Lorraine Heath - [Lost Lords of Pembrook 03] (13 page)

Then she remembered something else he hadn’t liked.

“Why are you truly here, my lord?”

Although he didn’t move, she felt the fissure of temper roll off him. “You’re never to refer to me in that manner.”

His voice was flat, but sharp. He could slice a man to death with it. Had he used it on Geoffrey? Dear God, she hoped so, but what sort of cruel person did that make her?

“Why?”

He gazed toward the window as though the answer lay beyond it. “That’s not part of my life now.”

“But you told Madame Charmaine of your heritage.”

His jaw tightening, he shifted his cool eyes back to her. “Yes.”

“You used it to curry her favor and you’re unhappy that you did.”

“Quite.”

Had he done it for her, so Madame wouldn’t look down her nose at Evelyn, or had he done it for his own pride? Not his own pride. It would have had him storming from the shop. She didn’t think he was a man who bowed before anyone.

“But you are a lord—”

“I am my own man. I built myself up from the squalor in which my brothers left me—”

He came up off the bed with a speed that had her pressing back against the headboard, even though he moved away from her, presenting her with his back. She could see the tenseness in his shoulders, the corded muscles of his neck.

“We won’t discuss this matter, Evie.”

He turned back toward her, no evidence of any emotion. He might as well have been snuffing out a candle. With two strides, he returned to the side of the bed, stood there as his gaze slowly roamed the length of her. Of their own accord, her toes curled as though they wished to hide from him. Reaching out, he closed his fingers around the covers and began pulling them down.

With a tiny shriek, she grabbed the bedding, jerked it up, and glared at him. “What are you doing?”

“Taking steps to make you more comfortable with me.”

“This isn’t the way to go about it.”

“Neither is talking apparently. You’re not going to want to hear this, but I want you, Eve. I won’t take you tonight, but by God, it needs to be soon.”

His voice was rough, ragged, and made her toes curl even tighter. She shook her head.

“You’ve seen my bare feet,” he said. “Shouldn’t I see yours?”

“You saw mine last night.” Had it only been one night since she’d made the bargain with this devil?

“I haven’t seen them in bed.”

“They don’t look any different.”

“Then why be shy about it?”

She felt as though he’d led her into a trap.

“Loosen your hold on the covers. I won’t hurt you.”

“And if I don’t loosen them?”

He slammed his eyes closed, then slowly opened them. “I won’t hurt you then either.”

“Finally, a question you didn’t neatly sidestep.” Swallowing hard, she slowly, slowly unfurled her fingers.

H
e wanted her flat on her back, with her legs spread. He wanted to be buried deeply inside her, thrusting, thrusting, until the pleasure carried away the pain of memory. He’d almost told her everything, the dark secrets that he’d never shared with anyone, that he’d begun carrying with him since he was ten. He’d accumulated more over the years, each one weightier than the one that came before.

But if he told her, she’d choose the rookeries over him. She would know the blackness that was his soul, the horrors that haunted him, the desperation that had once filled him with dread.

Now that desperation was turned toward her. He’d never wanted a woman as he wanted her. If only some of her innocence could wash over him, but it was more likely that his darkness would rub off on her. He hated the thought of touching her, of destroying the light in her eyes, but he hated more the thought of never possessing her.

He waited, his patience barely tethered until her fingers were no longer clutching the blankets. Then ever so gradually, he dragged the covers down. The cotton of the nightdress hid her well. He was having a new nightdress sewn for her, one that wouldn’t leave much to his imagination. The blankets reached her waist and slid down to reveal her hips.

She didn’t avert her gaze, but he saw the silent challenge there. She wanted him to stop. He almost did. But he would take her in the dark. Without gentleness, without care. Without the tenderness she deserved. He would hate himself afterward, but he’d long ago learned how to live with hating himself.

