“You are lucky there are witnesses,” she grumbled.
By the time Evanston finally came downstairs, the late afternoon light had turned into an amber glow, filtering hazily through the south-facing windows of the drawing room. Being an uncommonly warm day, he had elected not to retain his coat and waistcoat, and given his intimate acquaintance with the family, he knew that formality would not be required. He could see immediately that both ladies were of a similar mind. They had changed into their lightest gowns. Even then, he noted in sympathy, they remained encumbered by layers of skirts.
Eliza looked miserably hot, the curve of her cheek tinged pink from the overbearing heat. Thomas remembered the discreet glimmer of perspiration on her face that evening in Belgravia, the night Landry had followed her into the garden. Then he recalled how she had retrieved a handkerchief to blot at the moisture, freeing his calling card from the confines of her reticule to flutter down amidst the mossy flagstones.
Evanston often wondered . . . had she destroyed the slip of paper that had served to bring her embarrassment, or did she still carry it out of sentiment?
Clara and Eliza stood to greet him, and he ceased his musings to bow politely in return. Rosa grinned impishly, bouncing on the powder-blue couch cushions, her dolly flopping about beside her. A turn of the head and an outstretched hand from her mother was all that was required to bring the child into standing, curtseying politeness.
Thomas couldn’t help but be entertained by the ever present mischievous twinkle in Rosa’s eyes. It reminded him of himself as a child, although on this specific occasion he knew the reason for her excitement. He slowly brought forth a box he’d been holding at his side and lowered himself next to the countess as she seated herself once again.
“It is my understanding, Miss Rosa, that you were exceptionally well behaved while your mother was away in London.” His eyes flicked over to Clara. “Is this true?”
Lady Ashworth smiled knowingly and folded her hands primly upon her lap. “Indeed, my lord. A finer example of youthful refinement I’ve yet to behold.”
Across from them, Eliza seated herself as well, but he detected a thoughtfulness to her movements, her gaze intensely focused on the box in his hands. It was a reaction that appeared to originate from something other than the expected anticipation of a gift. Her response stirred his curiosity.
Meanwhile, Rosa was literally quivering with anticipation. She left her dolly with her mother and came forwards to meet him.
“I tried to be good,” she whispered earnestly, twisting her fingers before her skirts.
Her seriousness caused him to laugh. “I know you did. Which is why you have earned this.” Thomas relinquished the gift box, wrapped in a wide, vibrant green ribbon, the color chosen as a tribute to the eyes of its recipient.
Those very eyes widened with delight, and he felt a pleasure so sharp and so different from any he’d ever felt that it caused his breath to halt in his throat. His gaze immediately sought Eliza, whose slender fingers were touching her lips in intrigued observation. Her eyes met his, but her expression was still frozen in contemplation, unsmiling. By way of contrast, Clara was beaming broadly.
“Open it, Rosa! What did he bring you?” she exclaimed.
The little girl tugged on the ribbon, then gripped the lid and raised it to reveal a china doll, wearing a soft ivory dress interwoven with golden thread. The doll did not have molded porcelain hair as many other dolls did, but was rather covered in an intricate blond wig. The wig was arranged in the fashionable style of Queen Victoria, parted in the middle with plaited sides that wound around the ears to meet atop the head in a knot. Rosa’s gasp could be discerned throughout the still of the drawing room, and she stared reverently at the blushing doll face, glazed and gleaming beneath her tiny fingers.
“This is a fancy dolly,” Rosa declared in awe.
Clara leaned over for a better view. “Oh, it’s lovely, Thomas. Where did you find such an exquisite gift?”
“There is a little shop on Bond Street that I frequent from time to time,” he replied with a smile.
Rosa gently scooped the doll from the padded confines of the box and held it as if it were a baby, causing Clara to chuckle softly. “You had better not be cleaning floors with that doll, Miss Rosa.”
“Oh, no,” replied the little girl. “I’ll be so careful.” She approached Thomas then, and he froze as Rosa’s eyes raised to his, filled with brimming appreciation. Leaning in, she placed a kiss squarely on his cheek. “Thank you.”
