Lorraine Heath - [Lost Lords of Pembrook 03] (6 page)

Now he needed to speak with her, make sure they came to an understanding regarding this situation.

He didn’t bother to ring for his valet. No need to dress formally. Trousers, loose shirt was about all he’d need.

He glanced at the door that separated his room from hers. He wouldn’t use it tonight. For her sake he would enter through the hallway, but after their discussion, she would understand that no barrier had the power to keep him from her.

T
he room was warm, the fire crackling, and yet sitting in front of the fireplace, Evelyn felt as though she were carved from ice. Her own clothes a sodden mess, she wore one of the maids’ nightdress and dressing gown. She had soaked in a tub of hot water for what had seemed like hours. Her hair was washed and braided. She curled one bare foot over the other. She should strive to determine what she was to do about this unfortunate circumstance, but she seemed incapable of managing little more than staring at the yellow and orange flames.

Geoffrey’s strange behavior in the carriage, his cryptic words—she was quite amazed that he had been able to meet and hold her gaze at least once. If she sought to destroy the very fabric of his being, she’d not be able to face him.

A mistress, not a wife. That was what she was to become, what he expected for her future, what he sought to give her. Not love, not a family, not a place in Society. It was not to be tolerated.

What were her options? Literally, all she possessed were the clothes on her back. Well, the clothes she’d been wearing on her back earlier. The clothes she now wore were not hers. She wore them only because of the kindness of servants.

She heard the door click open, without a knock, without warning. She might have assumed it was a servant, but the very air in the room seemed to shift and change as though a mighty gale had suddenly swept through it. The fine hairs on the nape of her neck and arms rose. The footsteps were almost silent, and yet she knew to whom they belonged. Breathing became a chore, but she forced herself to do it because she refused to swoon. It was bad enough that he had witnessed her unconscionably weak and falling apart.

She concentrated on the fire. But even it seemed to have grown smaller in submission.

“Here, you’ll find this will warm you more efficiently than tea.”

A large hand holding a thick tumbler came into her field of vision, very nearly kissing her nose. Long, thick, powerful fingers. She imagined they could wrap easily around her neck and choke the life from her body. Inhaling, she recognized the scent.

“Do you think Scotch is the remedy for all ills?”

“You’d be surprised by the answers you can find in the bottom of a bottle. Take it.”

It was not an invitation, so much as a command. As much as she didn’t want to obey, she knew she needed to pick her battles. Keeping her hands steady, she set the teacup and saucer on the small table beside the chair, then took the offered glass.

She’d ignored the contents earlier in the evening when he’d given her a tumbler. This time she took a small sip. It burned, but he was right. It also warmed as it went down, the heat spreading out to her fingertips.

He moved away, placed himself by the fireplace, rested his forearm on the mantel. She wondered if he was as cold as she after their journey in the rain. His hair was much curlier now, as though he’d not bothered to tame it. His white shirt was loosely fitting, buttoned only to midchest. Black trousers fit snuggly over his legs. His boots were polished to a shine, and she thought he would see his reflection in them if he glanced down.

Instead, his gaze was focused intently on her. He, too, was holding a tumbler, and when she lifted hers to take another sip, he did the same, his eyes never straying from her. He was a large man. She had felt his corded muscles beneath her fingers, pressed against her body, as he’d carried her here. He’d never paused his rapid steps. He’d never struggled for breath. He’d seemed unbothered by the pelting rain.

She suspected he was a man very much accustomed to having his way. And he wanted his way with her.

“I’ll fight you, you know,” she said. “I shall kick and scream and claw out your eyes.”

She thought she saw a twinkle of humor light those very eyes that would feel the scrape of her fingernails, but it happened so quickly she couldn’t be sure. His throat worked as he took another long slow swallow of his Scotch. She couldn’t recall ever seeing so much of a man exposed: his neck, the narrowing V of skin down his chest. She saw strength there, potency that Geoffrey didn’t possess. Neither had her father. Before his illness, his form had been robust but it had not exuded power. Food, rather than anything of an exertive nature, had shaped him. Rafe Easton obviously did not lie around all day doing nothing more than ordering servants about.

