“He has a way of finding things out. Enjoy the garden.”
He slipped away into the darkness, but she could sense him still watching her. She sat in the chair and looked out on the foliage. The gaslights glowed, but fog was beginning to seep in. She could see the mist trailing around the lamps. She should go in, and yet she couldn’t quite bring herself to do so yet. Beyond the fragrance of the flowers, she could still detect his lingering scent. He was a man whose presence remained, even after he left.
“Are you afraid of him?” she asked, knowing Laurence was hovering near enough to hear.
“No.”
“But you said he would beat you.”
“Only if I disappoint him. Then, yes, I would be afraid of him. Very afraid.”
Sipping her wine, she realized her lips were no longer swollen from his kiss. She skimmed her tongue over them. She’d lost the taste of him. “Is he a bad man, then?”
Silence stretched between them. She wished she hadn’t begun this conversation. She needed to draw her own conclusions regarding Rafe, not base them on someone else’s opinion. It was just that he was so difficult to characterize.
“I once thought he was,” Laurence finally said, so quietly that Evelyn almost didn’t hear him. “It’s the reason I tried to kill him.”
Jerking around in her chair, she couldn’t see him. She could hear a slight breeze rustling the trees, hoped it masked her stuttering breath. “Why would you try to kill him?”
“Once again I’ve said too much.” The disappointment in himself riffled through his voice. She thought if she persisted, he would eventually tell her. Instead, she turned back around and sipped on her wine.
Obviously Laurence had not succeeded in killing Rafe. She wondered how close he might have come. She couldn’t deny the spark of admiration that flitted through her, because Rafe had not only fended off the attack but had converted Laurence into someone he trusted to look after his things. He’d provided him with something much better than what he’d obviously had in St. Giles.
Was he not doing the same for her? Begrudgingly, to be sure, and completely on his terms, but still he was offering her things no one else had. She wondered how different her life might be this evening if Ekroth had won out and taken her as his mistress. Would she be sitting in the garden enjoying the night? Or would she be waiting for moments to pass while he took his pleasure with her?
Would he have kissed her? Would he have gone to the bother of finding her jewelry? Would he have claimed her father’s portrait and had it displayed in the morning room?
She wondered how her mother had come to her father’s attention. Had she fallen in love with him before she became his mistress, or had the falling happened slowly, over time? She could not claim to love Rafe Easton, was not certain she ever would.
But she was beginning to be very glad that he had carried her through the rain, and not abandoned her on Geoffrey’s stoop.
Chapter 9
She’d left a lamp burning by the bed. Rafe wondered if she suffered from nightmares, if monsters visited her in sleep as they did him. But then he suspected the existence of monsters was a recent discovery for her. Soon she’d add him to the list, if she hadn’t already.
She appeared so innocent in sleep. On her back, but not completely, twisted a little to the side, her hip raised slightly, one bent leg resting over the other. One of her hands lay near her head on the pillow, fingers curled. So trusting, certain he wouldn’t come to her tonight, wouldn’t claim what he was owed.
He didn’t know why he was here and not at his club. He’d planned to work until dawn, until he was too exhausted to think of her, to want her. Instead the clock had barely struck midnight when he left. Like some misguided fool, he’d hoped to find her sitting in the morning room, staring at her father’s portrait, sipping wine or rum or Scotch. He’d hoped she’d not yet retired, but then she was still not a woman of the night. Her habits would change, would begin to mirror his as she learned to wait for him, to be ready to receive him whenever he was ready to have her.
He wanted her now, dammit. He didn’t understand this pulling he felt to be with her. It was her specifically, not just lust. Or perhaps it was lust for her. He knew no other woman would satisfy this craving, and it was a craving. He thought of her constantly. Once he had her, all these ludicrous longings would melt away like fog before the sun. If she knew the stranglehold she had over him, she could demand so much.
That she didn’t demand at all was partly responsible for his obsession.
Her eyes fluttered open and his chest tightened so swiftly and so painfully that it was almost as though he still wore his jacket, waistcoat, and cravat, but he’d removed them as soon as he’d arrived. Not finding her about, he’d gone to his second bedchamber, the one into which servants were allowed to enter, the one where his valet saw to his needs, and ordered a bath be drawn. He’d fought to distract himself from what he wanted—to look in on her, to gaze at her. It seemed wrong. When had something being wrong ever stopped him before?
“You’re back,” she murmured in her smoky voice that spoke of secrets shared. She smiled softly, so softly, so innocently. Then her eyes widened. Fully awake now, she scrambled back, sitting up, pulling the covers over her until they were tucked beneath her chin.
He much preferred her alarm to her innocence. His chest began to loosen.
“Is it to be now?” she asked, breathing harshly, her knuckles turning white as she clutched the sheets.
“No, I just wanted to make certain that you were all right.”
Her brow furrowed. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
He didn’t want to admit the complete truth, so he negligently lifted a shoulder. “I didn’t know if you had difficulty sleeping.”
She shook her head. “Not usually, no, but then I don’t expect to awaken to company.”
With a sardonic twist of his lips, he leaned against the bedpost. “But then you’ve never before been a mistress.”