A little discomfited, yet gratified, by the sincere show of affection, Evanston bowed his head and smiled. “You’re very welcome.”
It was only upon glancing at Eliza that he saw she was not well. Her cheeks were now fully flushed, lungs working with the effort to take a normal breath. He regarded her in alarm.
“Eliza? What is—”
She rose abruptly, swaying slightly in her haste. “I beg your pardon . . . I need some air.”
Clara placed an arm around Rosa. “By all means, it’s dreadfully hot in here. I’ll watch after Rosa.”
Briefly waving her thanks, Eliza hurried from the room. Rosa’s eyes grew large as she regarded Clara.
“Is Mama sick?”
“No, no, my dearest. She is just so very sensitive to the heat.” Clara’s gaze shifted to Thomas, who had risen from his seat and was already halfway to the door. “But perhaps you could go check on her in a moment, my lord. To be certain.”
Eliza sank down onto the stone retaining wall near the garden, her breath hitching in her throat. Her eyes fell closed, and she pressed the heels of her palms against them until bright spots illuminated the darkness. She felt ridiculous for reacting in such a way, particularly in front of Thomas. But in the end, it had been her own foolish assumptions that had set her up for such a shock.
She’d been so certain Thomas had been at Bond Street seeking a gift for his mistress that day he’d been spotted by Caroline and her aunt. He’d built himself a dubious reputation upon the adoration of many women. So who would have guessed . . . who would have even believed . . . that the notorious libertine, Lord Evanston, would be seen in Bond Street buying a gift for a little girl? Her little girl, no less.
It meant disaster for her heart. If he cared for Rosa, it was more difficult to ignore his continued assertions that this time, it was different. That against all odds, he really did want more with Eliza. More than a flirtation. More than a few hours of pleasure. More than he’d experienced with any other woman.
With a groan of frustration, she buried her face in her hands. Thomas was a good person, but in William’s eyes, and perhaps even hers, he was fatally flawed. Her brother had seen him at his worst, in school and beyond, when Thomas hadn’t cared one whit for the good opinion of others. And as much as he held her family in high esteem, he’d betrayed them too on the night of her engagement. His greedy kiss in the name of insatiable curiosity was all it had taken for her to understand that, to him, loyalty was a flexible notion—one that could be bent and manipulated based on whichever desire tempted him most. Nor was that the only time he’d shown such selfishness. Even Rosa’s birth had apparently been an opportunity for him to indulge his bad habits, for he’d been discovered by Mrs. Malone the following morning, insensible with drink, lying haphazardly on the staircase.
Regardless of the tales, Eliza had to admit that Thomas must have felt very alone after the elder viscount’s death. She was sure the bitter insults he received regularly from his mother had served as a painful reminder of his father’s love, now lost forever. Perhaps this alone explained his gravitation to William and her family. Perhaps it explained why he had ventured to their house so often. Perhaps it explained his reckless, wild behavior.
And perhaps somewhere along the way, he had changed.
Reaching down, she gripped her skirts, balling her hands into fists and crushing the fragile muslin beneath her fingers. William would never be swayed, and she would be risking Rosa
’s well-being on a hope. A wish. What kind of mother was she, anyway, to consider such a match? To allow her own feelings to cloud her judgment? Feelings that were unsettling, and more confusing each and every day . . .
She stiffened at the sound of approaching steps. It was the footfall of a man, and Evanston appeared seconds later, his eyes glowing bright with concern despite the fading light and the shadows cast within the garden.
“Eliza?” he asked urgently, lowering himself down next to her on the wall. She turned away.
“I’m fine,” she said, annoyed, blotting at her heated face. “Thomas. I just—”
The gentle pressure of his fingers along the curve of her jaw quelled her remaining thoughts. He guided her head around until his eyes held hers fast within their turquoise depths, darting over the mottled surface of her cheeks.
