Lorraine Heath - [Lost Lords of Pembrook 03] (8 page)

He looked at her as though she’d said, “Did you notice I have four arms?”

“I thought it might prove helpful if you knew something about me,” she offered.

“I know all I need to know.”

It was going to be so incredibly sterile, this arrangement between them. She didn’t know if she’d be able to stand it. She picked up the paper. “Where shall I begin?”

She hated that her voice quavered, that it threatened to reveal her doubts and her burgeoning regrets.

“Did you have a horse?” he asked, his voice flat, emotionless, as though he couldn’t be bothered to care, as though he didn’t really desire an answer.

But she provided one anyway. “Yes. A mare. I called her Snowy, because she is so white. She’s at the country estate. I don’t suppose I shall ever see her now.”

“Do you want her?”

She stared at him.

“If you want her, all you have to do is tell me, and I shall obtain her for you.”

“I don’t want to be further in your debt.”

“In our arrangement there is no
depth
of debt. You give me what I require. Whatever items you want, you may have. Do you wish to have the horse?”

She wished to be free of him. In the light of morning, her decision to stay seemed rash. “Geoffrey would never give her up. She’s a thoroughbred, incredibly valuable.”

“Trust me, Eve, Wortham provides no obstacle to anything you want.”

She tiptoed her fingers over the jewels. Was she really contemplating asking for something? Once she started down this road, he would well and truly own her. “There is a portrait of my father, in the study of the London residence. I would rather have it than the horse.”

“You shall have both.” The chair scraped over the floor as he pushed it back and stood. “We shall delay your reading to me as we’ve spent what little time I had available with conversation and I must go to my club for a bit. This afternoon we’ll see to your wardrobe.”

He began heading for the door, came to a stop beside her chair, tugged on his waistcoat as though it had grown too small while he’d eaten. “Last night I told you that you will never want for anything that is within my power to purchase. Do not hesitate to ask me for items that you want. Because I promise I will not hesitate to take what I require of you.”

As he strode from the room, those words continued to echo through her head, her heart, her soul.

T
he table was too blasted long, but even with the great distance separating them, he’d seen the joy light her eyes when her gaze fell on the jewelry. He could only imagine how bright they’d been when she’d first been given them. She’d have not expected them. She seemed not to expect anything.

Mistresses were supposed to be demanding, by God. She should be demanding things of him. She shouldn’t make him urge her to accept things; she shouldn’t make him want to stop off at a jeweler’s to find a set of stones that more accurately resembled her eye color. The sapphires were close, but a shade too blue, a little lacking in violet. Amethyst perhaps. No, that would not have enough blue. Pity he didn’t have the power to create stones.

He shook off the thought. What was this mooning about?

His carriage came to a halt in front of Easton House, his oldest brother’s residence. After alighting, he marched up the steps. He’d not been here in some time. Still, he knew Keswick and his lady were already in London for the Season that would soon be upon them. The door opened before he could knock.

“Thomas,” he said succinctly, addressing the butler.

“Lord Rafe, it has been a while. If I may say, you’re looking fit.”

“You may say. Is the duchess about? I need a word with her.”

“I’ll let her know of your arrival.”

While he waited, Rafe wandered over to a portrait of Sebastian and Tristan when they were boys. Uncanny how alike they looked, although Tristan did have a bit of the devil in his eye. Their uncle had destroyed most of the family portraits. There were none of Rafe as a boy, none of him with his brothers. It was for the best. No need for reminders of what had been stolen from them.

Hearing the light footsteps, he turned as Mary glided toward him, her red hair piled perfectly on her head, her green eyes dancing, the smile on her face so large that he was amazed her jaw managed to stay hinged. Before he could move away, she’d grabbed his hands, pulled him down, rose up on her toes, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Were he any other man, he would find her need for closeness charming. As it was he suffered through it because he would not do anything to hurt her.

