“Fair? I will be ruined.”
“You were ruined the moment you were born.”
Her stomach lurched at the truth of his words. Her father had protected her from the gossip and rumors, and in doing so, he’d given her false expectations. She thought she would marry a lord, and now she was discovering she wasn’t worthy of a guttersnipe.
Studying this man, she saw no kindness in his features, no compassion, no sympathy. Yet he had come after her, had carried her through the rain. Because he thought he owned her, or was it because as he’d said, he knew what it was to be where she was? But how could that be when he was the third son of a duke?
“I’ll have your answer now,” he said.
“You won’t even allow me the kindness of sleeping on it?”
“I told you last night that I am not kind.”
But she could see that he was strong, implacable, confident. If she could learn from him to be the same, perhaps no one would ever be able to take advantage of her again. It made her stomach roil to realize that all the men last night had been contemplating entertaining themselves at her expense. Their lascivious gazes made a great deal more sense. She suspected that one or two of them would have already had her on her back by now.
“If I say no?”
“I’ll have the servants return your damp clothes so you are free to take your leave.”
And go where? Do what?
“You’ve only given me the illusion of choice,” she said.
This time, she couldn’t mistake the appreciation that lit his eyes. “I knew you were a woman of keen intelligence.”
“You promise to help me ensure that Geoffrey regrets what he did?”
“I have a talent for making men regret what they’ve done.”
She wasn’t quite certain that it was a talent to be boasted about, but she had little doubt that he was a man of his word. He could have taken her already. He could have barged in here and had his way with her. For all her bravado about fighting him, she knew he could conquer her, quite easily if he set his mind to it. That he hadn’t already told her a good deal about his character, when it came to women at least.
“I suppose this arrangement will begin tonight.”
“Not tonight. It’s late. You’re undoubtedly tired. I’ll give you a few days to become accustomed to the notion, to become more comfortable with me. I don’t want you dreading what is to happen between us. But make no mistake that if you spend tonight here, you will spend other nights in my bed.”
She heard a cold ruthlessness in his voice. A gambling hell owner. A man to whom Geoffrey owed a debt. A man who had sat alone the night before, that all the other lords watched warily from a good distance away.
“Have you a coin?” she asked.
He furrowed his brow. “A coin?”
Her stomach gathering into little knots, she nodded. “It’s something my father taught me, when I had a difficult decision to make, and wasn’t quite certain which way to go. I flip a coin.”
She thought she saw the barest twitch in his lips. “You’re going to allow chance to decide so grave a matter?”
“You should appreciate that—being a gambling house owner.”
“Fate is seldom a friend.”
“At this moment, it may be the only friend I have. A coin?”
He took a long breath, studied her, looked as though he might comment further, but finally reached into a small pocket at the waist of his trousers, removed a silver coin, and offered it to her.
Taking it, she skimmed her thumb over Victoria’s profile, inhaled deeply, tossed it, and let it fall to the carpet. “Heads,” she said quietly. “I stay.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You’re supposed to announce before you flip what you’re associating with each side.”
“My father taught me that I didn’t have to do it like that.”
“Not much of a gambler, your father.”
She shook her head. He never spoke of gambling. “A fortunate thing, as he gambled on Geoffrey seeing after my welfare. A rather unfortunate wager.”
Leaning over, he snatched up the coin and slipped it back into his pocket. “That remains to be seen. You stand to gain a great deal.”
“But at an unconscionable cost.”
“Still, you agree to the terms?”
As much as she didn’t want to, she nodded. She had decided her course, she would see it through.
Stepping forward, standing in front of her, he held out his hand. His large, long-fingered, ungloved hand. She must have somehow managed to swallow a bird because there was intense fluttering just behind her breastbone. “You said you wouldn’t bed me tonight.” Her voice sounded small, fearful. She hated it.
“I’m not. I’m merely going to help you to your feet.”
She placed her hand in his. Hers seemed so tiny, and when he closed his fingers around it, she was incredibly aware that he could easily break her with very little effort. She was surprised by the coarseness of his flesh. These were not the hands of a gentleman. He drew her up, then expertly moved her arm behind her back, somehow snagging her other wrist until both were held within his firm grasp. With his free hand, he cradled her face, stroked her cheek with his thumb.
“You will learn to do things as I like them done,” he said softly, in a voice that promised pleasures. His eyes captured and held hers, and she thought that even if he wasn’t holding her, she’d not have been able to break away. “I have particular needs. The first is that you are to never wrap your arms around me.”
“Why not?” she whispered.
“Because it’s what I require.” He lowered his lips to hers, and she realized that if he hadn’t manacled her wrists that her arms would have twined about him of their own accord, simply to ensure that she remained standing when her knees grew so weak.
