“One gets bored on a ship. Unlike working here, in a gambling den.”
“It gets boring, looking at ledgers and such all the time.”
Tristan grinned. “What do you do when you get bored?”
Rafe looked at him as though he’d asked if he could fly. “I continue working. Boredom is not an excuse not to work.”
“Do you ever go sailing?”
Rafe returned his attention to the sphere. “No.”
“I’ve started a business of designing yachts, having them built. The first, I just finished, is mine of course, but I thought the second could be yours.”
“I have no need of a boat.”
Tristan fought not to clench his jaw. A yacht was not a boat. Especially the ones he was designing. By God, the luxury built into his own vessel was appalling. “You might be surprised. The sea can bring calm to the soul.”
“If one has a soul, but still it’s not something on which I wish to waste my hard-earned coin.”
“I wasn’t going to have you pay for it. It would be another gift. God knows I don’t need the money, and I enjoy designing something that so closely resembles a ship.”
Rafe studied him. “What are you doing here, Tristan? We’re not friends, acquaintances, or even brothers, really.”
Tristan shoved himself to his feet. “We are brothers.”
“Why? Because we came from the same mother, had the same father? Being a brother is more than that.”
“Why will you not let go of the past? It’s tearing Sebastian up that you’ve yet to forgive him for leaving you at that blasted workhouse. Do you really think he had a choice?”
“We all have choices.”
Tristan knew this discourse was pointless. Rafe was beyond listening. Tristan took some comfort in the fact that Rafe hadn’t flung the globe across the room. He sighed. “I’m going to christen my new yacht in two weeks. I thought you might like to go sailing with us.”
“I shall be too busy.”
“Enjoying your new mistress?”
“She’s none of your concern.”
“Bring her.”
Rafe’s brow furrowed. “You’re joking. She’s the by-blow of an earl. I’m sure her presence would offend the sensibilities of your wife.”
“If you think that, then you don’t know my Anne very well. And I wish you did. She’s a remarkable woman. You’d like her. Anyway—” Tristan set his empty glass on the desk. “—the invitation is open should you change your mind. Two weeks from Friday, be at Easton House at eleven.”
“Sebastian’s invited as well.”
“Of course he is. He, his wife, and his heir.”
“My schedule is full.”
“Your loss.”
Tristan turned on his heel and marched from the room. He wouldn’t give up on Rafe, not yet.
Rafe had never expected to be glad of a visit from his brother, but for a few moments he’d been spared thoughts of Evelyn Chambers. She’d been haunting him all day, and he knew that as of twenty-two minutes ago—if Wortham were punctual at all—she had arrived at his residence. Laurence would show her to her bedchamber, introduce her to the maid—Lila—who would see to dressing her, fixing her hair, and whatever else ladies’ maids did. Servants would assist in unpacking her things. They would see that she was settled and comfortable as she waited for his arrival.
Spinning the globe, he suddenly wished he was somewhere else—someone else. If his brothers ever learned the truth about the sort of man he truly was, they would want little to do with him. He shoved back the rancid thoughts.
Mick, his main man, stepped through the doorway. His slender physique hid a well-toned body that often gave Rafe a good going over when they sparred in the boxing room hidden away downstairs.
“I thought you should know that Lord Wortham has settled his accounts.”
Rafe fought not to look surprised. “Where did he get the money I wonder?”
“I can ask around.”
“No need. It’s not important.” The reckless way he played at cards, he’d be back in Rafe’s debt soon enough. “Has Ekroth made an appearance?”
“About an hour ago.”
As a general rule, Rafe didn’t allow cheating in his establishment. Not from his customers and certainly not by those hired to oversee the games. But sometimes exceptions were needed. “See that the games don’t favor him tonight.”
Mick arched a thick dark brow. While he might have been hoping for an explanation, he knew better than to insist upon one. “I’ll arrange it.”
“You may also inform him that he is barred from spending any time with the girls.”
“He’ll take his business to another club if he’s not satisfied here.”
“I’ll ensure no other club will have him.”
After Mick left, Rafe set the globe on the corner of his desk and gave it one final spin. He’d not relegate it to a shelf. He wasn’t quite certain how he felt about it. Grateful, but not quite comfortable with the gratitude.
It was nearly four hours later before he left his office and made his way to the back stairs at the rear entry of the building. He’d never had a guest at his residence, few knew where he lived. He didn’t know why he had given Wortham his address instead of simply sending for the girl. For some reason, the night before, his ability to think coherently had left him completely for a time. Thank goodness it had returned.
He climbed into his carriage. He was not avoiding what awaited him at the residence. He simply had a great many items at the club that required his attention: bills, deliveries, cheaters.
It was dark, a light drizzle falling, by the time his carriage clattered to a stop in front of the monstrosity that he owned. He didn’t know why he’d bothered to take it for payment of a debt owed, except that at the time he’d wanted it and he’d felt that a man of his wealth should own a residence. Even if he seldom spent any time here.
He preferred his apartments at the club. They weren’t as quiet. The walls thrummed with the activity that took place on the floors below. He could be in a room alone, but not feel lonely. Here, the servants were so blasted quiet that they might as well be ghosts.