If not for her, they’d all be dead. She had helped them escape from the tower in which their uncle had imprisoned them. She was two years older than he. He’d never known a braver girl or woman.

Although Eve was certainly showing backbone. He’d not truly expected her to be in his residence that morning. He’d thought she’d try to slip away in the darkness. He’d stayed up all night, sitting in the shadows at the end of the hallway, watching. He still didn’t know if he would have let her go or forced her to remain.

“It’s so good to see you,” Mary said, squeezing his shoulders, his upper arms, his hands as though she were trying to assure herself that he did in fact exist.

It was with a great deal of guilt that he stepped beyond her reach. “I can’t stay. I just have a question—”

“I won’t answer it if you won’t at least sit with me in the parlor for a bit and enjoy some tea.”

“I fear I don’t have time.”

“Suit yourself. It was lovely to see you, Rafe.” She spun on her heel and began walking away. He’d forgotten what a stubborn wench she could be.

“One cup,” he ground out.

She pivoted back around, her eyes filled with teasing and victory. He remembered when he’d first seen her again, after his brothers had returned. She’d been engaged to someone else. She’d not looked this happy. He supposed Keswick was good for her. He knew he was good
to
her. What man wouldn’t be?

“Splendid.”

She reached for him again, as though she would entwine her arm around his, but he managed to gracefully sidestep by leading the way into the parlor. This had been his home when he was a boy and the family would come to London. He should have been comfortable in these surroundings. Instead he simply wanted to leave.

“Keswick’s not here,” she said softly, studying him as they settled into chairs by the fire.

He shrugged. “His whereabouts are of no concern to me. I didn’t come to see him.”

“I wish you would . . . come to see him, that is.”

“Now that Uncle is dead, we have nothing in common, Mary.”

“You might be surprised.”

“I doubt it.”

“You are a stubborn—”

He suspected she was going to say
fool,
but the arrival of the tea cart interrupted her. He watched as she prepared the brew, but it was Eve’s fingers that he saw. Small, delicate, arranging things so slowly. He’d wanted to watch her eat. What a silly thing to desire. He considered returning home straightaway, after he was done here, but it would not do to make her think that he was anxious to be with her. Because he wasn’t. But he did want to get the clothes situation taken care of, as he abhorred her in black.

Mary extended the cup toward him and he dutifully took it. “I was wondering who sews your clothing.”

She peered at him over the rim of her teacup as she sipped. She didn’t seem surprised, and he suspected she, too, knew he had taken a mistress. “I frequent Madame Charmaine’s on St. James.”

“Splendid.” That would be easy enough to find. He set aside his untouched tea. “Thank you, Mary.”

She looked up at him. “You’re not leaving.”

“I have much to which I must attend.”

“I wasn’t asking, Rafe. I was stating that you are not leaving.”

“Mary—”

“Tell me about this girl, the one for whom you need a seamstress.”

He scowled. “It’s hardly appropriate conversation. She’s my mistress.”

“Would I like her, do you think? We should have you both over for dinner.”

“You’re mad! This is the home of a duke. You don’t bring a mistress in here.”

“If she’s important to you—”

“She’s not.”

She puckered her brow into tiny pleats that had to be painful. “Then why make her your mistress?”

Why the bloody hell did she think? She was married. She knew a man had needs.

“I’m not discussing this with you. Have a good day.”

Before she could aggravate him further, he charged from the room. Eve was no one’s business save his own. He wanted to keep it that way.

“I
think this girl might mean something to him,” Mary said as she walked through the garden with Keswick later that morning.

“Men do not marry their mistresses.”

“I’m not implying he should marry her, but she might be able to reach that part of him that still belongs to Pembrook.”

“You do have fanciful thoughts, sweetheart.”

She tightened her hold on his arm. She walked on his unscarred side only because he wouldn’t be able to see her otherwise. The heavy scars that marred his face did not bother her. They never had—except for revealing that he had suffered greatly. She had loved him as a child. She loved him still. She always would.

