Lorraine Heath - [Lost Lords of Pembrook 03] (3 page)

“By all means, each of you may examine her,” Wortham said callously as though he were offering little more than a mare for purchase. “Then I shall entertain further bids.”

“Excellent. I’ll go first, shall I?” Ekroth and Wortham headed for the door.

Rafe envisioned Ekroth’s pudgy sausage-like fingers traveling over her silky thighs, ripping at her undergarments, shoving into—

“I’m taking her.” Rafe could hardly countenance the words that burst from his mouth with such authority that Ekroth and Wortham stumbled in their tracks, while the other lords gaped at him. Obviously, he’d imbibed a bit more than he’d thought, but it didn’t matter now. The challenge had been spoken, and he never recanted his statements.

Standing, he tugged on his black brocade waistcoat that suddenly felt far too tight. “If any of you touch her, I shall separate from you the particular part that touched her. Wortham has assured us that she is pure. I don’t want her soiled by your sweaty hands or anything else. Have I made myself clear?”

“But you were only here to watch, to ascertain—” Wortham cut off his sentence and stepped nearer, lowering his voice, “—to ascertain my ability to cover my debt.”

“When have I ever confided my plans in you?”

“Then you’ll pay me the five hundred quid that Ekroth was willing to pony up?”

“I’ll allow you to continue to breathe. We’ll call it even, shall we?”

“But the terms of this meeting were that she would go to the highest bidder.”

“What value do you place on your life? Do you think anyone here can match it?” He waited a heartbeat. “I thought not.”

He downed what remained of his Scotch before striding to the desk, lords leaping out of his way. If he were not a stranger to laughter, he might have at least chuckled at their antics. He found a scrap of paper, dipped a pen in the inkwell, and scratched out the address of his residence. Placing a blotter on it to keep it in place, he turned and headed toward the door. “My address. Have her there at four tomorrow. Good evening, gentlemen. As always, it’s been a pleasure to be in such esteemed company.”

He was in his carriage, traveling through the London streets, before it resonated within him exactly what he’d done.

“Good God,” he muttered, even though no one was about to hear. What the devil had he been thinking? Obviously, he hadn’t.

He glared out the window at the fog-shrouded night. His taking her had nothing to do with the fact that she was in effect being abandoned, because she wasn’t. She was being given to someone to care for her. She wouldn’t go hungry, she wouldn’t be smacked about, she wouldn’t have to work until her fingers bled and the small of her back ached so hideously that she feared she might never be able to straighten. She would lie in silk on beds and fainting couches, and wait for a man to part her thighs. She would eat chocolates and plump her lips. She would run her tongue around those lips, and gaze at her benefactor through half-lowered lids.

And he was her benefactor. Damnation.

He should have allowed Ekroth to have her. His fingers weren’t all that pudgy. He could call on him in the morning, barter, let him take her.

But then he’d appear to be a man who didn’t know his own mind.

So he was stuck with her. For a time anyway.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be so awful. She’d never had a man. He could guide her toward pleasing him in the manner he required. She would have no other experience, so she would know nothing different, and therefore, she would not be disappointed.

The possibilities began to have merit. He didn’t have to care about her. He wouldn’t care about her.

But he could damn well make use of her.

Chapter 3

E
velyn had never been quick to temper. But Geoffrey was testing her patience beyond all measure. In spite of her protests, he’d dragged her up the stairs and locked her in her bedchamber again. She’d wanted to tell that Rafe fellow that he was impossibly rude. Why would he say such a horrid thing? Why would he deliberately attempt to make her feel as though she was nothing?

Sitting at the window, she gazed out on the garden and wondered if the gentlemen were still at the residence. She contemplated tearing off strips of her sheets and fashioning a rope so she could climb out the window. She would march into the library, confront Rafe, and . . . say what exactly?

That he was the most refreshingly honest man there?

That was the thing of it. The other gents had been so . . . oddly behaving. Of course, having never attended any sort of formal—or informal for that matter—affair where lords were attempting to impress a lady, she wasn’t quite certain how they should behave, but she’d thought they’d be more complimentary, more flirtatious, would seek to engage her mind. Instead, it seemed as though they expected her to compliment
them,
to shower them with praises, to make them feel good about themselves.

All except Rafe. It was as though he couldn’t be bothered with her at all. Perhaps he wasn’t there looking for a wife. He’d certainly made no effort to approach her. Maybe he was simply Geoffrey’s friend, and he’d been in attendance for some other reason.

But if that were the case, why had she felt his gaze on her from the moment she’d walked into the room? It had unsettled her, knowing he was watching as she introduced herself to one man and then another. Was he judging her, considering her, intrigued by her?