“You’re not fine. You’re upset.” A notch formed between his brows as he released her. “Why?”
Because of you.
“No, truly I’m fine. It was just the heat . . .”
His low laugh surprised her, and he leaned back to regard her in confusion. “Eliza, given the traumas you have endured these past years, I would never have guessed you to be so vulnerable to a mere increase in temperature. Yet it seems to be your undoing, both here and in London.” Evanston shrugged. “Who knew?”
Eliza felt her mouth curve into a smile, even as her eyes narrowed at him. “You can go back inside if you insist on teasing me. I didn’t ask you to come out here.”
“And yet, I felt compelled,” he replied with a sigh. “Now be honest. I’m sure Caroline must have told you about my visit to Bond Street, so why did my gift seem like such a monumental discovery to you today?”
Her mouth opened in reply but the words died on her lips. How honest could she really be?
“Fine,” she relented. “I knew you had purchased a gift on Bond Street the day Caroline and Lady Frances saw you. I just thought . . . that it was for . . . someone else.”
Evanston’s gaze became alert. “How could you possibly surmise who it was intended for?”
“I suppose the fact you are often in female company has escaped your remembrance? Or that Mrs. Varnham had accompanied you around London?” she asked acidly.
A pause. Silence.
“I have not truly shared female company since before seeing you at the party in Belgravia,” he clarified.
The first time they’d met during the season. The night she’d met Landry, when Evanston had followed them out into the garden. Eliza stared at him, inordinately aware of the sounds of their breathing and the luscious fragrance of the peonies fanning out from behind them.
This would mean that he hadn’t been with a woman in months.
“I don’t understand . . .”
His head lowered. “I think you do.”
Pressing her lips tightly together, Eliza tried to ignore the surge of adrenaline racing through her veins. If she could not, she worried her next action would be the gripping of his white linen shirt as she pulled him close.
“But Mrs. Varnham said—”
“Mrs. Varnham was lying.”
She stared at him, desperately grasping for something to say. “Even so, you have never liked children,” she pointed out. “What would lead me to believe you would go out of your way to buy her a gift?”
Thomas looked taken aback. “I have always cared for Rosa.”
“Perhaps, although I remember a day when you spoke of never wanting children of your own.”
His face turned serious. “Yes, because I can’t imagine worrying about them. It seems it would be a terrifying burden. But there is no denying that Rosa is like family to me.” He shook his head and glanced away, then rose to a stand. “I should be heading back—”
Her hand shot out to grasp his. The move surprised them both, and she stared at her hand as if it belonged to someone else.
“I’m sorry, Thomas,” she said before she could lose her courage. “You’ve always been kind to Rosa . . . despite what you may have said before.”
Evanston stood there for a moment, his fingers warm and strong around her own. Then, with a soft tug, he pulled her upward to face him. They were standing much too close, the heat from his body scorching her own, and she could detect a hint of his masculine scent . . . spicy, almost woodsy . . . as a wayward breeze stirred the air around them. Eliza felt herself tilting in his direction, could perfectly recall the sublime sensuality of his kiss. Knew that, were he to lean down, she would willingly be lost once again.
“Don’t kiss me,” she whispered, panicking. “Please.”
His eyes held hers fast as they wandered over her in sultry evaluation.
“The next time we kiss, Eliza,” he stated quietly, “it will be at your behest.”
She folded her arms across her chest and raised her eyebrows defiantly, while inside she feared it was the truth. It took every ounce of restraint she possessed not to beg him for it now. Feebly, she made an attempt at anger.
“Caroline warned me, you know,” she said accusingly. “She said you were buying time to seduce me.”
He evaluated her sternly before making his reply. “Lady Caroline knows better.”
To that Eliza had no reply, angry or otherwise, and she could only watch him mutely as he turned on his heel and strode back into the house.
Chapter Thirteen
“May I request the honor of this dance?”
Sir James Landry led Eliza to the dance floor, his gloved hand lightly touching hers, and she turned to face him with a swirl of her skirts, assuming a proper starting position.
