His eyes slid closed as he remembered the kiss. She was becoming quite masterful at parrying. He’d almost given her rein to wrap her arms around him, almost. He’d felt the brush of her hands, craved the touch as much as it repelled him. His chest had tightened, sweat had popped out on his forehead, and he’d known that he’d shove her aside, possibly hurt her, so he’d snatched her wrists before any damage was done.
He didn’t want her first time to be in his den of iniquity, or in his carriage, or in the streets. He wanted her in a bed, properly—or as properly as it could be with a man who had an aversion to being held.
He wondered how Sebastian would feel if he knew the truth of workhouses. He hadn’t then, of that Rafe was certain, but perhaps he did now. Articles had been written about the deplorable conditions, the brutality and cruelty of the owners. Mr. and Mrs. Finch had been particularly ruthless. Their workhouse had been overflowing. Boys slept on pallets on the floor in a locked room. No candles, no light save for what the moon and stars provided.
Sebastian had told him to tell no one who he was, but he was a lord and lords did not sleep on the floor. So the second night he’d demanded a bed.
Mrs. Finch had dragged him to a tiny room. It contained a bed. A hard wooden bed with no mattress, no ticking. And they’d tied him down to it.
Rafe pressed a balled fist to the glass, fighting back the memories, the sense of hopelessness, the fear that he would be left there to die. It was only one of their punishment rooms, but it did its job. The next night, he didn’t ask for a bed.
He slept wedged between two other boys.
A sound at the doorway had him glancing over his shoulder. Mick strutted in, his swollen and bruised jaw stirring guilt within Rafe, but then considering how swollen and tender his eye was, the guilt quickly diminished.
“A message was just delivered for you,” Mick said, holding out an envelope.
Rafe took it. He didn’t recognize the handwriting of flowing script that was his name. It wasn’t from anyone who’d written him before.
“Your coachman delivered it,” Mick said as though he could see the confusion Rafe was experiencing, despite knowing he’d not moved a muscle. He was skilled at never revealing a reaction.
Now, with the knowledge that Eve might have penned him a note, he said flatly, “That’ll be all.”
Not until he was alone did he trace his finger over the elaborate curls and swirls. She had fine penmanship, while his was fairly atrocious. He was more comfortable writing with his left hand—“The mark of the devil,” Mrs. Finch had declared before she ordered his left arm tied behind his back during lessons in the evening. He’d never mastered writing with his right and when he’d made his way to London, he reverted back to what came more naturally—in applying pen to paper at least.
He opened the envelope, removed the small folded sheet of paper.
Miss Evelyn Chambers
Requests the Honor of Your Presence
For Dinner Tonight.
Eight O’clock
He couldn’t help but smile at her formality. Did she fear he might put in another long absence? Did she crave his company?
What an insane thought. No one craved his company. He never went out of his way to be pleasant. He didn’t give quarter, he didn’t care about anyone else’s needs save his own.
He studied the script again, imagined the slow movement of her hand as she worked to make each letter precise, the crease that would form in her brow as she sought to select each word, so as not to give the impression that she was inviting him for anything more than a sampling of the fare. She would bombard him with questions all evening, no doubt, killing desire, striving to delay the inevitable.
The hell of it was he yearned for the sound of her voice almost as much as he craved the heat of her flesh. The way her lilting speech tipped up and down as though she feared the answer to the question, but was compelled to ask anyway. Sometimes he wanted to tell her, say aloud the things of which he’d never spoken. How, as soon as Sebastian and Tristan were out of sight, Mrs. Finch had grabbed Rafe by the collar and dragged him into a room. With the help of her husband who’d held him down, she’d shaved his head so he wouldn’t get lice, then stripped him of his clothes and ordered him into a tub of water. Standing there before her, trying to shield his most vulnerable parts from her sight, he’d refused, demanded she return his clothes.
Then the cane had come out.
Whack! Against his shins.
Whack! Shoulders. Whack! Back. Whack! Buttocks.
No one had ever struck him before. He was a lord, the son of a duke. He was not to be touched.
The only way to escape her menacing swinging arm had been to climb into the tub. So he’d climbed. The water had been frigid, and he’d almost immediately shriveled up, begun shaking. Then she’d attacked him with a hard bristled brush, scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing until he’d feared she’d remove every inch of his skin.
When it was all over, when he was dry, she’d handed him his trousers along with a shirt and jacket made of rough cloth that was patched in places and didn’t fit properly. It wasn’t until he was living on the streets of London that he understood she’d taken his shirt, jacket, and waistcoat because the buttons were valuable. She’d no doubt removed them and sold them. Then sold the clothing as well. What did it matter if they came without buttons? The material was the finest. Buttons could always be bought—perhaps not as fancy as what had been there originally, but serviceable.
But at the workhouse, he’d still had lessons to learn and had spent the remainder of the night locked in a room with other boys who were sleeping. Rafe had merely curled into a tight ball, trying to gauge exactly how quickly time would pass before he saw his brothers again.
The next morning after a meal of milk porridge—all meals were milk porridge—he’d been led to a shed with several other boys and charged with picking apart old ropes, down to the smallest fibers. The tinier they were, the more likely they were to cut into fingers as they were pulled. Hands bled, but none of the boys complained.
