Trisha Telep: The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

Peter nodded vigorously. «Oh, I won’t, I promise. But you must show me how it works.»

«It only works when I’m in Ireland, but I’ll show you how it’s done.» Evleen pulled out the pebble and rubbed it with her finger. «It’s as simple as this. Now if I were in Ireland, a raven would appear and then» —

«But there is a raven,» Peter interrupted.

She started to tell him there could not be any such thing when she heard a loud caw from behind her. Surely not! Her heart leaped.

Peter pointed. «It’s behind you on that limb.»

Slowly, reluctantly, she turned her head. The raven gazed down at her — she could swear — with triumphant eyes.

«Dear God in heaven!» She leaped to her feet and called frantically to the bird, «Go away! You are not supposed to be here!»

The raven sat silently, its sharp eyes watching her every move.

«Here comes my father,» Peter said.

Oh, no! In dismay, Evleen spied Lord Beaumont striding through the garden. In seconds he would be here. She turned to the raven. «Please. The English don’t believe in magic. You must go.»

To her relief, the bird cawed softly one time then flew away. By the time Lord Beaumont arrived, Evleen had somewhat composed herself, although her heart still hammered in her chest. «Lord Beaumont.» She dipped a curtsy, fighting to control the tremor in her voice.

Beaumont stepped into the gazebo and seated himself in a wicker chair across from hers. «Do sit down, Miss O’Fallon. I came to see how you were doing.» He glanced fondly at his son. «It appears he’s taken to you.»

«He’s a fine little boy, and very bright. We shall get along fine.»

He spoke to Peter. «Go feed your rabbits, son. I wish to speak to Miss O’Fallon alone.»

After the boy left, followed by the faithful Cromwell, Evleen regarded Beaumont with questioning eyes. «I trust I have not done something wrong.»

«Of course not.» Beaumont leaned back in his chair and casually stretched his long legs in front of him. How handsome he looked, so different from the men she had known in Ireland, whose Sunday best attire could not hold a candle to Beaumont’s elegant cutaway frock coat, perfectly tied cravat, breeches that fitted revealingly tight over his well-muscled calves. And those polished Hessian boots! So very masculine, so very appealing.

Uh-oh, he’s been talking and I haven’t been listening.

He took a long moment to gaze at her. His lip quirked, as if he were amused, but she didn’t know why. «I find you an interesting woman, Miss O’Fallon.»

«Call me Evleen. We’re not nearly so formal at home.»

«In that case, call me Richard.»

She asked, «So why do you find me interesting when I’m only your poor Irish relative?»

«Because there’s something about you.» His forehead creased in a frown. «You surprise me.»

«In what way?»

«I would have thought a woman as attractive as you would be married by now.»

«We Irish don’t marry as young as you do in England.» Modesty prevented her from recounting the number of proposals she’d received over the years, all rejected. «When I do marry, if I ever do, it will be to someone with whom I have fallen madly, passionately in love.»

«So you’ve never been in love?»

«Not yet.» She tipped her head quizzically. «Didn’t you marry for love?»

«No, of course not.» At her look of surprise, he continued, «Many marriages are arranged in England, as was mine. Rank. family background. the size of the dowry are more important considerations than whether one has been struck by Cupid’s arrow. Actually.» He paused, weighing his next words. «I became most fond of my first wife. Millicent was a fine woman whom I greatly admired and respected.»

«What about Bettina?»

She feared she’d asked too bold a question, but he readily answered. «Bettina is the youngest daughter of the Duchess of Derbyshire. Vast fortune. One of England’s oldest families. Extremely generous dowry, of course. My mother’s cup runneth over.»

«But you don’t love her either?»

A half-smile crossed his face. «I was raised to believe honour and duty come first. Thus, for me, love has never been an option.»

How very sad, she thought, but decided not to say. They continued to chat, Beaumont showing no desire to leave. When his son returned, he arose reluctantly. «I have enjoyed our conversation. If you don’t mind, I shall come back from time to time in order to check on Peter’s progress.»

«I wouldn’t mind at all.» And she wouldn’t. Watching him stride away, she found herself admiring his broad shoulders and the easy grace with which he moved. Bettina was a lucky woman. Very lucky indeed.

In the days that followed, Evleen fell into a comfortable routine with Peter. She conducted his lessons in the classroom or, weather permitting, in the gazebo. Either way, Beaumont often joined them. Sometimes he sat quietly and listened; other times he joined in the discussions with a lively give-and-take of English history, or whatever was the topic, helping to answer his inquisitive son’s endless questions. Best of all, she discovered he had a deliciously subtle sense of humour, often revealed when the corners of his mouth quirked into an irresistible little grin.

She welcomed his visits, even looked forward to them with increasing anticipation. But the trouble was, Beaumont’s new-found attention to his son’s education did not go unnoticed by the ladies of the house. Evleen had hoped that in time she could make friends, but now their enmity was even more evident. She overheard Lady Beaumont and Lydia again one day as she stood outside the drawing room.

«There is something very strange about her,» Lady Beaumont was saying. «In fact, poor, dear Millicent once mentioned her Irish side of the family possessed certain mystical powers. At the time, I thought she had taken leave of her senses, but now I’m beginning to wonder.»

Lydia replied, «There’s something unpleasantly mysterious about all the Irish, what with their Celtic culture and those ancient Druids who, I understand, practised all sorts of strange, unholy rites — all quite unacceptable.»

«I cannot imagine why Richard spends so much time with her,» Lady Beaumont went on. «He claims he’s only interested in Peter’s lessons, but quite frankly I don’t trust the woman. What if she casts some sort of spell over him? Well, she had best be careful. If she dares show the least sign of any so-called magical powers, I shall send her packing, and I don’t care what Richard says.»

«At least he’ll be married soon,» replied Lydia. «That should ease our minds.»

«And Bettina’s, too,» Lady Beaumont answered with a caustic laugh.

Evleen’s heart sank as she listened. How unfair! What had she done to deserve such hatred? Her behaviour with Beaumont had been completely beyond reproach. Not only that, she had taken great pains to be pleasant and civil to these difficult women who were bound and determined to dislike her. As for her magic, she stood by her promise. Such a promise wasn’t easy, for often, when she was teaching Peter his lessons in the gazebo, she saw the black raven sitting on a nearby branch. It would stare down at her with a beckoning look in its eye, as if it were telling her that Merlin could hardly wait to reveal himself before her. So tempting! But she had refrained from rubbing the blue pebble. Mama had been very wise indeed to make her promise never to use her magic powers in disbelieving England.

But as much as she missed Merlin and his magic, a deeper sorrow lay heavy on her mind. For the first time in her life, she had fallen madly, passionately in love. Each night, she lay in her bed staring into the darkness, her anguished heart keeping her from sleep. She could see no way out of her constant misery, for the man she had fallen in love with was Lord Beaumont — a man she could never marry; a man hopelessly beyond her reach.