The Rebel Heir (8 page)

“Clearly I have been bested this evening. I'll have to simply dream of a lively discussion of rain clouds.” He smiled at Evangeline, and in that smile, she sensed he understood—which was impossible. No one understood.

The carriage stopped, and Lord Crosby shook his coat into place on his shoulders. “I appreciate your company on the trip here.”

“Likewise,” her father said as the carriage door opened. “It will no doubt be the highlight of my evening.”

“Surely not,” Lord Crosby returned as he climbed down to the ground.

“An evening of ladies reading poetry?” her father asked. “There isn't much competition for the honor, Crosby.”

“Poetry…of course. Tonight's entertainment is a reading of poetry.” He glanced up at the home looming above their heads with a hint of dread.

“It is, but then of course you knew that.” Evangeline smiled and went inside.

When they were shown into the drawing room, she almost drew back at the sight of the gathered throng of people. Only her training kept her from reacting in surprise at seeing such a crowd. There must be no other ball this evening. The Rutledge family were relatives of Sue's new husband, Lord Steelings, and at least they must be pleased at such a crush. She cast a glance over the chairs set in rows in front of the podium.

“Mother, we may want to claim seats while we are able.”

“And miss the time to socialize before the recitations begin? Absolutely not. We are not here to listen to verse.” Her mother didn't look at Evangeline. Instead, she had her eye on their hostess across the room. The poor woman was clearly busy directing footmen in the task of bringing in another row of chairs for the rear of the room, but that was of no concern to someone like Evangeline's mother. A second later, her mother was gone from her side.

“May I escort you to a seat, my lady?” Lord Crosby asked as he joined her.

“Thank you, but I must remain standing.”

“Oh, I see.” He surveyed the room for a moment. “May I ask why?”

“We are here to socialize,” she recited.

“I can see where being seated would destroy that possibility. I, for one, find it impossible to speak once I find a chair to sit upon.”

“Then we shall have you as a dinner guest. What an entertaining evening that would be.”

“I don't think your mother would approve of a silent dinner guest.”

Her mother didn't approve of anything at all. She was now on the opposite side of the room and had gained seats for Father and herself with a powerful family in town. It appeared Evangeline was to fend for herself. “Perhaps we
should
find seats, or I fear we'll be left standing for the performance.”

“I see just the place,” Lord Crosby said, extending his arm to her.

After following him along the wall to the back of the room, Evangeline took the last open seat in the room—the one tucked into the corner beside Lord Crosby. It was the one place where not a single gentleman could see her. Her plan to attract a husband wasn't quite working to her advantage this evening. Of course, it had begun to spin steadily out of her control before she'd even left her garden gate.

She set her reticule and fan down at her feet. Looking through the spaces between dark-clad shoulders and hair swept up into elaborate twisting locks, she searched for an alternate seat, but there was none. She'd known before she looked. She didn't seem to have any choice in the matter, so the husband hunt would have to wait for another day. Locating the podium while the chatter of the crowd still rumbled through the room, she waited.

It wasn't until after Lord Crosby sat and made a show of adjusting his coat on his shoulders that she became aware of how small and dainty the wooden chairs truly were, and just how close she was sitting to him. She simply wouldn't glance in his direction.

Hands folded in her lap, she took a steadying breath. She would survive this evening by refusing to think about the man at her side, or the fact that he remembered what she had worn when they met last year. What, if anything, did that mean? He'd still left her and he would again.

Poetry, she was here for poetry. She ignored the gentle scratch of Lord Crosby's wool coat against her upper arm, as well as the faint, spicy scent of his shaving soap. She focused her gaze on the empty podium at the front of the room.
Do not think of him. Do not think…

“Rather close in here, isn't it?” His rough voice whispered in her ear, sending a shiver down her spine that she fought to suppress.