He eased the blankets over the small lumps that were her knees. Just a little farther—

He lifted his eyes up to hers, surprised to find her watching him so intently. Her obstinacy, her anger were gone. Now she appeared curious and fighting to draw in breath.

“Do you desire me?” she rasped.

“Very much.”

“Because I’m a woman.”

“Obviously. I don’t generally go about desiring men.”

She rolled her eyes. “I meant it’s simply because I’m a woman. It wouldn’t matter who was here.”

If only that were true. But it did matter. For reasons he couldn’t fathom, it mattered that it was her. “I could have been with any woman tonight. Instead, I’m here.”

“So you must like me a little.”

He could have told her that he didn’t have to like her to desire her. He could have told her to stop asking so many bloody questions. Instead, he told her the truth. “I like you more than is good for either of us.”

And then because he knew another question was on the tip of her tongue and he didn’t want to have to deal with whatever it was, he pulled the blankets down all the way, revealing her tiny perfect feet. Yanking them back, she raised her knees and covered them with her nightdress.

“Want me to remove your nightdress next, do you?”

Her eyes widened. “No! Absolutely not.”

Drawing the cloth taut at her ankles, she bared her feet. Not a callus to be seen. He imagined the rest of her would look as smooth and silky. He desperately wanted to wrap his hand around her foot and skim his fingers over her ankle, her calf, her knee. He wanted to unbraid her hair, press a kiss to the pulse at her throat, begin unfastening those infuriating buttons.

But he knew she would stiffen, and he wanted her pliable. “You do know what happens between a man and a woman.”

She nodded jerkily. “Geoffrey showed me once.”

Fury, immediate and swift, rampaging through him, he took a step toward her. “He touched you?”

She scooted back, nearly curled into a ball, shaking her head riotously. “No, no. He showed me a pair of hounds mating.”

Spinning away from her, he plowed his hand through his hair. He’d been contemplating murdering her bastard of a brother. And all he’d done was show her a couple of dogs rutting, but it irritated the devil out of him that he’d exposed her to that.

“I must say,” she began timidly, “that it didn’t appear that the girl dog enjoyed it overly much.”

Oh dear God. Suddenly an unfamiliar sound echoed through the room. It took him a moment to realize it was his laughter. Abruptly he stopped, peered over his shoulder at her. She was smiling and, with regret, it occurred to him that when he was done with her, she might never smile that sweetly again.

“You’ll enjoy it, Eve, I promise you that.”

He strode from the room before he did something rash. He was torn between taking her at that moment and letting her go. Maybe he should flip a coin, but as he’d told her, fate was seldom a friend, and he wanted her too much to take the chance.

E
velyn heard Rafe prowling about in his bedchamber. Perhaps he was right. Best to just get it over with. She took immense pleasure in his kisses. She could only imagine the pleasure she might find in his bed.

He wasn’t Ekroth of the pudgy fingers, Berm of the rancid breath, or Pennleigh of the wrinkles in the wrong places. She furrowed her brow. Where precisely were the right places?

It didn’t matter. Rafe would not have wrinkles. He was young and firm and powerful. She would want to hold him, caress him, stroke him. Lying there like a fallen tree was going to be difficult. Perhaps she should come up with a few rules of her own.

She slipped out of bed, padded toward the door, raised her hand—

But couldn’t quite bring herself to knock. Once done, she would not be able to retreat. She understood that. Such a bold move would result in an even bolder one from him.

The thing of it was, though, she had become more comfortable with him. She’d seen the terrifying look on his face when he thought Geoffrey had touched her, yet she had not been terrified. His anger hadn’t been directed at her. She’d known that, but that he could care so much, so passionately that she might have suffered at Geoffrey’s hand, had caused the misgivings about this arrangement that she’d been harboring to drift away as though tossed on the outgoing tide.

She had little doubt that had Geoffrey abused her, Rafe would have killed him. Or at the very least made Geoffrey wish he were dead. Probably the latter.

