Lorraine Heath - [Lost Lords of Pembrook 03] (19 page)

Because the cane was always waiting.

Once again, he trailed his fingers over Eve’s delicate script. Only this time he noticed as well the faint crisscross of scars where the most minute strands had bitten into his fingers. It seemed almost an abomination that hands such as his would touch her. Not because of the scars, but because of what they’d eventually become. Weapons used to do another’s bidding.

R
afe stood in his library savoring his Scotch. Upon arriving, he had been informed by Laurence that Miss Chambers had indicated that Rafe was to wait in the library.

He was to
wait for her
. That was not the way of mistresses. Though he had no one to blame but himself. He’d been remiss in providing her with a complete list of his rules.

The door opened. She glided in and he nearly swallowed his tongue. His fingers tightened around his glass and he suspected if it wasn’t so thick that it would have shattered. Miracle of miracles, the black was gone at last. She wore the purple gown, the one he’d had sewn for her. Her upswept hair caught the light, causing it to flicker over the pale locks, captivating him. The necklace her father had given her sparkled at her throat, tempting him to kiss over it, beneath it, along it until he reached the shell of her ear where he could nibble lingeringly.

She exuded confidence.

Yet as she neared he saw the doubts, the insecurity. He wished he were a man of poetry, but poetic words had been stripped from his soul. Besides, poetry was the domain of lovers, and the one thing he would not do was be dishonest with her. He had no heart with which to gift her, and he didn’t want to give her false hope that he might suddenly obtain one. Although for a fleeting moment, he thought if he could purchase one for her, he would.

Turning toward the table that housed his spirits, he uncorked a bottle of wine and concentrated on pouring it generously into a glass, grateful his hands had steadied so he wasn’t making a mess of things. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”

“A mistress is supposed to make herself presentable, isn’t she?”

He extended the glass toward her, watched in fascination as her fingers curled around the stem. Why were his senses heightened? The anticipation of soon having her, he supposed. “A mistress is not to go to her bro—to Wortham’s—without me.”

She angled her chin. “I took Lila and three strong footmen with me.” She took a sip, touched her tongue to her lips. He wanted that tongue touching his. “The night when everything happened, the butler—Manson—told me he was sorry that he couldn’t let me in, but seeing him today, the way he looked at me as though I should be used as an object upon which to wipe his boots, made me realize that it was only training that had him telling me he was sorry. He wasn’t really. I told my lady’s maid, Hazel, that she was welcome to come with me if she wanted. I rather missed her.”

She sipped again, taking in more. “But she declined my invitation, as though it were beneath her. All my life, I knew what I was, but my father provided a shield for me. I never comprehended the extent of it. With his death, and my visit today, I realize I was not as well liked as I assumed.”

All his life, he’d known what he was as well, but it had not shielded him. At times it had served to make situations worse. “They don’t matter,” he grounded out. “They’re nothing.”

“Is that how you carry on? By pretending no one matters?”

“I don’t pretend, Evie. They don’t matter.” He wouldn’t allow them to matter. “Why did you even bother to go there?”

“There were a few things that I decided I wanted, small things: a pearl comb for my hair, gloves, a brush that had belonged to my mother—he sold everything. Walking into that room, I saw no evidence at all that I’d ever even lived there. He simply wiped me away, as though I’d never been born, which I suppose is what he always wished.”

It angered him beyond measure that she should feel less because of this unplanned visit she’d made today. Wortham was going to pay, and pay dearly—eventually. But for now Rafe needed someplace to vent his fury. “If you want something, then purchase it for God’s sake. Here.” He removed a folded sheaf of paper from beneath the blotter. “Did Laurence not tell you about this? It’s a letter I wrote for you. You take it to any shop in London—in Great Britain for that matter—show it to a shopkeeper, and your purchases will be charged to my accounts.”

Her chin came up with such force that he was surprised he didn’t hear her neck pop. “I’m not going to spend your money.”

Proud stubborn woman. How she infuriated and intrigued him. Seldom did anyone stand up to him, and that this small woman continually did so astounded him. “Have you not eaten since you’ve been here?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Have you not had meals since the night you came here in the rain?”