“I’m not in the habit of forcing women, Evelyn,” he finally said. “But I am pragmatic. If you do not become my mistress, what recourse is open to you?”

Ah, there was the rub and well he knew it. She fought not to let her shoulders slump with her despair. “He didn’t let me take anything, not even the jewelry my father gave me. I could have sold it—”

“And how far do you think you would have gotten with it?”

She shook her head, hating to admit, “I don’t even know where I would have sold it.”

“With me,” he said, “you will have a roof over your head, food in your belly, a clothing allowance to rival the queen’s, as well as jewelry, trinkets, baubles. You will never want for anything that is within my power to purchase.”

“But I must give you my body.”

Another long swallow of Scotch, a slow nod, a half closing of his eyes in acknowledgment.

She was suddenly unbearably cold again. She took a big gulp of her drink, but it failed to warm her. “I want a husband, a family.”

“How do you expect to acquire that? By sitting out on the street in your hideous black gown until someone walks by and thinks, ‘By jove, I’d like that lovely for a wife.’ How will you eat? Where will you find shelter? Be realistic, Evelyn. You have nothing. You have no one. You have no options.”

“I could work for you. Oversee your household as I thought—”

“I have someone who sees to my household. Shall I dismiss her, toss her out on the streets because you don’t want to warm my bed?”

She shook her head, wishing she was of a selfish bent, content to think only of herself. “No, you’re right. That’s not fair either. Perhaps you would be kind enough to allow me to stay here for a few days until I find employment—”

“What skills have you?”

She wanted to blurt out something, anything, but the truth was that she wasn’t certain she could even manage a household. She’d never helped with the servants. She knew only that tables were never dusty, fires were always ready to be set, floors were always polished, her clothes were always pressed. She was horrendous at stitchery, her penmanship was not precise, and numbers were not her friend. They never added up the way they should. She could read, very well in fact, but who would hire her to read?

It also seemed she was very good at drinking Scotch. She downed the last of the liquid in the glass and set it aside. With smooth unthreatening movements, he exchanged his glass for hers. Did he have to be so graceful, so masculine, so utterly gorgeous?

“Geoffrey informed me that you own a gambling establishment. Perhaps I could work there.”

“The women who do wear very little clothing and spend a good bit of their time sitting on gentlemen’s laps. Do you prefer to spread your thighs for many men rather than only one?”

Her mouth opened, her eyes widened. If she were a true lady, he wouldn’t speak to her of such raw, carnal things. But then if she were a true lady, she wouldn’t be in this predicament.

Crouching, he added a log to the fire and stirred it. His trousers outlined his muscular thighs and firm buttocks. She imagined guiding her hands over them. Was that what she would do if she was his mistress? Touch him, caress him, tell him how marvelous he was even though at this precise moment she hated him with every breath she took?

She reached for the almost half-full glass of Scotch and tossed back nearly half of it. It fairly scalded her as it traveled through her. But it made her limbs feel as though they were no longer part of her. If she drank enough could she lie beneath him and pretend she wasn’t truly there?

“I know what it is, Evelyn, to have no options.” He was still stirring the fire, not looking at her. “To think: this cannot be my life. It is not where I was headed, and yet . . . it is where I have arrived. To survive, you learn to make the best of it. It’s not easy. It’s not what you want, but you can still own it, make it yours.”

He unfolded his magnificent form, placed his arm back on the mantel, and studied her with those icy blue eyes. “Your brother sought to humiliate you, to degrade you, to give you a place in Society that is no place at all, where you would not be seen or acknowledged. What better revenge than to become the most infamous courtesan in all of London? I won’t hide you away. I’ll flaunt you. I’ll teach you to manage your money. When our time together comes to an end, as long as the ending is of my choosing, you may have the residence and everything within it. You won’t be forced into becoming any other man’s mistress. You can select your paramours, be choosy if you wish. Seems a rather fair trade to me.”

“Fair? I will be ruined.”

“You were ruined the moment you were born.”

