Lorraine Heath - [Lost Lords of Pembrook 03] (18 page)

He grabbed her wrists before her hands grazed his shoulders, brought her arms back, shackled them in one firm grip, all the while continuing to plunder her mouth, to somehow keep her near even as he sought to put some distance between them.

Why would a man as sensual as he was, with such voracious kisses that threatened to devour her, have such an aversion to her holding him? How could he remain so aware of every small movement she made when she was lost in the frenzy of his coercing her to respond in kind, to deepen, to explore, to savor?

In the farthest recesses of her mind, she remembered that she was standing in front of an uncurtained window and that surely they must be providing entertainment for those arriving and leaving, but she didn’t care. She. Did. Not. Care.

The realization slammed into her with frightening resolve. She wanted this kiss. His kiss. She wanted his mouth on hers. She wanted the taste of him, the rasp of his bristled jaw against her soft skin, the echo of his groans surrounding her.

Or was she the one moaning and sighing?

When had she begun to anticipate his kissing her? When had she begun to anticipate being in his presence? When had she decided that she desperately wanted to unravel the mystery of him?

He had no heart. He was not kind. He would never marry.

He was the absolute worst person for whom she should develop any sort of feelings, and yet there they were. Only seedlings now, but they would grow, and then where would she be? A woman broken in body and spirit.

Only she didn’t think he’d break her. He was taking too much care not to, not rushing her, not forcing her before she was ready.

He tore his mouth from hers and, breathing harshly, he studied her as though she confounded him. Slowly, so very slowly, he released his hold on her, one finger unfurling at a time. His gaze slid over to the hallway, and he looked as though he were measuring how many steps it might take to get her there and beyond—to his bedchamber.

“Not here,” she said quietly. She didn’t know why it mattered, but it did. She didn’t want him to take her in a place of sin and vice and debauchery.

His gaze came back and landed softly on her, the icy blue not quite so frigid. “No, not here.”

They left then, with him escorting her down the stairs and along the corridors until they reached the back door, the one through which they’d entered what seemed an eternity ago.

“Was it all that you imagined?” he asked as he shoved open the door.

“I thought it rather dull and plain, actually. I don’t know why I expected more excitement.”

She walked down the steps to the carriage waiting in the mews for them. A footman opened the door. Rafe handed her up, but didn’t follow her inside.

“The driver will see you home safely,” he said.

“You’re not coming?” She wondered why she was disappointed.

“I have some things to which I must attend.”

“When will you return to the residence?”

“I’m not sure.”

After shutting the door, he walked to the steps and stood there, watching the carriage, watching her. She could see him clearly through the window.

The carriage rocked and was off. It turned and she lost sight of Rafe. She didn’t know if she’d ever seen anyone who looked so alone.

Chapter 12

T
he clock on the mantel was veering toward eleven when she awoke. She never slept in this late. She supposed that was what happened when one entertained gentlemen at all hours of the night.

She climbed out of bed, rang for her maid, walked to the window, and drew back the draperies, not surprised to discover it was a dreary overcast day. Although it hardly matched her mood. One of these nights he would come to her and they would do more than talk. It was the terms to which she’d agreed. She would honor them. She might not have much left to her but she had her word.

The door opened and she glanced over her shoulder at her maid. The air in the room didn’t take on an energetic charge, seem to shrink in size, or become more alive with her entry.

“I shall want fresh linens on the bed today.”

Lila seemed surprised. “Yes, miss. We put on fresh linens every day.”

Of course they did.

Lila went to the wardrobe and retrieved the mourning dress in which Evelyn had arrived that fateful night. It seemed an eternity had passed. Suddenly Evelyn despised the thing.

“No, the newer one. I have an errand to run. I’ll want you to accompany me, and we’ll need three strapping footmen to come with us.”

“Yes, miss.”

“I shall want to meet with cook. I need to look over the menu for tonight’s dinner. I want it to be something special.”

The maid blinked, and Evelyn realized that she didn’t need to reveal her entire schedule to the girl, especially as she’d only just determined that she was taking the day and night in hand as much as possible.

It was early afternoon by the time she was in the carriage, heading toward her destination. It struck her that within the space of a sennight her life had changed immeasurably. She had never called for a carriage while at her father’s residence. She only went out when he accompanied her. She never instructed servants regarding her preferences on meals. She had never served as mistress of a household.

She’d learned something valuable about Rafe in the shadows of her room last night. He’d said that he didn’t give a bloody damn, but he did. Far more than he realized and was willing to admit, even to himself. If he didn’t care, he’d not take to task any men who hurt the women in his establishment, he wouldn’t have given her lessons on how to protect herself. While she had suspected from the first that he’d not hurt her physically, she was now certain of it.

