She forced herself not to flee the room. The fine line between coquette and harlot might drive him past the bounds of reason. A man with lust on his mind rarely behaved rationally, as she knew to her cost. Pinpricks raced down her spine.
The teacup her only barrier against his overpowering presence, she smiled. ‘I don’t think Mr Evernden would appreciate that.’
He shrugged. ‘No, he wouldn’t. It would be a pity to waste your talents, however.’
She sipped thoughtfully. ‘I prefer not to become a bone of contention between two brothers who seem fond of each other.’
His lips thinned. ‘That’s awfully kind of you, mademoiselle.’
He took the cup from her hand, set it on the table and drew her to her feet. He placed his hands on her shoulders, hot and heavy, a weight almost too great to suffer. She held her ground and stared boldly into his intent, dark eyes.
‘Christopher is a good man,’ he said. ‘Far better than I could ever hope to be. I suspect he’ll give you his heart if you want it. Don’t trample it in the dirt, if this is only about money.’
How long would she keep his heart before he tired of her? She couldn’t bear to find out.
Keeping her voice flat and distant, she selected her words with care. ‘Your brother feels obligated to provide for me. Like his uncle, he seeks to secrete me away like an unpleasant truth, to hide my scandalous past in case it besmirches the good name of Evernden. I prefer to go my own way.’
Doubt filled his expression.
Desperate, she played the last card in her hand. ‘If you help me, I will disappear from his life. Otherwise, I shall do my utmost to convince him to marry me and I promise you I will lead my life as I see fit. Quiet isolation and discretion are not words in my vocabulary.’
The lines beside his mouth deepened. ‘By God, you’re a cold-hearted bitch.’ A wolfish grin lit his face and he pulled her hard against him, breast to chest. He forced her chin up with his fist. ‘I thought you were a scheming little slut when I saw you first. You certainly have Christopher fooled and I almost let him convince me otherwise. But truth will out, Miss Boisette. Your true colours are revealed.’
She allowed a sultry smile to dawn on her lips. ‘And will you pay me to haul down my colours?’
He moistened his lips. ‘I might be persuaded.’
‘I have one request.’
‘And that is?’
‘That you say nothing about our arrangement to Christopher until I am long gone.’
A chuckle rumbled in his chest and vibrated through her. ‘One kiss and you shall have your money and be on your way.’
He lowered his mouth to hers. Lemon and bay, the scent of betrayal.
Bile rose in her throat. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t kiss Christopher’s brother. She ducked his seeking mouth.
‘What the devil is going on?’
They jerked apart.
Shaken, Sylvia turned to face the door and Christopher.
As bright with truth and honour as his brother was dark with deceit, he stared at them. Broad and solid. She wanted to fold herself within his strong arms. She cringed at the hurt in his eyes as he looked from one to the other.
With an awkward laugh, Garth raised his hands in a helpless gesture of appeal. ‘Sorry.’
‘Damn you, Garth. I’ll see you in the study. First I want a word with Miss Boisette.’
Rigid, he glared at Garth, who sauntered out. He turned his smouldering gaze on Sylvia. ‘Damn him. He’s incorrigible. I’ll make him apologise if I have to call him out.’
Mentally, Sylvia winced. ‘I—’
‘Never mind him now. I’ll deal with him.’ He strode to her side and took her hand in his, gentle and kind, warm and strong. The creases at the corners of his eyes begged for her touch. Control almost escaped her.
He guided her to sit and rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. Heat trailed from his touch all the way to her core. Her breasts tightened. She wanted to feel his hands on her body, his lips against her mouth. It was too late.
‘Everything is arranged,’ he said. ‘I will take you to Kent the day after tomorrow.’
It took all her will-power to speak. ‘I’m not going to Kent.’
His eyes widened. ‘Don’t be a fool. If Rafter discovers your whereabouts, he might do more than spirit you away to some ghastly brothel. You really don’t have a choice.’
The choice lingered in the study. Her heart ached. ‘I have plans of my own.’