“Is this another law of mistresses? That you can spy on me at any time?”
“I can visit you at any time.”
“I should have some hours of the day that are mine and mine alone.”
This was why he’d come. He liked her cheekiness, telling him what she should have. She wasn’t afraid of him at least, but as she still had a death grip on the covers, neither was she completely comfortable with him. “Carve out two hours during the day when I’m not to disturb you, tell me when they are. But at night, you’re mine.”
Holding his gaze in challenge, she angled her chin. “Fifteen minutes every hour on the hour until I have two complete hours.”
She almost made him grin. “So I’m popping in and out? No, sweetheart. A hundred and twenty consecutive minutes.”
She pouted. He’d not seen her with such a mulish expression. It seemed out of character for her. Even when she’d realized what an arse her brother was, she’d not pouted at his treatment of her. Been devastated by it, but not pouted.
“I don’t know. I’m being stubborn. I don’t need two hours alone. I suspect I’ll have too many as it is. I’m not certain how I’ll fill them.”
“By preparing for my arrival.”
“As I suspect you’ll mostly want me with my clothes off, I don’t see how that will take much time.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What do you know about how I’ll want you? Your brother swore you were a virgin.”
He didn’t think she could turn any redder. “He told you that?”
She was horrified, not that he could blame her. “He told all of us.”
“Oh, dear God.” She buried her face in her hands. At least she was no longer clutching the sheets. They floated down. The cotton of the borrowed nightgown was not provocative and yet he was intrigued by what was hidden behind those twelve buttons. He imagined slowly releasing them, pulling aside the cloth, pressing kisses over her flesh.
She lifted her head, peered at him over her fingertips. “Can you stop r
eferring to him as my brother? I think he more closely resembles the devil. What else did he tell you?”
“That you were well read and played the pianoforte.” He studied the blue velvet canopy. “I didn’t pay a lot of attention as I wasn’t really there for you.”
She dropped her hands into her lap, obviously not aware that the sheet no longer covered her. He imagined her sitting there without the nightdress. He had a good idea regarding the size of her perky breasts. “Why were you there?”
He wondered why his gaze didn’t linger on her chest, why he was compelled to gaze into her eyes. The pale light prevented him from being able to fully appreciate the shade, and yet he couldn’t look away. “I’ve made my fortune by taking advantage of other men’s weaknesses. I was there to explore opportunities.”
“Instead, you discovered a weak woman to be exploited.”
“I don’t consider you weak.”
“Don’t you?”
She seemed truly surprised. He was quite astonished himself with the realization regarding how he viewed her: certainly not meek. “You are in an unfortunate circumstance, but hardly weak. If you were, you’d be curled in a corner weeping about your lack of options and the road before you. Instead you’re going to make the most of the situation, give your bro—” She arched a brow, gave him a pointed look, and again almost had him smiling. “Wortham cause for regret. You’re a survivor, Eve. I think you’ll do quite well for yourself once you’re rid of me.”
“How long do you think it’ll be before I’m rid of you?”
He did smile then. He couldn’t help it. Just a quick flash of teeth, but he held back the laugh. “Not long.”
“What if I’m never ready? What if I’m never comfortable with you, Rafe?”
She might as well have bludgeoned him in the midsection. She’d never before uttered his name and it struck him with the force of a battering ram, nearly doubling him over. Women had said his name before, often in the throes of passion. Then the words she’d spoken ahead of his name slammed into him. Unacceptable. Completely and utterly unacceptable. He wouldn’t force her, but by God he would have her, and his patience was quickly running out.
“Then I shall just have to ensure that you do become comfortable.”
To Evelyn, the words sounded like a challenge. But then from the moment she’d awakened to find him standing in her bedchamber, she suspected that something was going on that she didn’t quite understand. Geoffrey had always stayed out all night at his clubs. She’d assumed Rafe, as owner, would be occupied until dawn. But then perhaps as owner he had underlings to do the work. She suspected he was a man who did whatever he wanted when he wanted.
Just as now, in a predatory manner, he moved to sit at the foot of the bed, his back against the post, which couldn’t be very comfortable. He lifted his legs onto the bed, and she couldn’t stop her eyes from widening. His feet were naked. Large and naked, with rough soles that looked as though he might have run through the streets with no shoes at all. The intimacy of it almost had her crawling out of the bed and going to stand by the window.
She didn’t know why she was so surprised. He wore only his familiar linen shirt and breeches. She was fairly certain that he’d recently bathed because his hair curled at the ends and appeared damp. But his feet … good God. She couldn’t recall ever seeing a man’s feet before. Like the rest of him, they seemed powerful. He crossed one ankle over the over and settled back as though he intended to stay the night.
“Don’t look so alarmed,” he said, his voice low and somehow sensual. “I’ve told you that nothing will happen tonight.”
“I’m not alarmed. I’m simply … it’s not proper for me to see your bare feet.”
He released a dark chuckle. “Sweetheart, nothing between us is going to be proper.”
She supposed announcing that he shouldn’t be on the bed with her would result in the same response. “Will we often have these midnight encounters?”