The music began and they were off, his lead effective and reserved, blue eyes smiling down at her throughout the turns and steps. She couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit disappointed. For what, she knew not.
The lilting cadence of the waltz echoed through the ballroom. This had been what she’d wanted, to be courted by him. Such a respectable man would surely make a fine father for Rosa. His hand tightened upon her waist and he spun her faster, making her dizzy. It wasn’t an entirely unpleasant feeling, so she allowed her eyes to drift closed, enjoying the feeling of floating across the dance floor, wrapped safely in the arms of the man she would marry.
They twirled around and around. He pulled her closer against him, but he felt different somehow. Larger. More impressive. Enticing. Distantly, she noticed that the music was playing faster, much faster than was required. She felt Landry lean forwards, his breath hot against the side of her neck.
“Have I told you how lovely you look, Eliza?”
Her nerves sparked with fiery awareness. With eyes still closed, she felt her lips curve into a smile.
“You never speak that way to me.”
Another dizzying turn.
“You just never listen.”
She frowned. Something wasn’t right. Her eyes snapped open, and to her utter dismay, she found herself in the arms of Lord Evanston.
The music played even faster.
Eliza needed to find Sir James, although truly, she had no desire to leave. The viscount’s eyes were not the disappointment they’d been with Landry, but electric blue. His arms were warm and solid. She ached for him to bring her closer, could feel the strength of his own longing.
“I don’t understand,” she protested weakly as they swooped together into another turn. Eliza wasn’t just dizzy now. She was no longer even able to tell floor from ceiling.
Abruptly, the song ended. The spinning stopped. Evanston finally pulled her closer, and she stopped breathing.
“I think you do,” he whispered.
Eliza jerked awake with a gasp, her frenzied pants sounding strange within the solitary interior of her bedchamber. Her heart drummed wildly in her chest. Moonlight streamed in through the gauzy curtains, and she could discern the sheets upon her bed twisted wildly around her feet.
Gingerly, she plucked her sweaty nightgown away from her body. After rolling off the mattress to a stand, she strippe
d off the soaked fabric, then wandered naked, stubbing her toe on her mother’s armoire in a blind search for a new covering. Eliza squeaked in pain and leaned down to grasp the affected foot. Perhaps that was her mother admonishing her from beyond the grave for being so foolish.
At the very least, it seemed even her sleeping mind knew that Thomas posed a serious threat to her sanity. At most, he threatened everything she had worked towards during the season. She’d often yearned for the mother she’d never had, but it was now, when she could use some motherly advice, that she ached for her most.
The pain in her toe soon abated, and she worked up the courage to continue her quest for clothing. She found a fresh nightgown and slid it over her head, then stood shivering in the dark, considering what she should do. At last, she had an idea. Lighting a candle, she opened her door to creep quietly downstairs to the library.
She was going to write a letter requesting some much needed reinforcements.
Two weeks later, and Thomas knew with certainty that Eliza was avoiding him. Her visits to Lawton Park dwindled, becoming less and less frequent. Clara took the carriage to the Dower House each morning, but more often than not, it was only Rosa who accompanied her back on the return.
He had plenty of regrets about Eliza, and nearly as many about her brother. Thomas knew he had gone about this the wrong way—gone about everything the wrong way—and that William would be well within his rights to cast Thomas out of their lives for good should he ever learn the truth.
His pursuit of Eliza would not be easily forgiven, especially when one had been warned off in the first place. Thomas could only imagine the extent of his friend’s rage had he actually been successful, and now, was it any wonder Eliza stayed away? Would it be any surprise when William despised him for this betrayal of his trust?
On this morning, he sat in the breakfast room, brooding sullenly over his coffee. He had attempted, and failed, to eat—his plate sitting before him, the food long gone cold. Clara entered quietly, looked in his direction, then retrieved her own coffee from the sideboard. She seated herself across the table to observe him thoughtfully.
Viscount Can Wait, The EPB Page 19
