turned to outright surprise when Kesmore offered his arm to Lady Eve and left Enderbend looking like a besotted fool at the edge of the dance floor.

Lest Deene be caught wearing the same expression in public, he did withdraw to the card room.

* * *

Eve could not have been more surprised when her most recently acquired brother-in-law, Joseph, the Earl of Kesmore, informed her she’d agreed to take some air with him at the conclusion of the quadrille.

She should have refused, particularly with Mr. Enderbend looking so eager for his dance—and flushed, and red, and savoring quite noxiously of spirits. Eve caught a whiff of Enderbend’s breath and accepted Kesmore’s unexpected offer.

In addition to being Louisa’s spouse, Kesmore was a neighbor. In the settled countryside of Kent, this meant that even prior to his marriage he could be accounted a family friend. He rode to hounds with His Grace at the local meets. He attended the assemblies and balls. He made calls and returned them, particularly at the holidays.

Eve would not have said he was her friend, however.

“I am capable of dancing, you know.”

“I beg your lordship’s pardon?”

He glanced down at her, his expression amused without anything approaching a smile lightening his saturnine features. “If you’re making some sort of penance for yourself out of dancing with the dregs, Lady Eve, you must include me on your card. Waltzing with a cripple has to rank with partnering the sots and lechers among the company.”

He was gruff. Widowers, even widowers who did not limp, might be gruff, but this was… needling.

“If I refuse a gentleman a dance without cause, then I must sit out the rest of the evening, my lord. What purpose is there in attending such a gathering, if not to dance?”

Another glance, somewhat measuring. “What purpose, indeed?”

Eve realized her rudeness too late. “I apologize, my lord, but do I surmise you choose not to dance rather than that you cannot dance?”

His expression softened, making him look for a moment almost wistful. “With the right woman, I dance well enough, as your sister can attest. Shall we avail ourselves of the terrace?”

The ballroom was stifling, the noise oppressive, and supper had only just been served. “Thank you. That would be lovely.”

He paused by the punch bowls to fetch them each a drink, then led Eve from the ballroom to the torch-lit terrace where two other couples were in desultory conversation by the balustrade.

“Shall we sit, Lady Eve?”

“Nothing would be more welcome.”

She chose a bench against the wall of the building, one more in shadow than torchlight. Kesmore held their drinks while Eve arranged her skirts, then came down beside her with a sigh.

“I am not an adept dancer, mind you, but prior to my marriage I was damned if I’d sit about with the dowagers as if longing for my Bath chair. So I learned to stand and aggravate my deuced knee and grow blasted irascible as a result. Apologies for my language.”

“His Grace can be much more colorful than that.”

Kesmore peered at their drinks. “Suppose he can. Would you like the spiked version or the unspiked one? I warn you, I’ll poison the nearest hedge with the unspiked one if that’s the one you leave me.”

Eve resisted the urge to study him more closely but found his lack of pretense a relief. This was the man who’d captured Louisa’s heart, though nobody had quite figured out how.

“May I have one sip of the spiked variety? A lady grows curious, after all.”

This earned her another of those amused, unsmiling expressions. He passed over a glass, which allowed Eve to note the earl’s hands were bare. “Slowly, my lady. Our hosts are gracious with their offerings.”

She slipped off her gloves and took a drink from the proffered glass.

“Merciful… My goodness. How do you gentlemen remain standing?”

He passed her the other glass, though she just held it while the burn in her vitals muted to a rosy glow.

“Some of us don’t remain standing, at least not much past midnight. One has to wonder what you were about, Lady Eve, to stand up with Enderbend this late in the evening.”

He sounded almost as if he were scolding her, which was a considerable margin beyond a passing spate of gruffness.

“My choice of dance partners should be no concern of yours, my lord.” She spoke as gently as she could, telling herself Kesmore’s leg was hurting him, and he’d very likely been dragged to the evening’s gathering as a function of Louisa’s continuing loyalty to her unmarried sisters.

“I am not concerned, exactly. One more sip?” He held up his glass of punch.

“Perhaps one more.” It was a lovely, fruity concoction, and his lordship had spoken nothing but the truth regarding their host’s hospitality, for the punch was cold, even at this advanced hour.

And yet it warmed nicely, in small sips.

Eve pondered that contradiction while she took yet another sip.

“I apologize if it seems I chide you for your choice of partner, Lady Eve, but I have little to do at these engagements save observe the company in all its folly. I cannot think you harbor any serious attachment to these buffoons you stand up with, and yet you are comely, well dowered, and of marriageable age. Also very consistent in your behaviors.”

He was leading up to something, so Eve let him natter on. If she was going to be subjected to some avuncular lecture, she might at least enjoy his punch while she did.

“I note you allow I’m comely.”

“Quite, though you hardly use it to your advantage, which I also note to be part of your pattern. Though I am loathe to pry, I am a gentleman, and I account myself at least on friendly terms with Their Graces, so I will be blunt: Are you in need of a friend, Lady Eve?”

She stared at her drink—his drink, what remained of it—and tried to puzzle out what he was asking. “Everybody needs friends.”

Did Kesmore have friends? She’d never had occasion to wonder. She suspected Louisa was his friend—an odd and vaguely disquieting notion.

Did Deene have friends? As the punch brought a little sense of relaxation to go with the warmth coursing through her veins, Eve tried to recall if she’d ever seen Lucas out among his fellows, riding in a group in the park or sharing the top of a coach with a few other men at some race meet.

Kesmore took the drink from her hand. “I will regard your answer as a ladylike affirmative and presume to offer myself in that humble capacity. Let’s sit a few more minutes before we subject ourselves to the company inside once more.”

While the couples ten yards away continued to chatter, and the throng in the ballroom started up a waltz, Eve wrinkled her nose at her unspiked drink and tried to fathom what on earth could have prompted Kesmore’s peculiar offer.

Then it occurred to her: on her list—on her private list—of attributes a husband of convenience ought to have, the most important characteristic was that he should be capable of befriending an adult woman.

What an unlikely coincidence that Louisa’s taciturn spouse should possess this very trait.

Her companion broke the silence. “Will you be attending the Andersons’ soiree on Friday, my lady?”

Eve didn’t know what interest her new, self-appointed friend might have in her schedule but saw no reason to dissemble.

“I am not. Jenny and I are taking a two-week repairing lease at Morelands before the Season starts up in earnest. We miss our sister Sophie.”

“I have never understood why the social Season must start up just as spring is getting her mitts on the countryside. It’s quite the most glorious time of year, and we spend it here in Town, sleeping the days away, sweating en masse in stuffy ballrooms by night.”

In the presence of a lady, a gentleman did not typically refer to anybody sweating, except perhaps an equine. Eve did not point this out to Kesmore.

She patted his muscular arm. “Louisa says you miss your piggies. Perhaps you need a repairing lease as well.”

His brows shot up, and then the man did smile. He looked positively charming, almost dear, so softly did a simple change in expression illuminate his features. His eyes lost their anthracite quality and developed crows’ feet at the corners, while his mouth, which Eve might have honestly described as grim, became merry.

“I do miss my piggies. Lady Louisa is correct.”

“She very often is. One gets used to it.”

The smile did not entirely fade; it lingered in Kesmore’s eyes as he rose and offered Eve his arm. They left their empty glasses on the bench, and Eve had to admit a short interval in the company of a friend—even such an unlikely friend—had done much to restore her spirits.

And still, when Kesmore had bowed over her hand and taken himself off to ache for another hour at the edge of the room, Eve found herself visually searching the ballroom again for just a glimpse of the Marquis of Deene.