His hazel eyes blazed, then his face hardened. ‘I won’t let you face Rafter or your father alone. Be realistic, Sylvia. You can’t do this without help and you’re penniless. Or have you forgotten that I have been keeping you for weeks?’
She was stung and heat rose to her cheeks. He’d turned something beautiful into a tawdry exchange of money for human flesh. ‘I have the money from the sale of Cliff House.’
‘There was no money. It was all mine, along with the gold I paid for you at Madame Gilbert’s.’
She sagged into the sofa back, the size of her indebtedness weighing heavy on her shoulders. And she intended to repay him with a lie.
Anger at being forced into a corner sharpened her tongue. ‘I will not continue as your dependant. I have my own life to live.’
He scrubbed at the back of his neck. ‘Frankly, whether you wish it or not, it is my duty to my uncle to protect you.’
Desperate, she clung hard to her decision. She kept her voice flat and cold. ‘Damn your duty, Christopher Evernden.’
When Garth told him what she had done, Christopher would recall this conversation and he would despise her. The thought of parting on such bad terms tore at her soul. Hot prickles burned behind her eyes and clogged the back of her throat.
Swallowing hard, she rose to her feet and, too cowardly to face him, glanced out of the window at grey clouds scudding across a watery blue sky. ‘My mind is made up.’ She strode out of the room and dashed up the stairs.
His angry words followed her. ‘Damn it, Sylvia. You will be ready to leave two days from now.’
She slammed the door of her room and turned the key.
Christopher clenched his fists. He didn’t know who he wanted to strangle first. Sylvia for her stubborn refusal to let him look after her, or Garth.
A picture of Garth with his hands on Sylvia rose up to choke him. Garth had frightened her. That was why she was behaving so strangely. Well, that was one problem he would resolve.
As Christopher entered the study, Garth leaned back in the chair behind his desk and lifted his booted feet on to one corner of the battered oak. He waved his glass towards the decanter in front of him. ‘Brandy, Kit?’
‘No. And you shouldn’t be drinking, either, since you will be driving your curricle back to town tonight.’
Garth grinned. ‘I drive better when I’m foxed, sobersides.’
‘That’s nonsense and don’t change the subject. What the deuce were you doing with Sylvia?’
‘Ah. The beautiful Miss Boisette.’ He raised his glass in a silent salute.
What the hell was the matter with him? He’d always been wild, but never suicidal. ‘Well?’
‘A momentary lapse, Kit. An aberrant feeling of affection that I don’t believe was returned.’
‘You don’t believe it was returned?’ A red haze filled his vision. ‘She was fighting you off, you idiot. Are you so foxed you can’t tell the difference between one of your whores and a decent woman?’
Garth sneered. ‘Are you?’
Garth must be sotted. It was the only possible explanation. Christopher stamped on his urge to smash his brother in the mouth. ‘You drunken, lecherous bugger. I’ll talk to you when you sober up.’
‘You may wait a very long time.’
Unable to contain his fury, Christopher swept Garth’s feet off the desk.
Garth lurched forward and spilled his brandy in his lap as his feet hit the floor. He cursed.
Christopher grabbed his coat front and,
nose to nose, glared into his brother’s sullen eyes. ‘I’ll only tell you this once. If you get within three feet of Sylvia again, I will call you out and I will kill you.’
Garth knocked Christopher’s hands away and staggered to his feet, his lip curled in a snarl. ‘You don’t have a chance in hell.’
The stupid arrogant bugger. ‘Try me.’
Garth’s cynical sneer shifted to haughty. For a moment, Christopher thought Garth would take the challenge, then he laughed. The hard-edged sound was as unlike Garth as anything he could imagine. ‘Not today, little brother. You have as much on your hands as you can manage.’ He slumped back into his seat. He looked as if he wanted to say more.
Christopher scowled. ‘Wait here and I will drive you back to London.’
Anxiety gnawing at his gut as he thought about the possibility of Rafter finding Sylvia, he took the stairs two at a time. Damn it, she would go to Kent.
He knocked on her chamber door.