His tongue toyed with her mouth, painting it, outlining it as though he wanted to be intimately familiar with it. Then he was urging her lips apart and delving into the depths of her mouth with an urgency that astounded her. He might not like her, but it was becoming plain enough rather quickly that he was quite fond of her mouth. He explored every inch of it, every nook, every cranny, every hidden corner. When she dared to meet the thrust of his tongue with a thrust of her own, he groaned low and pressed her against his broad chest. Through the thin linen of his shirt and the maid’s well-worn nightly attire, she could feel the thudding of his heart, sense its increase in tempo.
When she tried to break free of his hold, his hand clamped harder on her wrists, just shy of causing pain. She relaxed her shoulders, relaxed her arms. Why couldn’t she hold him? She’d held him in the rain as he’d carried her home. Had she hurt him? Was she stronger than she thought? Had it been unpleasant?
She didn’t know what to make of his rule, his demand, and she wondered if he would have many. She suspected he would. She was agreeing to allow him to do whatever he wanted with her, and yet if his kiss were any indication of the pleasures she might find with him, she thought that perhaps he was right—it would not be such an awful trade.
The kiss deepened, grew hungrier. Her sighs were now mingling with his groans. She felt guilty for enjoying the way he played with her mouth. She should be ashamed, but perhaps she was more like her mother than she realized. Her mother had not required marriage in order to lay down with the earl. And here she was coming to understand that her regrets regarding this arrangement might not outweigh the benefits.
Breaking away, he stared down at her, his icy blue eyes not quite so icy, a heat there that astounded her.
“I think you’ll do rather nicely,” he said. Releasing his hold, he walked from the room before she could gather her wits about her to reply.
She sank back into the chair, brought her legs up, and wrapped her arms tightly around them. His comment left her empty. Suddenly her brother wasn’t the only one she wanted to have regrets regarding his treatment of her.
She wanted Rafe Easton to regret having taken her as a mist
ress instead of a wife.
Chapter 5
Kissing her had been a colossal error in judgment. Her lips were like silk. Her mouth, smoky with his Scotch, had tasted particularly inviting. Her sighs were as low and throaty as her voice. The sounds had sent desire shooting through him.
As a general rule he didn’t misjudge his actions, but from the moment she had walked into his life, he’d been having a time of it when it came to rational decisions.
He’d claimed her for his mistress.
He’d trotted after her into the rain like a misbegotten fool.
He’d carried her home, knowing the torment that would entail.
He’d promised to give her time instead of sinking into her molten heat tonight as he desperately wanted.
He’d kissed her.
And now he was heading to Wortham’s.
At least this time he’d had the good sense to have the carriage brought round. He tugged on his waistcoat. He hated that he had to display himself fully dressed in order to properly throw around his weight. Clothing always made him feel as though he was suffocating. He could trace his aversion back to his experiences living at the workhouse.
His arrival at Wortham’s stopped him from having to travel that particular path of memory. It was not pleasant, and he’d not thought of it in years. He’d shoved it into the back corner of his mind, just as he shoved everything upon which he did not wish to dwell. No good would come from taking it out and examining it further—other than to stir up the resentment he felt toward his brothers for abandoning him.
He stepped out of the carriage, bolted up the steps, and slammed the knocker, once, twice, thrice. The butler responded with a slowness that would have had him relieved of his post if he were in Rafe’s employ. It didn’t matter that it was half past midnight.
As soon as the door opened a crack, he barged past the butler. Eve should have done the same. She shouldn’t have allowed him to block her way. She’d been too polite by half. She might not carry the title of lady, but by God she was one. Too good for the likes of him, but that didn’t make him want her any less.
“Where’s Wortham?” he snapped.
“He’s not at ho—”
Rafe swung around and pinned the man with a hard-edged glare that he had honed to perfection during the years he had worked as a debt collector for someone on the shady side of the law. He knew it spoke of punishment and retribution. It put the fear of God into large brawny men.
The slender butler did little more than stammer, “The library, sir.”
He’d been there last night, so he had no trouble finding it. He didn’t bother to soften the stamping of his large feet. He wanted Wortham to be well aware that hell was arriving.
Rafe burst through the door. Wortham bolted to his feet. He’d been behind his desk, studying something. Ledgers perhaps, it didn’t matter.
“Changed your mind about her already, have you?” Wortham asked with a sneer. “I knew she wouldn’t measure up.”
“Your father gave her jewelry. I want it.”
Wortham looked as though Rafe had punched him. “That was not part of the bargain.”
“You dropped her off at my residence with nothing more than the clothes upon her back.”
“Because she’s yours to see after now. Everything else my father purchased. That makes it mine.”
“Not the jewelry. Hand it over and you’ll continue to breathe.”
“I’m growing quite weary of that threat. I don’t owe you anymore. So I see no need—”
Rafe rounded the desk with remarkable speed, wrapped his hand around Wortham’s throat, and shoved him against the wall. “You see no need for what? To heed my words?”
Anticipating that he might have to resort to a show of force, he’d not worn gloves. He knew precisely where to press his thumb to cut off air, to cause pain. Wortham’s eyes bulged. He gasped. He dug his fingers into Rafe’s wrist. He’d have marks there tomorrow, dammit. If he wasn’t striving to make a point, he’d simply snap the man’s neck. But Wortham didn’t deserve death, and of all Rafe’s sins through the years, killing a man who didn’t deserve it was not one of them.