She should be horrified that Rafe was a man who would take such dreadful actions, but instead she felt remarkably safe. He would defend her, he would protect her. Had he not been doing so all along? First from the
gentlemen
who had come to call, and then from Geoffrey. Of course it came with a price, but it was one she was willing to pay.

It was his laughter that had won her over, that had reached deep down within her, reverberated through her heart. It had sounded rough, like the rusty hinge on a door being opened after such a long period of disuse. He seemed as surprised by it as she was.

She wandered to the window and gazed out on the night. He had revealed only bits and pieces of himself but she was beginning to gain a sense of the whole. Like her, he had been left with no one to see after him. But he had managed to make himself into a successful man. He had not relied on his heritage, but on himself. He was to be admired.

Perhaps someday she would meet a man who would respect her for doing what she had needed to in order to survive.

Chapter 10

T
he following morning Evelyn enjoyed a solitary breakfast. It seemed Rafe had left for his club. He didn’t return that evening or the next. Or the one that followed. No word from him. Was this the uncertainty that would be her life?

Curiosity had gotten the better of her one night and she’d attempted to open the door to his bedchamber, only to find it locked. She’d tried both doors, the one that led into her room and the one in the hallway. She wondered what secrets he harbored in there, what she might learn about him. He was so mysterious, and if he wasn’t returning to the residence, how was she to come to know him better?

She knew all he desired was the bedding. Unfortunately she dreamed of more.

On the fourth afternoon, following a midday meal, she sat in a chair beneath the shade of a towering elm, near the brick wall that bordered the massive garden of the property beside this one. From a window at the end of the hallway in the wing where her bedchamber was located, she had been able to gaze out and see the large residence with its immaculate surroundings.

As usual, she had spent her morning wandering through the residence, imagining it as her own. She decided that she would convert it into a shelter for women who found themselves in a circumstance similar to hers. She would provide lessons in order for them to acquire skills that would allow them to secure gainful employment, so they were not dependent on others as she was.

Although it was quite possible that he was already done with her. She’d not heard a word from him. Had she done something to displease him? He seemed the sort to point out flaws. Perhaps she should visit a bookshop to see if she could find that book regarding the laws of mistresses. She felt quite ignorant about the whole affair. She supposed she should try to be seductive, but how did one go about that?

On the other hand, if he never bedded her, she’d never be ruined. She scoffed at that absurd thought. Living in a man’s residence was ruination enough. No one would believe that a man as virile and masculine as Rafe Easton had not taken her to his bed.

She heard the childish gleeful laughter that had made her smile on other afternoons. This had become her favorite time of the day.

“Lord Redley!” a woman called out. “Come here, child.”

More laughter, and she envisioned him running beyond the reach of his nurse. Based on the squealed pitch of his laughter, he couldn’t be more than a couple of years old.

She fought not to regret that she would have no children running about these grounds. As she was only two and twenty, she supposed if Rafe released her while she was still young, with all she would obtain from him, that she could secure a husband and perhaps have children. But she couldn’t stay here.

She was surprised that Rafe would situate his mistress beside a noble family, but then he did not seem to follow convention. She had considered introducing herself to the neighbors, but how would she explain her position here? She suspected they wouldn’t be at all pleased to know a woman of such questionable moral character resided within easy reach.

So she stayed in her own garden, sipping on her tea, alone with not even porcelain dolls to keep her company.

She watched as Laurence strode toward her. He was incredibly kind. Perhaps she could convince him to join her for a bit of tea. If she was going to be an unconventional woman then she could treat the servants unconventionally.

“Hello, Laurence.”

Stopping before her, he bowed slightly. “Afternoon, miss. Several large boxes have arrived from a Madame Charmaine. I’ve placed them in the parlor to await your inspection.”

“Oh.” She popped up out of her chair. “My wardrobe.” Already? She could hardly believe it. Nor could she believe her excitement at the prospect of having something to wear other than her one black dress. If Laurence didn’t have such long legs, she doubted he’d be able to keep up with her. She was fairly skipping over the lawn.