‘Who is it?’
Her voice sounded husky and thick. He winced. Was she crying in there? A pang tightened his chest. He was doing this for her own good. ‘It’s me. Christopher.’
‘Go away.’
Not an auspicious response. He stared at the closed door. ‘We need to finish our conversation.’
Silence.
He knocked again. ‘Garth is an idiot. He is foxed. I am taking him back to town so you need not concern yourself about him any longer.’
‘As you wish.’ A sort of hopelessness filled her voice.
He wanted to hold her in his arms, comfort her, feel the silk of her hair against his cheek. ‘I’ll come tomorrow. Be packed and ready to leave.’
‘I am not going.’
Christopher rattled the door handle. ‘You are being unreasonable.’ He eyed the doorframe. He could easily break the lock, if he thought it would do any good. ‘Very well. We’ll talk tomorrow.’
Besides, he’d have plenty of time on the drive to Kent to convince Sylvia he was right.
The door remained firmly closed and he regarded it with regret. He’d hoped to stay the night, but had he no intention of sleeping on the sofa like an out-of-favour husband. Besides, he needed to ensure Garth got safely back to London and he still had to finalise things with his man of business before he left for an extended stay in the country.
There would be many other nights in their future. But by God, he hated to leave.
On the other side of the door, Sylvia pressed her forehead against the cool wood. It was the closest she could come to Christopher without opening it. She willed herself not to throw the door open, not to fling herself at his feet, not to beg forgiveness.
Swift and light, his tread descended the stairs. She forced herself not to call him back. The sound of male voices in the hall and the sharp click of the front door closing released her from her trance. She would never see him again.
Heavy-hearted, she moved away from the door. The stiff leather pouch in the centre of the bed dinted the blue counterpane. Bates had delivered it while Christopher wrangled with Garth in the study. She picked it up. It weighed heavy on her palm. One hundred guineas—it felt like thirty pieces of silver. Her price for betrayal. Blood money. Somehow, some day, she would repay Lord Stanford every penny. Perhaps that would wash away her guilt.
Dispirited, she turned to the task at hand. She sat down at the delicately inlaid rosewood escritoire. The cold little note she had written lay on its polished surface.
Thank you, it said. Not, I’ll die a little every day I don’t see your beloved face.
I wish you future happiness, it said. Not, I hope that in some corner of your heart you will always remember me.
Goodbye, it said. Not, I’ll miss your touch all the days of my life.
Cordially yours, it said. Not, Je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime.
Sylvia folded the note precisely, careful to ensure that none of her foolish tears marred its pristine surface. Slowly, lovingly, she wrote his name, Christopher Evernden.
Je t’aime, her heart replied.
Resolute, she propped it up against the glass inkwell where he would be sure to see it when he came the next day.
Chapter Sixteen
I n the chill blast of the early morning air, Sylvia hugged the cloak she had found in the bedroom wardrobe tighter around her shoulders, then quietly pulled the side door of the town house closed behind her. Bates had left it unbolted just as he promised.
Her quick steps tapped on the flagstones as she made her way past the front of the house to the street. The iron gate, cold under her hand, swung open silently on well-oiled hinges. Grey clouds blushed rosy in the eastern sky. The air smelled of wet grass and the first coal fires of the day.
Also as promised by Bates on behalf of his master, a post-chaise waited at the curb. Sylvia forced herself to concentrate on the future, not the past, and definitely not on Christopher’s likely reaction when he returned to find her gone.
Up at the second-storey window, Jeannie’s pale face peered through the glass. Sylvia had given Jeannie enough funds to take her to her relatives in Glasgow, promising to send for her once she found a home for them both.
Taking a deep breath, Sylvia climbed into the carriage.
Anticipation hummed in Christopher’s veins on his way into Evernden Place. It had taken him all morning to finalise his business; this afternoon he’d kicked his heels in Doctor’s Commons for hours. He couldn’t wait to get back to Blackheath and Sylvia. Why the hell had it taken him this long to decide?