Her stomach lurched at the truth of his words. Her father had protected her from the gossip and rumors, and in doing so, he’d given her false expectations. She thought she would marry a lord, and now she was discovering she wasn’t worthy of a guttersnipe.

Studying this man, she saw no kindness in his features, no compassion, no sympathy. Yet he had come after her, had carried her through the rain. Because he thought he owned her, or was it because as he’d said, he knew what it was to be where she was? But how could that be when he was the third son of a duke?

“I’ll have your answer now,” he said.

“You won’t even allow me the kindness of sleeping on it?”

“I told you last night that I am not kind.”

But she could see that he was strong, implacable, confident. If she could learn from him to be the same, perhaps no one would ever be able to take advantage of her again. It made her stomach roil to realize that all the men last night had been contemplating entertaining themselves at her expense. Their lascivious gazes made a great deal more sense. She suspected that one or two of them would have already had her on her back by now.

“If I say no?”

“I’ll have the servants return your damp clothes so you are free to take your leave.”

And go where? Do what?

“You’ve only given me the illusion of choice,” she said.

This time, she couldn’t mistake the appreciation that lit his eyes. “I knew you were a woman of keen intelligence.”

“You promise to help me ensure that Geoffrey regrets what he did?”

“I have a talent for making men regret what they’ve done.”

She wasn’t quite certain that it was a talent to be boasted about, but she had little doubt that he was a man of his word. He could have taken her already. He could have barged in here and had his way with her. For all her bravado about fighting him, she knew he could conquer her, quite easily if he set his mind to it. That he hadn’t already told her a good deal about his character, when it came to women at least.

“I suppose this
arrangement
will begin tonight.”

“Not tonight. It’s late. You’re undoubtedly tired. I’ll give you a few days to become accustomed to the notion, to become more comfortable with me. I don’t want you dreading what is to happen between us. But make no mistake that if you spend tonight here, you will spend other nights in my bed.”

She heard a cold ruthlessness in his voice. A gambling hell owner. A man to whom Geoffrey owed a debt. A man who had sat alone the night before, that all the other lords watched warily from a good distance away.

“Have you a coin?” she asked.

He furrowed his brow. “A coin?”

Her stomach gathering into little knots, she nodded. “It’s something my father taught me, when I had a difficult decision to make, and wasn’t quite certain which way to go. I flip a coin.”

She thought she saw the barest twitch in his lips. “You’re going to allow chance to decide so grave a matter?”

“You should appreciate that—being a gambling house owner.”

“Fate is seldom a friend.”

“At this moment, it may be the only friend I have. A coin?”

He took a long breath, studied her, looked as though he might comment further, but finally reached into a small pocket at the waist of his trousers, removed a silver coin, and offered it to her.

Taking it, she skimmed her thumb over Victoria’s profile, inhaled deeply, tossed it, and let it fall to the carpet. “Heads,” she said quietly. “I stay.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re supposed to announce before you flip what you’re associating with each side.”

“My father taught me that I didn’t have to do it like that.”

“Not much of a gambler, your father.”

She shook her head. He never spoke of gambling. “A fortunate thing, as he gambled on Geoffrey seeing after my welfare. A rather unfortunate wager.”

Leaning over, he snatched up the coin and slipped it back into his pocket. “That remains to be seen. You stand to gain a great deal.”

“But at an unconscionable cost.”

“Still, you agree to the terms?”

As much as she didn’t want to, she nodded. She had decided her course, she would see it through.

Stepping forward, standing in front of her, he held out his hand. His large, long-fingered, ungloved hand. She must have somehow managed to swallow a bird because there was intense fluttering just behind her breastbone. “You said you wouldn’t bed me tonight.” Her voice sounded small, fearful. She hated it.

“I’m not. I’m merely going to help you to your feet.”

She placed her hand in his. Hers seemed so tiny, and when he closed his fingers around it, she was incredibly aware that he could easily break her with very little effort. She was surprised by the coarseness of his flesh. These were not the hands of a gentleman. He drew her up, then expertly moved her arm behind her back, somehow snagging her other wrist until both were held within his firm grasp. With his free hand, he cradled her face, stroked her cheek with his thumb.