“You know I have.”

“Do you use the gas lights? Do you leave an oil lamp burning by your bed? Have you taken a warm bath? Have you had a fire going in the fireplace in your bedchamber on a chilly night?”

“I don’t—”

“You’re already spending my money, Eve. It’s ridiculous to split hairs as to whether you’re walking into a shop and purchasing something that you want or burning oil late into the night because you wish to read. I pay for the gas, the food, the salaries of the servants who see to your every need. If you want a blasted comb for your hair, purchase a comb.”

Devastation swept over her features. “I hadn’t thought of all that, all the myriad ways to which I’m already indebted to you.”

Turning away, she walked to the window, and he wanted to kick himself for not considering that she might have experienced a sense of control in her life when she’d penned her invitation to him that afternoon. With a few blunt words, he’d effectively managed to plunge her back into reality concerning her place in his life. He didn’t know what to say, how to make things right, how to return the smile to her face or the ease in her posture with which she had walked into the library.

“Evie, I’m—”
Sorry.
When had he ever apologized? But then he could hardly remember the last time that he’d been wrong.

She took a sip of the wine, held the glass with two hands as though she needed it to balance herself. “Of course, I know and understand that items are purchased, that nothing is free, but I never considered
everything
that must be bought.” She faced him. “It was just always there. Father provided it. He never spoke of paying for it. I never thought to ask how it all worked.” She sighed in frustration. “I’m not saying this properly. I understood that items were purchased. I just never contemplated precisely how much it might cost if I burned a log in the fireplace or used coal. The minutia, you see. I never considered the minutia. My God, I must owe you a fortune already.”

He tossed the paper onto the desk and walked over to where she stood. He inhaled her fragrance, glad that he was near enough to smell it. “Hardly a fortune, and I told you before that I’m not keeping tally. So if you need something, purchase it, or send Laurence or one of the servants out to fetch it.”

“So we’re talking an allowance here?”

“If you wish, if you’re more comfortable assigning a name to it.”

“For what amount?”

He couldn’t stop himself from grinning. “Now you’re talking like a mistress.”

“As you professed to have never had one, I’m not certain how you know that.”

“When men gamble, they do one of two things: they either grumble or they boast. And both are exaggerated. Nothing is as bad as they seem to make on that it is, and none of them excel at whatever they’re talking about to the extent that they would have one believe. But often the topics revolve around their wives or their mistresses.”

Reaching out, she touched a fold in his cravat, her fingers working to right what he wasn’t certain needed be righted. His gut tightened as though she’d gone further and actually removed the blasted neckcloth, in anticipation of removing everything.

“You didn’t answer my question regarding how much,” she said.

“As much as you like.”

She lifted her gaze to his, and he was grateful to see a bit of spark there. “I’ll put you in the poorhouse.”

“I think that highly unlikely. Shop all day every day if you wish.”

“You’re too generous.”

“Don’t mistake my spendthrift tendencies with generosity. A generous soul gives his last and only ha’penny to someone else. You saw my gaming establishment. Trust me when I tell you that as long as men believe that they have a chance of winning fortune rather than earning it, I shall never have a last and only ha’penny.”

She gave him a self-effacing smile. “Well, this is certainly not how I’d planned for the evening to go. All this talk of money. I’d hoped for the evening to be about us.”

Us
. It had been years since that word had been part of his vocabulary. He almost told her that they should only think of him and his needs, but if that was part of tonight’s plans, he wouldn’t be standing there in a damned waistcoat, jacket, and cravat, feeling on the verge of suffocating. He’d done it for her. He was beginning to realize that he was doing a great deal for her. Giving her leave to spend as much as she wanted? He’d never been a spendthrift. His coins were too hard-earned. He certainly never did without anything he wanted, but what he wanted most was more coins.

Taking her empty glass, he set it aside. “Let’s go to dinner, shall we? I’ve been anticipating it ever since your invitation arrived.”