Wortham gagged. Nodded.
Rafe loosened his hold. “You had some wisdom to impart?”
“Sold it,” Wortham rasped.
So that was how the weasel had paid off his debt earlier that evening. Releasing him, Rafe stepped away to avoid the possibility of encountering a mess, as it appeared Wortham was on the verge of tasting his dinner for a second time. “To whom?”
Wortham rubbed his neck, shook his head. “Don’t know. Some fence.”
“Describe him.”
“Small, black hair, black teeth. Has a kinship with some rodent I imagine. Met me at a tavern.”
Rafe arched a brow. “The tavern have a name?”
“The Golden Lion.”
“Good.” He considered ending Wortham’s membership at his club, but he’d rather have the man where he could see him. Besides, it made it easier to torment him, and he was a man in need of tormenting. “Should I discover that there is anything else here that your sister longs to have, rest assured that I shall return to claim it.”
“But I’m selling things.”
“Do not sell anything else of hers until you’ve heard from me.”
“That was not part of the arrangement.”
“I’m restructuring the arrangement.”
Wortham’s face turned a mottled red. “You have no right to order me about. I am an earl.”
“Take care with your words, Wortham, or next time, I might not release you until you’re shaking hands with the devil.”
On that note, Rafe spun on his heel and strode from the room. He was quite familiar with the Golden Lion, although in his opinion, it would have been more aptly named the Tarnished Scrawny Cat. Its clientele were not the best that London had to offer. Because of that, Rafe would be quite at home there as he searched for the man who had the jewelry he sought.
Evelyn awoke feeling as though a heavy thunderstorm had taken up residence in her skull. That she had slept at all was a miracle. She tried not to think about the bargain she’d struck. With the pale morning sunlight easing in through the window, she considered dressing, then quietly leaving, seeking sanctuary somewhere else. Surely some shelter existed for women in her circumstance, but even as she had the thought, she knew he wouldn’t let her easily go.
He would find her. He would make her pay for staying in his residence through the night. She had no doubt of that. He was a man of his word. She was beginning to understand why the other lords had avoided him as though he harbored the plague. If he dealt with them as he dealt with her, he would have few friends. No one liked a bully.
Rolling over, she came up short at the sight of a young maid standing there. The girl curtsied.
“Good morning, miss. I’m Lila. I’ve brought your clothes, freshly pressed. The master was hoping you would join him for breakfast.”
As though he’d suddenly walked into the room, all the air left and she could find none to draw into her lungs. “He’s still here?”
“Yes, miss.”
Silly thing to be disconcerted over. He lived here. She would see him. She just hadn’t thought she’d see him until tonight. “All right then.”
She would pretend this was what she wanted. She would make the best of it. Someday, she would make two men regret their taking advantage of her circumstance for their own gain.
She was quite surprised by the maid’s expertise at readying her, and she didn’t want to contemplate that she wasn’t the first mistress in this residence. But then what did it matter how many he’d had? She didn’t want to consider it, to know anything about him. She would simply do what she had to do, until she was in a position that she could do what she wanted.
After she was dressed, her hair pinned up, she followed Lila through the hallways, even more impressed with each room they passed. The residence and all it contained had to b
e worth a massive fortune.
A tall liveried footman stood before a set of closed double doors. As they neared, he opened one.
Lila smiled. “Enjoy your breakfast, miss.”
As the girl hurried away, Evelyn couldn’t help but think that enjoying anything today was not on her schedule. She would endure because she had no choice. But she would certainly not enjoy.
Taking a long deep breath, she straightened her shoulders before striding into the dining room. Rafe Easton was sitting at one end of a long table, reading a newspaper. He set it aside and stood.
“Good morning, Eve. I trust you slept well.”
How could she have forgotten how incredibly handsome he was? He was properly dressed, with waistcoat, jacket, and cravat. His black hair was tamed. She missed the curls. They softened him a bit. But this morning nothing about him appeared soft.
“It’s Evelyn,” she informed him, trying to regain her bearings, trying to convince herself that she could handle the monstrously unappealing task that lay before her.
“Evelyn doesn’t suit me.”
“It doesn’t suit you?”
“I will be providing you with a home, food, clothing, jewelry, servants … everything about you will suit me. You will spend your day planning for my arrival. You will amuse me with discussion, entertain me with pianoforte. You shall read to me.”
What price would she pay if she left this instance, simply turned on her heel and walked out of the room, walked out the front door?
He was studying her intently, and she had a feeling that he knew exactly what she was thinking. Perhaps he was right that a change in name was in order. Evelyn was a far different woman than the one she would become. Evelyn had been loved. She doubted Eve ever would be—certainly not by this man who seemed incapable of harboring any emotion at all.
Lorraine Heath - [Lost Lords of Pembrook 03] Page 6