Like some ominous harbinger of ill winds, lightning flashed as he stepped out of his carriage and strode up the steps. It was chilly tonight, but he would have a woman to warm him. Already he was reconsidering his misgivings about this arrangement. She would come in handy after all.
Before Rafe arrived at the landing, Laurence was opening the door. Sometimes he thought the butler did little else except stand at the ready to open the door for him. He handed over his hat and coat. He began tugging off his gloves. He wanted to go to his room and remove everything but that would have to wait. “Is she here?”
“Yes, sir. Waiting in the parlor, but I’m not sure …”
His voice trailed off. Rafe stilled and gave him a hard glare. “But what, man? Spill it.”
“I’m not quite sure she understands her purpose in being here. She seems to believe she is to manage the household.”
Rafe shrugged. “She can do that if she wishes.”
Laurence scowled. “I am given to understand that she believes it is to be her only duty.”
Rafe swore harshly. Wortham, the stupid little sod, wouldn’t explain things, would he? It was his lack of guts that characterized his losing at the tables. What did she think last night was about?
“She brought her things, did she not?” he asked, slapping his gloves into Laurence’s waiting palm.
“No, sir, I fear she brought nothing save herself. Lord Wortham made quite the hasty retreat. It left her a bit flummoxed.”
“No matter. I’m sure she knows why she’s here.” And that he would be providing everything she required. He headed for the parlor.
“What time will you be dining, sir?” Laurence asked.
“Give us half an hour.” That should be all the time he needed to set things right with her, to lay out her duties, his expectations.
> Opening the doors to the parlor, he strode in, staggered to a stop. She was in profile, standing by the window, gazing out on the rain, looking as forlorn as the weather. She turned slightly at his entry. She was wearing black, a hideous color. It made her look ill. He wanted to see her in blue, a deep blue that would enrich the shade of her eyes. It appeared she was baring very little skin, that her dress buttoned up to her chin, but it was impossible to be certain because she was wearing a cloak.
“I see Laurence didn’t adequately see to your comfort, didn’t bother to take your wrap.”
She brought it more closely about her. “No, he offered, but I’ve been chilled, even with the fire.”
“Scotch should help there.” He went to a table in the corner and poured a generous amount into two glasses, concentrating on his actions because for some damned reason his hands were shaking. It had nothing to do with the notion that he would soon be touching her, stripping her clothes from her body, ordering her to lie on his bed—
Later, that would all come later. He’d been fighting all day not to think about it. Lust. It was all lust, animalistic, barbaric needs that a man possessed, that consumed him. He shoved aside all thoughts of what secrets might be hidden from him beneath her clothing, picked up the glasses, and crossed over to where she waited beside a chair near the fireplace. At least she’d moved away from the window.
He could not mistake the wariness in her eyes as she took the glass he extended toward her. She was right to fear him. He wouldn’t abuse her, he would never willingly hurt her, but he had little doubt that eventually he would cause her pain. Even the women he paid for his pleasures suffered some because he gave them nothing beyond the physical, and women, bless them, seemed to need more than that.
He simply didn’t have it to give. Which was the reason that he’d avoided feminine encounters for a good long while now, because he couldn’t stand the disappointment that always seem to punctuate his leaving. He did not hold, he did not cuddle, he did not allow them to hold him.
Taking a chair by the fire, he indicated the one opposite him. Slowly, gracefully, she sank into it. Both her gloved hands circled the glass. Such small hands. He imagined them circling him. He’d barely know they were there. Perhaps—
He forced away the thoughts because his body was reacting and the last thing he wanted to do was frighten her. He sipped slowly on his Scotch while she studied the fire. Finally she brought her gaze to bear on him.
“Geoffrey—” she began.
“Geoffrey?”
She gave him a small smile. “Lord Wortham. I’m afraid I’ve not quite accepted that my father is gone. Anyway, he said I was here to manage your household, but quite honestly it appears to be well managed already, so I’m not quite certain what I could contribute.”
“I’m certain you can contribute quite a bit.” He savored another long sip. “What were his exact words?”
Her delicate brow furrowed, she looked back at the fire. “That I was to see to your needs.”
“My needs,” he emphasized. “Not those of my residence.”
Her gaze swung back to him, the furrow deeper. “I’m not sure I understand. Do you not have a valet to see to your needs?”
“I have a valet.”
“Then I can’t see that I would have much to do.”
She was too innocent, far too innocent for the likes of him. He should send her back to her brother, but unfortunately for Evelyn, he had decided that he wanted her. He wasn’t quite certain when it struck him so forcefully that he did. Perhaps when he opened the parlor door and saw her waiting there. Waiting for him. When had anyone ever been waiting for him?
“What did you think was the purpose of last night’s … entertainment?”
“To secure me a husband.”
He nearly choked on his Scotch. The very last thing he would ever contemplate was marriage. If she knew him at all, she’d know that. But therein resided part of the problem: she didn’t know him, and he preferred to keep it that way.
“I was most surprised,” she continued, “to find myself arriving at your residence when I was left with the distinct impression that you found me hardly worth a thought.”