She couldn’t tell. What she did know was that he was the handsomest devil she’d ever clapped eyes on. His hair, black as midnight, was unfashionably long, but it framed his face and made his pale blue eyes more noticeable. They reminded her of a frozen lake she’d once walked across as a child. The water that had appeared so blue in summer had seemed faded when peered through a shield of ice. Standing on the frigid banks, she’d shivered, just as she shivered standing before Rafe tonight.

She saw no softness in his features, no gentleness in his manners. She was rather glad she’d not appealed to him. She didn’t want him sending her flowers or reading her poetry or taking her on walks through the park.

Although if she was quite honest with herself, she wasn’t certain that she wanted those considerations from any of the gentlemen she’d met tonight. They’d made her feel as though she were a prized mare they were contemplating purchasing rather than a woman that they wished to woo to the altar.

Perhaps that was how courtship began. She felt so uneducated in that regard. She had not attended a girls’ preparatory school, but had been tutored. Her only friends had been her father and a few of the younger maids. She was familiar with so little of the world beyond the walls of the residence. She knew only that her father had taken great pains to protect her from it, even as he’d sought to prepare her for it with various lessons in etiquette and proper comportment. She understood everything in theory, and so little in practice. She didn’t want to find fault with him, but she did wish he’d seen her settled before he died.

She suspected Geoffrey would see her married to the first man who offered for her hand, rather than determining if he was the man who would make her the most happy.

But then happiness was relative. Being released from this room would bring a great deal of happiness, even if it involved marriage to a man she barely knew.

With a sigh she set her elbow on the windowsill, her chin on her palm, and tried to run through her mind the faces of all the other gentlemen, but each one morphed into someone with coal black hair and ice-blue eyes.

L
ate the following afternoon, freed from her lovely prison, Evelyn couldn’t recall a single time when she’d ridden in a carriage with Geoffrey. It was odd to have him sitting across from her, staring out the window at the darkening skies. It would no doubt be raining by nightfall. The air felt heavy and damp, as though it were simply waiting to unburden itself. She didn’t even know where they were going, although she recognized the area as they’d not yet traveled far from their residence.

When he’d come to her room and commanded she ready herself for a ride, she’d almost told him to go to the devil. He’d left her to languish all night, wondering if any of the gentlemen had hinted at an interest in her. But she’d been too desperate to leave the residence to chance upsetting him by revealing that she was out of sorts with his behavior and lack of regard for her feelings. So she’d simply donned a black walking dress, matching pelisse, and hat. She hated appearing so docile as to give the impression that she was someone upon whom he could wipe his muddy boots, but the truth was she had so few options.

She had no money to speak of. She supposed she could sell the jewelry her father had given her, but she didn’t know its value or how far it might take her. She was beginning to realize that her father, bless his soul, had done her a disservice in not preparing her adequately for his departure, in making her dependent upon Geoffrey’s kindnesses—of which he appeared to possess so very few.

Wondering how to properly broach the subject of last night’s endeavors, she quietly cleared her throat before taking a stab at it. “Were your friends adequately amused last night?”

Geoffrey’s jaw tightened, his gray eyes narrowed, and she suspected he looked frightening to anyone who caught sight of his features as the carriage rolled along. “Yes.”

Yes? That was it? She wanted to reach across, pinch his nose, and order him to expand on his answer. She squeezed her hands together. “Did anyone in particular express any sort of interest in me?”

“Rafe Easton. We’re off to his residence now.”

So his last name was Easton, was it? Not that it meant anything to her. Why had he been so mysterious about it? “Oh?”

Geoffrey looked at her then. Did she actually see regret in his eyes?

“Is he a good friend then?” she asked.

“He’s not a friend at all. He owns a gambling establishment. I am in his debt.”

“I see.” Only she didn’t. Marrying a gambling den owner would be far worse than marrying a merchant. As a matter of fact, it would be quite scandalous. She was surprised he was allowed entry into polite circles. “He mentioned that he wasn’t titled.”

“He’s the third son of a duke, although he rarely acknowledges it.”

“So he’s a lord,” she murmured. She supposed that explained his presence the night before.

“He doesn’t fancy being addressed as such. You should probably simply call him ‘Mr. Easton.’ At least until he informs you differently.”

It still made no sense. If the man had been resting in a casket, he couldn’t have expressed less interest in her than he did last night. So why would he wish to spend more time with her? “It’s a bit early to be dining. Will we be going for a walk about the park? Will this be the start of his official wooing of me?”

Geoffrey squinted, blinked, squinted again as though his mind were stuttering along, unable to process the words she’d spoken. He returned his gaze to window. “I doubt he has plans to woo you.”

“Then I don’t understand why we’re going to pay him a call.”

“You’ll . . . see after things for him.”

What a strange turn in the conversation. And then it dawned on her—

“You mean I have been employed to manage his household?”

“I am not certain exactly what your duties will entail, but you will see to his needs.”