“It’s long past midnight. Closer to half past two now.”
He’d deftly avoided answering her question, no doubt because he thought the answer would unsettle her. But she had made her decision to become his mistress. She wasn’t going to back out, even if he did look decidedly more dangerous at that moment. She imagined him unfurling that magnificently toned body of his and prowling toward her like a large predatory cat—one of the panthers she’d seen at the zoological gardens.
“You keep rather odd hours,” she said.
“Sin seldom runs on a schedule.”
She began plucking at the blanket, belatedly realizing that it had pooled in her lap at some point and was no longer covering her. Her first impulse was to snatch it back into place, but the action would only make her appear skittish. She would meet her fate with him with as much dignity as possible, much as a condemned woman might face the gallows.
“Tell me about your life in St. Giles,” she prodded.
He studied her for a long moment before giving a careless shrug. “There’s little to tell. It was hard, unpleasant. And I was determined to get out of there as quickly as possible, to do whatever it took.”
She leaned forward a bit. “What did it take?”
“Even more unpleasantness.”
He gave her one of his wicked grins, the one that seemed to say, “You don’t really want to know, do you?” She found herself wanting to see a joyous smile. Did he even have one in his limited repertoire of facial expressions? He was so guarded, so careful not to reveal a hint of vulnerability. Would she adopt his method of dealing with the unpleasant aspects of her life?
“In a few hours you should shop for hats and shoes and all the other little fripperies that women require,” he said. “Take Lila with you to assist as needed, and a footman to carry your packages.”
“Makes it a little difficult to shop for hats and such when I’m unclear as to what the clothing will look like. Items must go together. A woman doesn’t simply purchase a hat to have a hat.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You’re upset about the clothing.”
“About the high-handed way you handled it, yes.”
“You wanted only black, and I, daresay, items that buttoned up to your chin.”
She had considered putting button makers in demand.
“Virginal clothing will no longer suit,” he told her.
“I’m well aware of that,” she snapped, then closed her eyes tightly. She refused to become a shrew simply because of the circumstances. “I apologize—”
“Don’t. I like a bit of fire.”
Opening her eyes, she found herself in the midst of a conversation she never thought to have. Because of the low flame in the lamp, she couldn’t see him as clearly as she’d like. He was more shadow than form. She was half tempted to reach over and make the flame brighter, but then it would reveal more of her as well. At that particular moment, she preferred the gossamer darkness. “Yes, well, I can show you quite a lot more temper if you like.”
A corner of his mouth slowly rose. “I said a bit of fire. Besides, you keep your temper on too tight a leash to release it completely. Why is that, I wonder?”
“You don’t answer my questions. Why should I answer yours?”
He tilted his head to the side. “Thought you believed we needed to know inconsequential things about each other.”
“There are no inconsequential things if you care for someone. That’s what my father told me. Do you like me at least?”
She didn’t think it was possible for him to grow any more still. He didn’t blink. He didn’t seem to be drawing in breath.
“It’s important for you to be liked,” he said slowly.
Another question that would go unanswered. He would test the patience of a saint. She wished she could read him as easily as he seemed to read her. She did want to be liked. As a little girl, she thought if she were good enough, behaved properly, her father would do more than give her dolls, he would take her with him. And when he finally had taken
her—after her mother’s death—she thought that if Geoffrey would like her, he would become a true brother. Now, she supposed she was silly enough to think that if Rafe liked her, she might become more than a mistress. But he wasn’t going to like her. He didn’t seem to like anyone.
Then she remembered something else he hadn’t liked.
“Why are you truly here, my lord?”
Although he didn’t move, she felt the fissure of temper roll off him. “You’re never to refer to me in that manner.”
His voice was flat, but sharp. He could slice a man to death with it. Had he used it on Geoffrey? Dear God, she hoped so, but what sort of cruel person did that make her?
“Why?”
He gazed toward the window as though the answer lay beyond it. “That’s not part of my life now.”
“But you told Madame Charmaine of your heritage.”
His jaw tightening, he shifted his cool eyes back to her. “Yes.”
“You used it to curry her favor and you’re unhappy that you did.”
“Quite.”
Had he done it for her, so Madame wouldn’t look down her nose at Evelyn, or had he done it for his own pride? Not his own pride. It would have had him storming from the shop. She didn’t think he was a man who bowed before anyone.
“But you are a lord—”
“I am my own man. I built myself up from the squalor in which my brothers left me—”
He came up off the bed with a speed that had her pressing back against the headboard, even though he moved away from her, presenting her with his back. She could see the tenseness in his shoulders, the corded muscles of his neck.
“We won’t discuss this matter, Evie.”
He turned back toward her, no evidence of any emotion. He might as well have been snuffing out a candle. With two strides, he returned to the side of the bed, stood there as his gaze slowly roamed the length of her. Of their own accord, her toes curled as though they wished to hide from him. Reaching out, he closed his fingers around the covers and began pulling them down.
With a tiny shriek, she grabbed the bedding, jerked it up, and glared at him. “What are you doing?”
Lorraine Heath - [Lost Lords of Pembrook 03] Page 11