Hardly worth a thought? How he wished that was true. He’d been unable to stop thinking about her since he’d first seen her. She invaded his dreams, inhabited his thoughts, occupied his mind.
“To be quite honest,” she carried on, “I suspect I will not be here long before someone offers for me. I doubt it is worth it to either of us for me to be in your employ.”
While he didn’t relish the thought of shattering her naiveté, he didn’t much like this dancing about either. Best to just get it said. “You’re not to be in my employ. You’re to be in my bed.”
She blinked, blinked, blinked. Opened her mouth, closed it. Blinked again. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your brother was seeking to find a man to take you as his mistress, not as his wife.”
She shook her head slightly as though she were almost frozen in disbelief, as though working out what he’d said was taking all her energy. “That can’t be. He promised Father that he would see that I was well taken care of.”
“Mistresses are often treated better than wives. At least I have no wife on the side, which is more than I can say for a few of the gents who were in attendance last night. As my mistress—”
“You can’t possibly want me to be your mistress. You don’t even like me.”
“I don’t have to like you to bed you. Truth be told, it’s better that there be no sentiment between us.”
She came to her feet in such a rush he was surprised she didn’t stumble. However, she did drop her glass. It fell to the carpet, spilling his extremely expensive Scotch.
“You’re wrong about last night,” she announced, her eyes welling with tears. “About Geoffrey’s intentions. He wouldn’t have brought me here if he’d known what you assumed, what you planned. He promised. He promised Father …”
Then she fairly raced from the parlor. He heard the front door slam, could almost feel the walls trembling with the impact. Swearing harshly, he tossed back his Scotch.
He supposed he could have handled that a bit better.
Chapter 4
Evelyn ran. And ran. And ran.
Her legs churning, her chest aching as she fought for breath, the tears blurring her vision. The rain pelted her, seeped through her clothing. Somewhere along the way she lost her hat, her pins. Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders, absorbed the wetness, weighted her down.
It was lies. It was all lies. Geoffrey wouldn’t be so cruel. In spite of the fact that he had never given her leave to think that he liked her overly much, he was innocent in this debacle. He’d not known what that horrid Rafe Easton had assumed, had planned. When she explained to Geoffrey what the man said, what he expected of her, Geoffrey would call him out. He would insist upon pistols at dawn. In honor of his father, he would protect her reputation. He would not allow her to be completely ruined.
Although he had never given her cause to believe that he would champion her, he was enough of a gentleman that he would not stand by while some cur took advantage of her.
All she had to do was get home. Thank God it wasn’t that far. She remembered the way. One street, and then another and another, and she would be there. The few people she passed stared at her as though she were a mad woman. But it was Rafe Easton who should be carted off to Bedlam.
Geoffrey would apologize for the misunderstanding, and then he would make everything all right. Years from now they might even laugh about it. When she was married and had children and a husband who loved her. He would love her. Maybe not at first, but in time.
What Rafe Easton proposed was so hideously horrible. How could he be so cold, so harsh, so uncaring? How could he think she would welcome his touch?
She wouldn’t. She would die first. She would scrub floors, she would … she would—
She couldn’t think, but it didn’t
matter. Geoffrey had made a promise. He would keep it. He would see that she was well cared for.
Drenched to the bone, she turned up the long drive. The gaslights were lit along the path, guiding her. Her entire body was aching now. It was becoming harder and harder to pull air into her lungs. She stumbled, landed hard on her knees and hands, jarring her bones, rattling her teeth. Pushing herself to her feet, she staggered on and trudged up the steps.
She expected the door to open. A footman was always standing there to open it, but then they weren’t expecting her, were they? Grabbing the handle, she pressed it and pushed on the door—
It didn’t open. It was locked!
She banged the knocker. Over and over. Harder and harder, with the crash echoing around her. No one came.
“Geoffrey!” Oh, God, surely he wasn’t out of sorts about that. “Wortham! Wortham! My lord!”
She heard a click, the door opened slightly, and the butler peered out, barring her entrance.
“Manson, thank God. Let me in.”
“I’m sorry, miss. His lordship has forbidden me to allow you entry into the residence.”
“What? No, you’re mistaken. He wouldn’t—”
“I’m sorry, miss. But we have our orders.”
His expression as bland as unseasoned food, he closed the door. When she tried to open it, she found it once again locked.
She banged, kicked, screamed until she was hoarse. Her knuckles were bruised, her toes ached. Dejected, horrified, terrified, she unceremoniously crumpled onto the landing, all her strength zapped from her. The rain pelted her unmercifully, but surely he would eventually open the door if she just stayed here long enough. He had misunderstood his orders. Surely.
She became vaguely aware of someone crouching before her. She lifted her face. Through the haze of her hot tears, she saw Rafe Easton. His black hair was plastered to his head. He appeared to be as wet as she.
“Come with me, Evelyn,” he said, his voice calm, even.
She shook her head. “They won’t let me in. There’s been a mistake. He wouldn’t do this to me. He promised Father. He promised.”
“You’re soaked through. You’re going to catch your death.”
Lorraine Heath - [Lost Lords of Pembrook 03] Page 4