What he might do with her heart, however, was another matter entirely. She feared that unlike him, she didn’t have the strength to keep it locked away. It was easily found and bruised. She had even allowed Geoffrey to cause her pain. He had never given her cause to think he cared for her, but she had never realized that he despised her. Her father’s unconditional adoration had allowed her to embrace the fantasy of being special. Geoffrey had most cruelly torn her whimsy into shreds.

The carriage turned down a drive and finally came to a stop in front of a residence that no longer looked as elegant or impressive to her as it once had. The carriage door opened, and a footman handed her down. Once the others were gathered around, she said, “When the door opens, you may have to shove your way in as I’ve been told that entry is barred to me. But I want to enter.”

She marched up the path, up the steps, and tried the door. To her immense surprise, it opened. Obviously they had expected her to never return. She swept inside, with her entourage on her heels. Manson came scurrying out of one of the hallways. His eyes widened, his mouth gaped before he got control of himself. He rushed forward.

“I’m sorry, miss, but—”

One of her footmen blocked him. She turned for the stairs and headed up them. “I won’t be long, Manson. I just need a few things. Feel free to alert his lordship that I’m here.”

At the landing, she turned into the corridor that branched into the east wing and went to the room located at the corner. Her bedchamber. Placing her hand on the knob, she hesitated a moment before shoving open the door. She strode in with purpose and staggered to a stop. The vanity, the bedside tables, the dresser—they were all bare of her things. The few dolls that remained after her smashing spree were nowhere to be seen. She walked quickly to the armoire. It was empty. The lush purple gown that she had purchased in hopes of wearing to a ball, the one Geoffrey had insisted she don on the most humiliating night of her life, was gone.

She heard the tread of footsteps pounded in anger. Surprised by the calm that settled over her, she faced the door. Geoffrey barged through, his face a mottled red.

“Now, see here—”

He’d taken but two steps when two of the footmen grabbed him. He tried to shake them off but they held firm. Finally he stopped struggling and glared at her. “You have no right to be here.”

“You packed up all my things. Where are they?”

“I sold them.”

The words slammed into her like a hard fist to her stomach, but she refused to show any reaction. She could be as stoic, as unrevealing as Rafe. “I see.”

“Everything in this residence belongs to me now. I shall do with it as I please.”

Did she hear guilt, remorse? She couldn’t be sure but she was done with giving him the benefit of the doubt. His gray eyes were shooting daggers at her. His behavior saddened her for so many reasons. “I always admired you so much. My older brother, the future earl. But at this moment I don’t like you very much. Father asked you to see to my care, and you did a rather poor job of it. You led me to believe you were seeking to find me a husband.”

“I never said that. I told you that I was going to introduce you to some gentlemen.”

“But you knew what I thought.”

He sneered. “You were always a little fool.”

“I find you remarkably sad.”

“Don’t you dare pity me.”

“Oh, I don’t pity you. You told Father that I would have had all I deserve. Eventually, Geoffrey, I shall be a very wealthy woman. You, on the other hand, will be insignificant.”

“I’m a lord and you’re a bastard.”

How could he be so hateful? How could he despise her so much? She was wasting her time. He would never listen, never truly understand what a wretched creature he was.

“We’re going to leave now and if you make a fuss, my footmen are going to pummel you. So please don’t make a fuss.”

With her head held high, she strode from the bedchamber that had once been hers, where she had once been happy. She supposed she would soon discover if happiness was to be found in another bedchamber.

I
n the late afternoon Rafe stood at the window of his office, looking out on the street, watching as people bustled by.

He didn’t know why he’d not returned to his residence with Eve. He’d wanted her, God how he’d wanted her. Standing there in his apartments with the lights from outside, and the dim glow inside casting her in shadows that ebbed and flowed with her movements, she’d been a seductress. Her smoky voice and her throaty laughter had added to the allure.

His eyes slid closed as he remembered the kiss. She was becoming quite masterful at parrying. He’d almost given her rein to wrap her arms around him, almost. He’d felt the brush of her hands, craved the touch as much as it repelled him. His chest had tightened, sweat had popped out on his forehead, and he’d known that he’d shove her aside, possibly hurt her, so he’d snatched her wrists before any damage was done.

He didn’t want her first time to be in his den of iniquity, or in his carriage, or in the streets. He wanted her in a bed, properly—or as properly as it could be with a man who had an aversion to being held.