Why didn’t he look at her? Why didn’t he meet her gaze? Why was he being so blasted mysterious regarding her purpose? Was he embarrassed that he had found her employment rather than a husband—that his own place in Society had not allowed him to do more for her? She didn’t wish him to feel as though he had failed in his promise to her father, but still this was rather odd going.

The carriage turned onto a cobblestone drive. In spite of her best intentions, she leaned over and peered out the window. A grand residence, larger than Geoffrey’s, loomed before them. She could not help but be impressed. “He must be incredibly wealthy to live in a place such as this.”

“Embarrassingly so.”

She heard the resentment then, the anger. Geoffrey had said he owed him. Was she to work for Rafe Easton as a way to pay off her brother’s debts? Surely this arrangement would be only temporary, until someone spoke for her. “How long will I work here?”

“As long as he wants you.”

The carriage rattled to a stop. A footman opened the door. Geoffrey leapt out as though his seat had suddenly caught fire. The servant handed her down.

“Geoffrey, I’m not quite sure I understand.”

“It’ll all be explained. Come along.” He dashed up the wide sweeping steps.

She contemplated climbing back into the carriage, but if she were being paid for her services, she might have the means to see after herself until she could find a proper husband. She supposed the least she could do was listen to the terms of the arrangement. Lifting her skirts, she walked up the stairs. At the beginning and end of them sat the most hideous stone gargoyles. They seemed to fit their owner. Based upon her limited interaction with him, she couldn’t imagine him suffering through cherubs dancing about.

As soon as she reached the top, where Geoffrey waited, a butler opened the door and she glided through, aware of Geoffrey following in her wake. The inside was even more impressive, with frescoed ceilings, exquisite artwork, and statuary standing about. But she saw nothing personal. No portraits. All the paintings were landscapes: stormy seas and dark forests. Everything was arranged perfectly, too perfectly, as though it was all for show.

“Miss Evelyn Chambers to see Mr. Rafe Easton,” Geoffrey said. “She’s expected.”

“Yes, my lord, as I am well aware, but regretfully the master is not yet home. However, I have been instructed to see to Miss Chambers’s comforts until he arrives. Miss, if you’ll follow me to the parlor?”

She’d taken a mere half-dozen steps when she realized that Geoffrey was not accompanying her. Turning to face him, she asked, “Geoffrey, are you not coming?”

“No.”

“You’re leaving me here?”

“Yes.”

“But you’ll be returning for me?”

“Easton will explain everything.” With that, he placed his hat on his head, spun on his heel, and walked out the front door.

When she took a step forward to follow and question his odd behavior further, the butler gently touched her arm. “It’ll be all right, miss.”

He was not terribly old, somewhere in his thirties, she suspected. He had dark hair and kind brown eyes. His clothing, like everything that surrounded them, was immaculate.

“I fear Geoffrey has told me very little. I understand that I’m to manage the household.”

“I have no doubt that all the servants will heed your wishes.”

“What is your name?”

“I am known as Laurence.” He bowed slightly, extended his hand. “Please allow me to escort you to the parlor.”

She gave a brisk nod and followed a half step behind him. “How many servants are there?”

“Twenty-five.”

They walked into a room of burgundy and dark paneling. It seemed Rafe Easton was not one for cheery colors. A large globe rested on a pedestal in a far corner. A low fire burned in the hearth. Suddenly chilled, she went to it and extended her gloved palms toward the small dancing flames.

“May I take your cloak?” Laurence asked.

She rubbed her warmed hands up and down her arms. “No, not yet, thank you.”

“I shall have tea and biscuits brought.”

“Thank you.” She turned, wishing she didn’t feel so unsettled. “When will Mr. Easton return home?”

“I’m sorry, miss, but that I cannot say.”

He left her then, and for reasons she couldn’t explain, she wished she was still locked in her bedchamber. It suddenly seemed a far safer, more comforting alternative.

L
ord Tristan Easton stood in the open doorway that led into his brother’s office at the gambling hell. He couldn’t recall ever seeing the door closed. At his desk, his brother poured diligently over his ledgers, his dark head bent in concentration, just as he’d been the first time that Tristan had seen him after twelve long years of separation. Rafe’s giant of a man had been waiting at the abbey ruins and he’d brought Tristan here, to this very doorway.

His grip tightening on the large package he held, Tristan shifted his gaze to the shelves on the far wall where Rafe kept his assemblage of assorted globes. He’d once told Tristan he collected them because they gave him hope of there being a place better than where he was. Tristan was saddened to see that his brother had acquired a new one. After Rafe had helped him right a wrong he’d done to Anne before she became his wife—when he had no expectation of her ever becoming his wife—he had thought they might be on their way to closing this rift between them. But it seemed his hope was as pointless as Rafe’s.