T
hey ate in the sitting room that looked out on the garden. She’d had her father’s portrait removed earlier. She would have it returned tomorrow. But for tonight she wanted the intimacy of a smaller room. The dining room was too large, too formal, too cold.

Candles flickered. Servants brought in the food, one course after another. She barely touched anything, was aware of his constant gaze. Whether he was eating or sipping on his wine, he was looking at her.

She had clung to a vain gossamer hope that things between them would not progress, that she might become more of a companion than a mistress. Talking of inconsequential topics over dinner, reading to him as he’d asked that first morning. But the extent to which she was already in his debt astounded her. She’d given no thought to the small things.

“That’s how men lose fortunes, isn’t it? They lose a little bit at a time, hardly giving it any credence—then suddenly they look about them and everything is gone.”

He studied her over the rim of his wineglass. “Usually, yes.”

She could sense a tension building on the air, like a dark storm sweeping over the moors. She’d known when she penned her invitation where things tonight might eventually lead, that she would end up playing the part of seductress. It had been her intent to ease the loneliness she sensed in him, to give him more than he required, to be more than the bargain demanded.

“You went to a great deal of bother to arrange things for this evening,” he said quietly.

She nodded, touched the necklace at her throat. “It just seemed that a mistress should ensure that the evenings are rich with flavors and fragrances. I know you’re not wooing me, but I thought I should create an atmosphere in which it appeared you were.” She didn’t know how to explain it without sounding like an absolute ninny. “I came to the realization last night that you’re not such an awful sort—”

“High praise indeed.”

Darkness hovered at the edge of his grin, and she wondered if he would ever bestow upon her a smile of pure enjoyment. Ignoring his interruption, she continued. “This afternoon I came to understand that with my father’s passing, I lost everything. I was simply too overcome with grief to fully comprehend the extent to which my life had changed. I’m here until you tire of me, so up to that moment I shall strive to make our arrangement pleasant for both of us. I thought I could read to you after dinner. Or play the pianoforte, if you prefer.”

“Surely, you can think of another entertainment.”

His gaze was hooded as he sipped at his wine in a manner that made her think of him sipping at her mouth, slow and leisurely, taking all until he’d had his fill. She knew what he wanted her to offer—bed sport, but she wasn’t going to make giving up her maidenhead as easy as all that. Yes, she owed him, yes, she’d promised. But he could damned well do his part to entice her into the bed. “Would you prefer a game of chess? I’m rather good. I played with my father quite often.”

His lips curled up into a smile that promised wickedness. “We’ll begin with a reading.”

She suspected they were going to end with a tumble. “It’s going to be tonight, isn’t it?”

She was extremely pleased that her voice didn’t quiver.

“I’ve been more than patient.”

“I daresay you’ve been as patient as a saint.”

“I’m hardly a saint.”

A sinner, and soon she would be one as well. “I’m trying not to get nervous.”

“Drink some more wine.”

She did, savoring the flavor on her tongue, the warmth swirling through her, the light-headedness taking hold. “I can’t think of anything to talk about.”

“Then don’t talk. You don’t have to entertain, not tonight.”

She furrowed her brow. “Will I on other nights?”

A corner of his mouth curled up. “I doubt it. I suspect once I’ve had you that it will be awhile before I’ve had you enough.”

Had it been that way with her mother and father? She didn’t want to think about them tonight, but she heard herself saying, “My father loved my mother, more than he loved his wife.”

His wineglass was halfway to his mouth when he stilled. “I’m not your father.”

She released a quick burst of laughter. “Thank God for that.”

He studied her intently. “I meant, Evie, that I don’t love. Don’t begin to think that what happens between us is more than it is.”

She nodded. He had emphasized often enough what she would be to him. Still, she found herself hoping for more. “Have you never loved any lady that you’ve . . .
been
with?”

Slowly he shook his head. “It is not within me to love.”

Sadness swept through her.
What a lonely person you must be.
She didn’t say the words aloud. She didn’t want to travel any conversational path that would lead them away from enjoying the night. “You’re right. We shouldn’t talk.”