Awakening The Shy Miss. Bronwyn Scott
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by the way, on the evening.’
‘Oh, yes.’ His response was vague. ‘This is big, very big.’ His eyes were already drifting back to the stage, his attention on the Prince when it was supposed to have lingered on her.
Evie struggled to hold his interest. ‘I had no idea you were so interested in—’ she began, but he cut her off with a raised index finger signalling for a pause.
‘If you’ll excuse me for a moment, Evie?’ Andrew brushed past her into the centre of the aisle. If she didn’t know better, the interruption bordered on rude. She might have been insulted by his abrupt behaviour. But she understood the reason for it. As a close friend of the Prince, Andrew would be expected to offer a reciprocal toast. She should have anticipated that. Andrew wasn’t being rude. He was just doing his duty.
Andrew lifted his own glass as the noise ebbed, the motion causing all eyes to swivel his direction. And hers. Evie recognised too late she was caught in the view of the audience’s collective gaze. She wanted to step back, but the crowd was too thick around her. She’d only wanted Andrew’s notice, not the entire room’s. When she’d approached Andrew, she’d made another serious miscalculation. She’d not bargained on this much attention.
Andrew raised his voice, commanding and confident, to address the crowd. She envied and admired his confidence. ‘To the Prince!’ Within moments he was swept towards the stage to join the Prince and she was left behind. Again. And that was that. Her bid for Andrew’s attention had come to an abrupt end.
No. Go after him! That was Claire’s voice in her head. Claire would never stand here like a wooden doll. Evie pushed forward and let herself be caught in the crowd surging towards the stage, everyone eager to meet the Prince. It was surprisingly easy to let the jostling move her closer to Andrew. When the jostling stopped she stood beside Andrew, watching in genuine astonishment as the Prince of Kuban swept him into a brotherly embrace, definitely not the kind of embrace English gentleman gave one another. This one was far too full bodied. ‘My friend! It is good to see you. Did you like the talk?’
Andrew returned the embrace, but his movements were awkward, as if he were not quite comfortable with such intimate male contact. ‘Very much, the points you made about the importance of history were eloquently put,’ Andrew effused with a charming smile. ‘West Sussex agrees with you, old chap. You are looking quite fit.’
The Prince grinned. ‘Indeed it does!’ He threw his arms out wide to encompass the room and beyond. ‘What a beautiful piece of earth you call home. You are a lucky man.’ He meant it too, Evie thought. There was an air of sincerity about the Prince that made him appear more human, less royal, than one might expect, although she doubted any of the folks tonight would let him forget the royal part. But then the very human prince turned his dark eyes in her direction and Evie froze, no longer a comfortable observer in the conversation, but a participant. The Prince’s eyes were on her, two decadent brown pools of chocolate silk. His gaze was as full bodied as his embrace, those eyes taking in all of her as if he really saw her—Evie the needleworker, Evie the seamstress, Evie who helped her father with his historical research—and he didn’t find those truths lacking or socially backwards. It was a bold gaze, another way in which the mere physical presence of him announced to the world he wasn’t English. ‘Andrew, we’ve been remiss. Who might this charming young woman be?’
There was a scold beneath his words for Andrew. It was the second time that night Andrew had been borderline rude in her presence. A lady should never have to introduce herself. She sensed Andrew’s fraction-of-a-second hesitation as he found himself yet again surprised to see her beside him. She wished her attendance would stop being such a revelation to him.
Andrew smiled his recovery. ‘This is Evie Milham, my neighbour.’ Evie fought the urge to cringe. He’d called her ‘Evie’ in front of the Prince! Surely meeting a prince, even if it was amid the milieu of Little Westbury’s assembly hall, required more formality than that. The Prince seemed to think so too. One of his slim dark eyebrows went up in a querying arch.
Evie lifted her chin in defiance of the slight. Unintended as it might have been, it was a slight none the less. She faced the Prince and dipped a curtsy, taking the introduction into her own hands. ‘I’m Miss Milham.’ This might be the country and Andrew and the Prince might be bosom friends, but she knew what a prince was due, Sussex assembly room or not. She knew what she was due too and it was high time she gathered the courage to claim it, demand it if need be. If she didn’t value herself, no one else would either. Beatrice and Claire had taught her that. She was missing Claire very much just now, Claire who spoke five languages. Claire would know what to say and how to say it. Claire could speak Russian with him, or whatever it was they spoke in Kuban.
Evie summoned her courage, trying not to feel plain and shy in the presence of such a man. She offered the Prince her hand, hoping he would never guess just how much courage the simple gesture had taken. It would have been far easier to slink back into the crowd. The effort was worth it, though. He bent over her hand, lips brushing knuckles, chocolate eyes holding hers. Heat spread warm and slow through her. He made her feel like the only woman in the room when he looked at her that way. Perhaps that was the difference between a prince and other men.
‘Evie?’ His accent feathered the ends of his words, making his speech exotic. ‘Is that short for something?’ He was giving her a chance to recover from Andrew’s slight, and elegantly so.
‘Evaine.’
His warm eyes lit in recognition. The pool of warmth in her stomach deepened. ‘Ah, the aunt of Sir Lancelot in your Camelot legends.’
The Prince smiled appreciably. Melting was complete. No wonder good English mothers warned their daughters about the influence of foreign men. This was a man who could sweep a woman off her feet without lifting his arms, a reminder that he had her melting and he didn’t even mean to. She knew the hand kissing, the direct gaze, were all just politeness. Heaven help a woman when he applied himself. Evie had to fight back images of what that application might look like, what form it might take.
‘You know your literature.’ Evie nodded her approval. She seldom met a gentleman who was well schooled enough to know the origins of her name. In these parts, if it wasn’t about a hound or a horse, gentlemen were surprisingly lacking in their education no matter how many years they had spent at Eton. Evie shot a covert glance in Andrew’s direction. She was still digesting the revelation that Andrew had an interest in archaeology and history. She’d definitely classified him as the hound-and-horse sort. He certainly wasn’t the repentant sort. Even with the Prince’s implicit scold over his lack of manners, Andrew had done nothing to make amends.
‘I’m a great follower of the Arthur legends,’ the Prince offered by way of explanation. He was patient as if he didn’t have an entire room of far more attractive women waiting to meet him. But Andrew wasn’t nearly as relaxed. He was edgy and anxious beside her, eager to get on with the socialising.
‘You should visit the Milhams some time, then.’ Andrew’s tone was brisk. ‘Evie’s father is our local historian.’ He said ‘local’ with a hint of distaste as if that explained why her father hadn’t been included in the initial investors in the site, all men from London with further-reaching historical interests.
The Prince looked at her with encouragement, as if he’d like to hear more. Evie took the opening to elaborate. ‘Yes, we have a tapestry that is somewhat noteworthy.’
Andrew was smiling now too, but his was a gesture meant to silence, not to encourage. ‘Later, Evie. If you tell him about it now, there won’t be anything to reveal when he sees it.’ Andrew’s hand went to the Prince’s arm, his face wearing another smile, this one meant to cajole. ‘Besides, we have people to meet, Dimitri.’ The message could not have been clearer. While people stood by, suitably enthralled by the royal presence among them, Andrew called the Prince by his first name. Andrew had risen above the country commonness of Little Westbury; risen above her. Evie suddenly felt very small, very burdensome, as if she was a child who’d forced her unwanted self into the company of adults. Perhaps melting wasn’t a bad idea after all.
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