He wondered how Sebastian would feel if he knew the truth of workhouses. He hadn’t then, of that Rafe was certain, but perhaps he did now. Articles had been written about the deplorable conditions, the brutality and cruelty of the owners. Mr. and Mrs. Finch had been particularly ruthless. Their workhouse had been overflowing. Boys slept on pallets on the floor in a locked room. No candles, no light save for what the moon and stars provided.

Sebastian had told him to tell no one who he was, but he was a lord and lords did not sleep on the floor. So the second night he’d demanded a bed.

Mrs. Finch had dragged him to a tiny room. It contained a bed. A hard wooden bed with no mattress, no ticking. And they’d tied him down to it.

Rafe pressed a balled fist to the glass, fighting back the memories, the sense of hopelessness, the fear that he would be left there to die. It was only one of their punishment rooms, but it did its job. The next night, he didn’t ask for a bed.

He slept wedged between two other boys.

A sound at the doorway had him glancing over his shoulder. Mick strutted in, his swollen and bruised jaw stirring guilt within Rafe, but then considering how swollen and tender his eye was, the guilt quickly diminished.

“A message was just delivered for you,” Mick said, holding out an envelope.

Rafe took it. He didn’t recognize the handwriting of flowing script that was his name. It wasn’t from anyone who’d written him before.

“Your coachman delivered it,” Mick said as though he could see the confusion Rafe was experiencing, despite knowing he’d not moved a muscle. He was skilled at never revealing a reaction.

Now, with the knowledge that Eve might have penned him a note, he said flatly, “That’ll be all.”

Not until he was alone did he trace his finger over the elaborate curls and swirls. She had fine penmanship, while his was fairly atrocious. He was more comfortable writing with his left hand—“The mark of the devil,” Mrs. Finch had declared before she ordered his left arm tied behind his back during lessons in the evening. He’d never mastered writing with his right and when he’d made his way to London, he reverted back to what came more naturally—in applying pen to paper at least.

He opened the envelope, removed the small folded sheet of paper.

Miss Evelyn Chambers

Requests the Honor of Your Presence

For Dinner Tonight.

Eight O’clock

He couldn’t help but smile at her formality. Did she fear he might put in another long absence? Did she crave his company?

What an insane thought. No one
craved
his company. He never went out of his way to be pleasant. He didn’t give quarter, he didn’t care about anyone else’s needs save his own.

He studied the script again, imagined the slow movement of her hand as she worked to make each letter precise, the crease that would form in her brow as she sought to select each word, so as not to give the impression that she was inviting him for anything more than a sampling of the fare. She would bombard him with questions all evening, no doubt, killing desire, striving to delay the inevitable.

The hell of it was he yearned for the sound of her voice almost as much as he craved the heat of her flesh. The way her lilting speech tipped up and down as though she feared the answer to the question, but was compelled to ask anyway. Sometimes he wanted to tell her, say aloud the things of which he’d never spoken. How, as soon as Sebastian and Tristan were out of sight, Mrs. Finch had grabbed Rafe by the collar and dragged him into a room. With the help of her husband who’d held him down, she’d shaved his head so he wouldn’t get lice, then stripped him of his clothes and ordered him into a tub of water. Standing there before her, trying to shield his most vulnerable parts from her sight, he’d refused, demanded she return his clothes.

Then the cane had come out.

Whack!
Against his shins.

Whack!
Shoulders.
Whack!
Back.
Whack!
Buttocks.

No one had ever struck him before. He was a lord, the son of a duke. He was not to be touched.

The only way to escape her menacing swinging arm had been to climb into the tub. So he’d climbed. The water had been frigid, and he’d almost immediately shriveled up, begun shaking. Then she’d attacked him with a hard bristled brush, scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing until he’d feared she’d remove every inch of his skin.

When it was all over, when he was dry, she’d handed him his trousers along with a shirt and jacket made of rough cloth that was patched in places and didn’t fit properly. It wasn’t until he was living on the streets of London that he understood she’d taken his shirt, jacket, and waistcoat because the buttons were valuable. She’d no doubt removed them and sold them. Then sold the clothing as well. What did it matter if they came without buttons? The material was the finest. Buttons could always be bought—perhaps not as fancy as what had been there originally, but serviceable.

But at the workhouse, he’d still had lessons to learn and had spent the remainder of the night locked in a room with other boys who were sleeping. Rafe had merely curled into a tight ball, trying to gauge exactly how quickly time would pass before he saw his brothers again.

The next morning after a meal of milk porridge—all meals were milk porridge—he’d been led to a shed with several other boys and charged with picking apart old ropes, down to the smallest fibers. The tinier they were, the more likely they were to cut into fingers as they were pulled. Hands bled, but none of the boys complained.