“He’s still there, you know. The boy he was. It’s only that he’s lost.”

Keswick stopped walking and took her in his arms. “I hope you’re correct about this woman, then. Because I know what it is to be lost. And I know what it is to finally come home. You are my home.”

He kissed her then, deeply and urgently. She would never tire of the passion that swelled up between them. As he lifted her into his arms and began carrying her toward the house, she laughed. It seemed he would never tire of it either.

Chapter 6

E
velyn wandered through the corridors and rooms. Rafe could not possibly have meant that he intended to gift her with this residence. He must have meant that he would purchase a smaller one, maybe even a cottage somewhere. This place had been built to accommodate a large family, someone who entertained often. There were salons with crystal chandeliers, and she imagined the light from the candles flickering over dancers. The library contained numerous sitting areas and walls of books. Chairs and draperies were dark burgundy or hunter green. Everything was exquisite.

No, he could not possibly intend to give her this dwelling.

What truly fascinated her was that every room contained a globe, or a picture of one. She strolled to the window of a small sitting room and gazed out on the luxurious gardens. She could well imagine the lady of the house doing the same thing, finding herself filled with peace and comfort.

Closing her eyes, she fought not to open the nearby doors, step out, and keep walking through the garden, to the mews. She would have a very fine life here, but the cost to her soul—

She couldn’t even imagine the price she would ultimately pay.

Opening her eyes, she set her jaw. She would make certain Geoffrey paid more, in one way or another. She had never considered herself to be one for revenge, but at that moment she despised him. That he would do this. What sort of creature was he? It was difficult to believe they shared the same father.

She suddenly felt overwhelmed with exhaustion.

Turning on her heel, she strolled from the room. The residence was so large that, in spite of the many servants, it felt incredibly empty and lonely. She thought she might go mad with nothing to do except wait for Rafe’s arrival. Her stomach clenched, for when he did arrive—

She didn’t know how she would manage to give herself to him without making a spectacle of herself, weeping for all she was losing.

She pulled herself up the grand staircase. At the top she turned in the direction of her bedchamber. As she passed a door, she stopped.

It barred entrance to his bedchamber. Last night, she’d heard movement in there as the maids had been undressing her and attempting to warm her quickly. Then it had grown eerily quiet.

Was a globe in that room as well? His bed was there, the bed she would share with him. She wondered what it looked like. Large. Thick sturdy wood. Dark wood. She supposed the canopy would be draped in the burgundy he favored. The room would smell of him. Sandalwood and bergamot. And Scotch. Although that was more taste than fragrance. On his tongue, in her mouth. Licking her lips, she could almost taste that devastating kiss that he’d bestowed upon her after they’d come to terms near midnight.

A tiny shiver swept through her. In that room, in that bed, he would do a good deal more than kiss her. She would be uncomfortable enough with him. She should be familiar with the room, be at ease within it. She reached for the knob—

Strong fingers wrapped around her wrist, pulled her to the side, and she found herself brushing up against Rafe.

“You seem to have lost your way,” he said. “Your room is next door.”

She swallowed down the lump of fear that had risen in her throat. “I’ve been touring the residence. I just wanted to see your room.”

“You’re never to go in there.”

Confused, she blinked. Dare she hope that he had changed his mind? “Then how will I get into your bed?”

“I’ll come to yours.”

No reprieve. Blast him. That knowledge pricked her temper. “But you said I would be in
your
bed.”

“It’s an expression, although technically your bed is my bed since I own it.”

“But you’re giving it to me, along with the residence and everything in it. Did I have that correct?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Yes, but not until I’m done with you.”

“Then it is to my advantage to displease you.”

The smile he gave her was one of a wolf on the verge of eating its prey. “You do
not
want to displease me.”

“You’re hurting me.”