He dashed past the butler, who had opened the door for him, and made for the stairs.
‘Excuse me, Mr Evernden.’
Christopher swung around, knowing he had a grin on his face and not giving a damn. ‘Yes, Merreck?’
‘Lady Stanford asked to see you the moment you returned. She is waiting in the drawing room.’
Mother. Damnation. He’d hoped to avoid her. She was not going to be pleased at his decision. His hand strayed to the breast pocket wherein nestled a small velvet-covered box and a special licence. A pang of the old guilt stirred in his chest. He didn’t want to be yet another disappointment in her life. What with his father’s temper and Garth’s dissolute lifestyle, she hadn’t had an easy time of it. Surely when she realised this was right for him, she would come around? No matter what anyone thought, he was going to ask Sylvia for her hand in marriage.
At least Garth wouldn’t turn his back. Some of his warmth dissipated as he recalled Garth’s hands on Sylvia and his mocking comments. He pushed his unease aside. Garth would be surprised to know it was the sight of him mauling Sylvia that had finally tipped the scales. Unable to stand the thought of another man touching her, Christopher had known exactly how to solve the problem.
His grin broadened at the thought of her happiness. God. His happiness too.
Squaring his shoulders, he strode to the drawing room and found Mother reclined on the sofa idly turning the pages of the Ladies’ Magazine. He raised her hand and pressed a brief kiss to her knuckles. ‘Mother. You were looking for me?’
She fluttered her handkerchief and the scent of lavender wafted around him. ‘Christopher, darling. Where have you been all day?’
‘I had urgent business matters in need of attention.’
‘You are taking me to Lady Wallace’s tonight, are you not?’
Wallace’s rout. Damn. He’d forgotten all about it. ‘I’m sorry. Something came up. I have to go out of town.’
She pouted. ‘You’re becoming just like Garth. You never have time for me any more.’
He grinned. ‘Mother, you don’t need me to escort you. You always end up abandoning me for one of your many admirers before the end of the evening.’
Her face brightened and her handkerchief stilled. ‘I’ll send a note around to Angleforth. He’s always most obliging.’
‘Good grief, Angleforth? He’s nothing but a dashed Bond Street beau. And he’s becoming far too marked in his attentions.�
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‘Your language, Christopher, is quite deplorable. The Marquess of Angleforth is one of my oldest and most faithful friends.’ A pretty pink suffused her cheeks and Christopher hid his smile.
He dropped into the chair next to her. ‘Mother, you do want me to be happy, don’t you?’
A surprised expression met his change of topic. ‘Of course. I want the best for both of my sons.’
‘If I were to become involved with a person you weren’t entirely pleased with, would you cast me off?’ Coward. He should have said marry.
Wide-eyed, she sat up, her air of languor disappearing. ‘Oh, Christopher. What can you mean?’
‘You wouldn’t, would you?’
Silent for a moment, she stared at him. ‘If it’s about that female…’
He frowned. ‘Mother.’
She sighed and leaned back against the damask cushions. ‘You are far too precious for me to deny you my company. But I would strongly advise you to proceed with care. The ton is unforgiving. No one knows that as well as I.’
A faraway expression crossed her face and Christopher was not sure what to make of it. She must mean Garth. He didn’t want this day spoiled by recriminations about his brother. He would tell her of his own plans later, when it was too late for arguments. He got up. ‘I have to go.’
‘Think before you act, darling,’ she murmured. ‘Mistakes remain with you for the rest of your life.’
Half-forgotten memories tugged at his consciousness, bitter words and harsh voices. ‘As with you and my father?’ The words were out before he thought about them.
A glaze of tears softened her blue eyes and provided the answer. He left her to her regrets and her memories.
When he entered his chamber, he found Reeves laying out his evening wear. Still sour about being left behind on Christopher’s last two excursions, the valet went about his duties in heavy silence. Christopher ignored him. His mood was far too high to be pulled down by Reeves’s sulks and, as the valet assisted him to dress, he made no attempt to close the breach. He wanted to reach Blackheath for dinner.
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