“Is it usual for Mr. Easton to stay away so long?” she asked.

“Yes, miss. Sometimes I wonder why he even bothers to have a residence. I believe he prefers his club.”

She peered at him out of the corner of her eye. “Have you ever been there, to his club?”

“Once or twice.”

His answer seemed a bit evasive, and she couldn’t help but wonder why. It seemed everyone associated with this residence held secrets.

He opened the door to the small sitting room and she skirted past him into the hallway. “Send Lila to me.”

“Yes, miss.”

Laurence veered off, while Evelyn carried on until she reached the entryway. She swept into the parlor and stumbled to a stop.

Rafe lounged in a chair near the window, with sunlight pouring in to bask him in its golden warmth. One leg was outstretched, the other bent at the knee, one elbow resting on the arm of the chair, a tumbler of honeyed liquid near his lips. Lips that had taunted and teased her, warmed her, sent pleasure whirling through her.

Pleasure very similar to what was thrumming through her now at the sight of him. He was so large, so very masculine, so incredibly beautiful even though it was obvious that he’d not bothered to shave in some time. But the stubble only served to make him appear more sensual, more enticing.

She clasped her hands together to stop herself from reaching for him. She feared she’d find not being able to hold him torturous in the days and nights to follow. Because if she couldn’t hold him, he in all likelihood wouldn’t hold her. And that seemed almost a sin.

“You’ve returned.” Her voice was raspier, throatier, and sounded quite breathless. From the scurrying to get here, no doubt. Not as a result of any joy emanating from the fact that he was here, because his presence always brought with it the possibility of total ruination.

“It would seem so, yes,” he said, his gaze shuttering whatever he might be feeling upon seeing her again. Probably nothing at all. It saddened her to think that he might never view her as anything more than a tumble. He waved his glass toward the boxes. “Some of your clothing is completed. The remainder should be finished by the end of next week.”

She glanced over at the myriad of boxes before returning her attention to him. They seemed inconsequential now that he was here. She wanted to ask him where he’d been, what he’d been doing, why he had stayed away, if he was well, although she doubted he’d answer. “You went to the trouble to pick them up.”

He shrugged. “I was passing by. Take a peek, see if the items are to your liking.”

She desperately wanted to tell him that he couldn’t just leave her here, languishing, worrying over him—but she didn’t want him to know that she had been worried. Were men likely to become volatile when they lost a good deal of money? She had disquieting visions of him being accosted by someone who had lost at cards at his club. Someone like Geoffrey.

She wanted to inform him that she expected certain considerations, but an image stuttered through her mind—one she’d not thought of in a good long while. Her mother sitting by the window, dressed so beautifully, gazing out.

“What are you doing, Mama?” Evelyn had asked.

“Simply waiting for the earl, darling.”

In retrospect she realized that her mother had spent a good deal of her time simply waiting. Now it seemed living in expectation of Rafe’s arrival would become her lot in life. But waiting on him was preferable to waiting for Geoffrey to come unlock her bedchamber door.

She also remembered how her mother would rush out the door the moment she spotted the earl’s carriage. How she would be in his arms as soon as he alighted. How after he patted Evelyn’s head and gave her a doll, he would go up the stairs with her mother. She wondered if she’d ever experience such delight in Rafe’s arrival. Delight, not relief because she suddenly thought that she should do more than simply stand there like a ninny reveling in his physical perfection when it was obvious that seeing her stirred nothing at all in him.

Self-conscious of her role in his life, she turned to the first box, lifted the lid, and dug through the tissue until she found the dark blue riding skirt with its white shirt and its blue jacket trimmed in silver piping. It was elegant, yet sedate. She’d expected the clothing he purchased her to be risqué, to proclaim loudly and clearly what she was, but this was the sort of outfit that a highborn lady would wear. She peered over at him, certain he hadn’t moved a single muscle.

“Thank you. It’s lovely.”