He glanced at her wrist as though he’d forgotten she possessed one. Slowly he unfurled his fingers. “My apologies. Fetch your wrap. We’re going to the dressmaker.”

“I see.” Dear God, she was taking another irrevocable step. Once he bought her clothes—but what choice did she have? She turned on her heel.

“Eve?”

Stopping, she spun to face him. He was concentrating on tugging his gloves. “As you are now familiar with the house, in which room did you wish Laurence to have your father’s portrait hung?”

She could do little more than stare at him. “You have it already?”

He gave her but one brisk nod. He was certainly not one to let moss grow beneath his feet. Compared to him, Geoffrey went through life much like a sloth.

“In my bedchamber, I suppose.”

“Do you truly want to see his face when you and I are . . . intimately engaged?”

Her heart nearly dropped to her toes. “Ah, no, you’re quite right. The front parlor? No, wait. That little sitting room that looks out over the garden. I should like it there.”

He studied her as though he could envision her in that small room. “I shall see that it’s done while we’re gone. By the by, bring your jewelry.”

“Why?”

“Because it would please me for you to do so. Now hurry along. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

With that, he spun on his heel and headed down the stairs. She was tempted to open the door to his bedchamber, simply because he’d said she couldn’t. What was he hiding? It was only a room.

She also considered making him wait, but she had yet to discern how volatile his temper might be. For now she hurried into her bedchamber, gathered her jewelry, slipped it into a skirt pocket, and snatched up her wrap. Back in the hallway, she considered escaping down the servants’ stairs. Instead, she squared her shoulders and marched to meet the devil.

T
he skies were overcast. As the carriage rumbled along, Rafe watched the shadows weave in and out, dance over and around her as she gazed out the window. And blast it all if he didn’t envy their ability to touch her so lightly. She’d rubbed her wrist—the one he’d held with his powerful grip—a couple of times now, and it was all he could do not to take her hand, peel off her glove, and press a kiss to where he’d felt her pulse thrumming earlier.

He didn’t know why he’d reacted as he had. The door to his bedchamber was locked. She’d have not been able to enter anyway. His hold had tightened with the talk about beds and her in them. He imagined her there, sprawled over the sheets, her loosened hair spread out around her. How long was it? The braid she’d worn last night only hinted at its length.

He’d almost laughed when she’d given him the daring look and said that it was to her advantage to displease him. When was the last time he’d laughed? He couldn’t recall. He didn’t want to be intrigued by her. One moment she seemed vulnerable, and the next she was standing up to him. Displease him, would she? He doubted it very much.

“You don’t really intend to give me the residence, do you?” she asked in that raspy voice that seemed a bit rougher since last night.

“I said I would.”

She peered over at him. “But it and everything in it must be worth a fortune.”

He shrugged as though it hardly mattered, because in truth it didn’t. He purchased items because he could, but he took no pleasure in them or the act of obtaining them.

“How can you value it so little?”

“Perhaps the better question is how can I value you so much?” As soon as he heard the words, he wanted to suck them back in. He didn’t value her, not at all, but he knew what awaited her with him. Guilt prodded him to give her what he could so she would forgive him for the things he couldn’t.

She opened her mouth slightly, pinched her bottom lip between her teeth. “That is a good question. I’ve not given you any reason to place such a high value on me. So why are you?”

“Mistresses are supposed to take what they’re given and not question it.”

“Is that the law? Is there a law of mistresses somewhere, a book that solicitors study?”

It seemed the farther they traveled from a bed, the bolder she became. He wondered how she might react if he informed her that he could bed her without a bed, that the plush cushions of his carriage would do just as nicely. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to silence her. She made him want to smile, a real smile, not the wolfish one practiced over the years to imply victory before a battle was even fought.

“Yes, I believe there is.”

She angled her chin haughtily, her pert little nose going up ever so slightly. “I should like to see it. I suppose you know all the laws where mistresses are concerned.”

“The important ones.”