Yes, it was dreadfully close. He was dreadfully close, and the blame for this entire situation could be placed on his shoulders—his broad shoulders that brushed against hers every time he moved. He hadn't even been invited to this event. It was his fault there was a shortage of seating. She was supposed to search for a husband tonight and now she was trapped, sitting far too close to an unmarried man who couldn't help her in that respect at all. At least he would have to suffer through an hour or more of poetry recitation. It was a small ray of sunshine on an otherwise stormy night.

“An evening of poetry,” she said just loud enough that he would hear her above the chatter of the crowd. “I'm sure you looked forward to this event all day.”

“I did,” he replied close to her ear, setting her nerves on end once again. “I clutched the invitation to my heart and sighed. Rather wistfully, I might add.”

“The invitation you never received,” she clarified, pulling her gaze from the podium to look at him.

“Yes, that invitation.” He chuckled, his clear blue eyes sparkling with humor.

“Sometimes there is a high price to be paid for your risk-taking.”

“And poetry is that price tonight.” The corner of his mouth quirked up as he looked at her. “I jest. In truth, I happen to be fond of a good verse.”

“Really?” she asked in surprise. “It makes most gentlemen—”

“Want to
curse
? It could be much
worse
.”

She sighed. “You're impossible.”

“That sounds
plaus-ible
.” He drew out the last two syllables and flashed a wide grin.

She shouldn't encourage him; really she shouldn't. But then she did. “Are you certain the poetry won't make you
cry
? Then I'd be forced to cheer you with
pie
.”

“I'm simply pleased to be seated, pressed against your
thigh
,” he whispered so that only she could hear before nodding to the front of the room with bright eyes. “Look, it appears to be starting.” He sat back in his seat with a smug grin. Under the guise of stretching to get comfortable, he pressed his powerful thigh against hers.

Heat seared down the outside of her leg and spread to all her limbs. She should scoot away, but there was no place to scoot. And shameful as it was, she didn't truly want to move away from him. She didn't want to move at all.

Where they were sitting, no one could see them. All backs were turned, and they were shoved into a cramped corner together. Perhaps just for the next few minutes, she didn't need to move. After all, who would know of it if she remained here, pressed against a roguish gentleman's side? No one.

Chancing a glance to the side, she saw that Lord Crosby's gaze was focused ahead as if he had not a care for how he was affecting her. The thin weight of the silk gown her mother had selected for her to wear did little to separate his skin from hers. She shouldn't think about such things. It was improper to notice the muscular build of the scoundrel at one's side. She blinked, turning back to the front of the room as well.

Lord Torrent was saying something in welcome and presenting his eldest daughter, April. Meanwhile, Evangeline darted her eyes back in Lord Crosby's direction. This time her movement drew his attention.

“What?” He mouthed the word.

She only scowled in return. There was nothing a polite lady could say in such a situation, and she wasn't quite sure how an impolite lady would react either.

Nodding toward the podium, he mouthed, “Poetry.” Then he added another overeager nod as he grinned at her, clearly knowing how irritating he was and relishing every second of her discomfort.

She was the very image of a polite lady, but images could be misleading. And only he would know of her actions tonight. She pulled her arm up and shoved her elbow into his ribs. That would show him! Only she was the one to flinch as her elbow connected in just the wrong fashion with one of the metal buttons on his waistcoat.

A sharp stab of pain shot up her arm. She squeezed her eyes shut and curled her arm in close to her body. In the next second, warm male hands were wrapped around her arm. She opened her eyes but only saw swimming shapes for a moment while her eyes watered a bit from the impact. She didn't need to see, however, to know that Lord Crosby was pulling her arm back toward him, holding her elbow gently in his hands.

Her gaze cleared in an instant as she searched around them for watchful eyes. But there was no interest from the row in front of them because the lady at the podium held the attention of the room. With the wall at their backs, they were all but alone and Lord Crosby knew it. He most likely had known it when he seated her there. But she didn't pull away on principle.