With the hand holding his tumbler, he indicated a circular box resting on a settee. “The hat that goes with it.”

It was the same shade of blue. White chiffon wound around the brim and was gathered into a bow at the back. “It seems you have superb taste.”

“I have you, don’t I?”

She jerked her head around to find him studying the liquid in his glass as though it had spoken rather than he, and he was castigating it. She couldn’t recall him ever issuing her a compliment, ever admitting that he found her attractive or enticing. He’d wanted her because other men had, and he’d found them unsuitable. Or so she thought.

She reached for another box. Inside was a gown very similar in shade to the purple she’d worn the night that Geoffrey introduced her around, but the cloth was silkier, a finer quality. Slipping it over her body would cause her nerve endings to dance.

Within each box was a surprise: a black mourning dress, plain and yet elegant. She’d not expected him to provide her with something to wear when he wasn’t around, something that would allow her to continue to honor her father.

A deep green gown for dining. It would bare her décolletage. One of soft pink that had a frothy bodice. A silk dressing gown of violet. A gossamer nightdress of white. Even gathered up, when she ran her hand behind it, she could see her skin. It would leave nothing at all to his imagination.

As she placed it back in the box, she couldn’t look at him, didn’t want him to see the fear and trepidation that raced through her with the reminder that he would bed her, and he wanted her to be enticing when he did.

Among the scattering of box lids and tissue, only one box remained. She knew what it was before she’d fully pushed the paper covering it aside. The vibrant red could not be hidden. When she pulled the gown out of the box, she gasped, her breath caught.

She hated it . . . because it was so beautiful. It was silk and lace, satin bows, and elegant flounces. Clutching it to her bosom, she wished she knew how to knock that smug self-satisfied expression off his face.

“It’s . . . it’s exquisite.” She balled it up, stuffed it back into the box. “But I still shan’t wear it.”

A corner of his mouth quirked up. “You’ve a bit of stubbornness in you.”

She didn’t know why she was being so obstinate about the red. She just wanted something in her life that she had some say over. “I should probably take these upstairs and try them on, make sure they fit properly.”

“Start with the riding habit,” he said, tapping his glass with one finger. “We’ll go for a ride through the park.”

Her breath hitched, and while she knew it was quite possible that he had a stable filled with horses, she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “You have Snowy?”

He lifted his glass in a salute, downed the remainder of its contents.

“That’s where you’ve been, what you’ve been up to.”

Tilting his head slightly, he studied her. “Where did you think I was?”

“At your club. I thought you were giving me time to become accustomed to you.”

“A bit difficult to become accustomed to me if I’m not here.”

She released a slight self-conscious laugh. “I’m not certain I shall make a good mistress. I didn’t like not knowing where you were or when you might return. I didn’t like waiting about, not knowing what I should be doing. I realize that you don’t have a care for me and that I’m to serve only one purpose, but—”

In a motion as quick as it was powerful, he shoved himself out of the chair and crossed over to her. His gaze wandered over her face, and she felt it almost like a touch. “It did not occur to me that you would worry. Rather I thought you would welcome the reprieve that my absence offered.” With the knuckle of his forefinger, he grazed her cheek. “I can’t always know when I can be here. My business, sometimes it will keep me away.”

“But it didn’t this time.”

He skimmed his thumb over her lower lip. “You are part of my business now.”

Before she could respond or read whatever might be in his eyes, he turned away. “Let’s go for a ride, shall we? I went to a great deal of trouble to bring that horse here.”

H
e had suggested they go for a ride because from the moment she had walked into the parlor, he wanted nothing more than to lift her into his arms, carry her up the stairs, and ravage her. Like the barbarian London accused him of being.

His desire for her had only worsened as he’d watched the delight play over her features as she’d viewed one item of clothing after another. And the red—she would wear it. He had seen the temptation of it in her eyes before she shuttered it. He could not have been more pleased with her reaction to his gifts.