“How many have you had?” she asked.

“Laws?”

She scowled. He suspected she imagined that she looked quite ferocious. Instead, she looked kissable. Utterly and fascinatingly kissable. “Mistresses.”

He considered lying. But what would he gain? Nothing. He reserved falsehoods for when they were useful to obtain what he sought. “You shall be my first.”

Her eyes widened. “Why me?”

Why her? That was the question, wasn’t it? The one he’d asked himself a thousand times since that night in Wortham’s study.

“Ekroth wanted you. I don’t much care for Ekroth.”

“I seem to recall he has jowls and pudgy fingers.”

“Quite.”

She glanced out the window. “I didn’t like the way he looked at me. I didn’t like the way any of them looked at me. As though I was beneath them. But you didn’t.” She looked over at him, gave him a sad smile. “I thought you were incapable of caring any less about me. Yet, here I am with you. What if Lord Berm had spoken up for me?”

“He has rancid breath.”

She gnawed on her lower lip, and he thought she did it to stop herself from smiling. It irritated him that she might laugh at him. “Lord Pennleigh?”

“He has too many years on him. He’s bound to be wrinkled in places where he shouldn’t be wrinkled.”

She studied him intently, and he fought not to squirm. Why weren’t they at the blasted dressmaker’s yet?

“Who would have been acceptable, do you think?” she asked.

Any of the other lords, sweetheart. Even Ekroth, Berm, and Pennleigh, truth be told.

“It hardly matters,” he said. “You’re with me now.”

The carriage came to a stop.
Thank God.

“And we’re at the dressmaker’s. Let’s see about getting you some proper clothing.”

P
roper clothing? As though what she was wearing wasn’t proper.

But when she stepped into the shop, her irritation with him dimmed. She’d been in shops before, but never a dressmaker’s. Two well-dressed ladies were at the counter, obviously making their purchases. Another elegant woman was sitting in a plush chair in a corner studying what appeared to be drawings of patterns.

A large woman bustled toward them. “Sir, how might I be of service?”

Rafe tugged on his waistcoat. “I wish to be attended to by the proprietor.”

“I am she. Madame Charmaine.”

“I expected a French accent.”

She smiled, her teeth straight and white, her lips as red as cherries. “I excel in providing my customers with the unexpected.”

Rafe seemed to be taking measure of her. She remembered that he said he was a good judge of character. She wondered what he thought of so bold a creature. “Miss Chambers is in need of a wardrobe. Everything.”

Madame Charmaine arched a brow, and Evelyn imagined she was creating a mental list of what
everything
might include, and how profitable this endeavor might be.

“She will require only the finest of materials,” Rafe said before walking over to a table burdened with bolts of brightly colored cloth.

Evelyn traipsed after him and whispered, “I’m in mourning. I should wear black.”

“You may when I’m not about, but when you are in my presence it will please me to see you in colors.”

He selected them: rich blues, purples, crimson. Bold strong colors. She’d always worn pale shades, pastels, so that she blended in, wasn’t truly visible. Except for the one purple gown Geoffrey had selected for her to wear. She’d had it made as a dream, something to be worn if she ever attended a ball.

All the while Madame Charmaine slowly raked her gaze over Evelyn, and she knew the moment that the woman deduced exactly what she was to Rafe—or what she would become to him. She thought she might die, that her heart would cease beating, her blood flowing, her lungs drawing in air.

“I want a dozen dresses for her within the week,” Rafe said, distracted by his perusal of the fabrics.

“I fear, sir, that my schedule is quite full. You might have better success at another shop.”

Rafe stopped riffling through the fabrics and faced her. “My sister by marriage, the Duchess of Keswick, assures me you are the best.”

“I am, sir, but—”

“My lord.”

“Pardon?”

“Apologies for not introducing myself earlier. Lord Rafe Easton. I don’t imagine the Duchess would continue to shop here if I informed her I was turned away.”