He silently tugged her glove down to investigate the damage to her elbow, while the lady at the front of the room spoke of flowers or pirates or something. Evangeline wasn't listening. He searched her skin until he found the center of the radiating pain where she'd collided with his button. Without a word between them, he began rubbing away the hurt. Slowly, she turned to look at Crosby.

For the first time, she wasn't able to find a trace of humor about his eyes. “Are you all right?” he whispered, concern drawing his brows together until there was a small line between them.

She nodded but was unsure if that was true since she couldn't pull her gaze from his. What was she doing? This was not how the evening was to transpire—hip to hip with a mysterious and not marriage-minded gentleman as he touched her. And yet she didn't want it to end.

He continued to rub gentle circles around her elbow, relaxing the muscles that had tensed there. The tenderness of his movements opposed everything she thought she knew of this man. He would leave her. Everything about him fairly screamed,
Guard your heart!
She knew better than to allow him to touch her. She knew better than to let the touching continue after the pain in her elbow receded. She certainly knew better than to allow him to pull her glove farther down her arm and draw shapes over the sensitive bare skin on the inside of her forearm. But she didn't pull away. With a thrill of rebellion, she allowed him to touch her, even silently begged him not to stop.

If she so much as flinched, the moment would be gone. He would release her arm, and she would never experience this again. The thought of facing the remainder of the evening without the warmth of his leg against hers, without the tickle of his fingers moving against her skin, or blast it all, the constant attention of this man she knew was wrong in every way possible, was the worst fate of all.

Time only moved in the front of the room where words were said and different ladies stood at the podium. In the back of the room, there were only the two of them and her awareness of the gentle, yet life-roughened hands that drew swirling lines down her arm toward her wrist.

He pushed her glove down farther until it bunched over the palm of her hand. Wrapping her hand within his, he pulled her arm toward him and rested it on his leg. Her breathing quickened. If anyone saw them…but she knew no one could see. They sat in the last two seats tucked away in the back corner of the room. Her eyes darted to his, watching him, waiting for his next move.

He lifted her hand from his leg and placed a kiss on the inside of her wrist. His lips were warm where they lingered on her skin. He'd kissed her twice before in private, and yet, here in the corner of a drawing room while society's eyes were diverted, this was the most intimate moment she'd ever experienced with a man. Placing her hand back on his leg, he slid her glove back into place. He ran the backs of his fingers over the exposed skin above her glove for but a moment, and then the recital was over. He stood and her hand fell back to her lap as if nothing had happened.

Evangeline fought off the immediate sense of loss that flooded her body and blinked. Was it over? It couldn't be—not yet. She hadn't heard a word that was said. Her regret wasn't over the poetry she'd missed, however, but the end of something delicate and magical that would likely never happen again.

She gathered her belongings with shaking hands and stood, avoiding all eye contact with Lord Crosby. They'd had enough real contact over the last hour that something untoward would certainly show on her face if she looked at him. The moment they'd shared was crashing in around her in the bustle of the rising crowd. The truth of her wild thoughts would surely be revealed, even in a glance, and she couldn't allow that to happen.

But then she tipped her head up in his direction anyway. It was as though every day of her life hadn't been spent in preparation for social situations. Perhaps her mother was correct—she did require more training to make proper choices while in London. Even knowing this, Evangeline couldn't look away. She was trapped by something beyond his clear blue gaze, some truth that hid behind his lies.

“Rousing poetry this evening,” Ash said, focused on a point beyond where she stood, all of a sudden looking as if his warm gaze had been thrown into icy waters. “Don't you agree, Lord Rightworth?”

Evangeline turned to see her father standing in the next row of seats, and her mother moving through the room in her direction.

“Mmm, yes. Quite,” her father replied.

“I believe Lady Evangeline was partial to the last one,
The Vanity of Human Wishes
. She seemed to truly be
touched
by the words.” He turned his attention to her. “Do you agree with Mr. Johnson's views on wealth?”