Because the cane was always waiting.
Once again, he trailed his fingers over Eve’s delicate script. Only this time he noticed as well the faint crisscross of scars where the most minute strands had bitten into his fingers. It seemed almost an abomination that hands such as his would touch her. Not because of the scars, but because of what they’d eventually become. Weapons used to do another’s bidding.
Rafe stood in his library savoring his Scotch. Upon arriving, he had been informed by Laurence that Miss Chambers had indicated that Rafe was to wait in the library.
He was to wait for her. That was not the way of mistresses. Though he had no one to blame but himself. He’d been remiss in providing her with a complete list of his rules.
The door opened. She glided in and he nearly swallowed his tongue. His fingers tightened around his glass and he suspected if it wasn’t so thick that it would have shattered. Miracle of miracles, the black was gone at last. She wore the purple gown, the one he’d had sewn for her. Her upswept hair caught the light, causing it to flicker over the pale locks, captivating him. The necklace her father had given her sparkled at her throat, tempting him to kiss over it, beneath it, along it until he reached the shell of her ear where he could nibble lingeringly.
She exuded confidence.
Yet as she neared he saw the doubts, the insecurity. He wished he were a man of poetry, but poetic words had been stripped from his soul. Besides, poetry was the domain of lovers, and the one thing he would not do was be dishonest with her. He had no heart with which to gift her, and he didn’t want to give her false hope that he might suddenly obtain one. Although for a fleeting moment, he thought if he could purchase one for her, he would.
Turning toward the table that housed his spirits, he uncorked a bottle of wine and concentrated on pouring it generously into a glass, grateful his hands had steadied so he wasn’t making a mess of things. “Do you have any idea ho
w beautiful you are?”
“A mistress is supposed to make herself presentable, isn’t she?”
He extended the glass toward her, watched in fascination as her fingers curled around the stem. Why were his senses heightened? The anticipation of soon having her, he supposed. “A mistress is not to go to her bro—to Wortham’s—without me.”
She angled her chin. “I took Lila and three strong footmen with me.” She took a sip, touched her tongue to her lips. He wanted that tongue touching his. “The night when everything happened, the butler—Manson—told me he was sorry that he couldn’t let me in, but seeing him today, the way he looked at me as though I should be used as an object upon which to wipe his boots, made me realize that it was only training that had him telling me he was sorry. He wasn’t really. I told my lady’s maid, Hazel, that she was welcome to come with me if she wanted. I rather missed her.”
She sipped again, taking in more. “But she declined my invitation, as though it were beneath her. All my life, I knew what I was, but my father provided a shield for me. I never comprehended the extent of it. With his death, and my visit today, I realize I was not as well liked as I assumed.”
All his life, he’d known what he was as well, but it had not shielded him. At times it had served to make situations worse. “They don’t matter,” he grounded out. “They’re nothing.”
“Is that how you carry on? By pretending no one matters?”
“I don’t pretend, Evie. They don’t matter.” He wouldn’t allow them to matter. “Why did you even bother to go there?”
“There were a few things that I decided I wanted, small things: a pearl comb for my hair, gloves, a brush that had belonged to my mother—he sold everything. Walking into that room, I saw no evidence at all that I’d ever even lived there. He simply wiped me away, as though I’d never been born, which I suppose is what he always wished.”
It angered him beyond measure that she should feel less because of this unplanned visit she’d made today. Wortham was going to pay, and pay dearly—eventually. But for now Rafe needed someplace to vent his fury. “If you want something, then purchase it for God’s sake. Here.” He removed a folded sheaf of paper from beneath the blotter. “Did Laurence not tell you about this? It’s a letter I wrote for you. You take it to any shop in London—in Great Britain for that matter—show it to a shopkeeper, and your purchases will be charged to my accounts.”
Her chin came up with such force that he was surprised he didn’t hear her neck pop. “I’m not going to spend your money.”
Proud stubborn woman. How she infuriated and intrigued him. Seldom did anyone stand up to him, and that this small woman continually did so astounded him. “Have you not eaten since you’ve been here?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Have you not had meals since the night you came here in the rain?”
“You know I have.”
“Do you use the gas lights? Do you leave an oil lamp burning by your bed? Have you taken a warm bath? Have you had a fire going in the fireplace in your bedchamber on a chilly night?”
“I don’t—”
“You’re already spending my money, Eve. It’s ridiculous to split hairs as to whether you’re walking into a shop and purchasing something that you want or burning oil late into the night because you wish to read. I pay for the gas, the food, the salaries of the servants who see to your every need. If you want a blasted comb for your hair, purchase a comb.”
Devastation swept over her features. “I hadn’t thought of all that, all the myriad ways to which I’m already indebted to you.”
Turning away, she walked to the window, and he wanted to kick himself for not considering that she might have experienced a sense of control in her life when she’d penned her invitation to him that afternoon. With a few blunt words, he’d effectively managed to plunge her back into reality concerning her place in his life. He didn’t know what to say, how to make things right, how to return the smile to her face or the ease in her posture with which she had walked into the library.
“Evie, I’m—” Sorry. When had he ever apologized? But then he could hardly remember the last time that he’d been wrong.
She took a sip of the wine, held the glass with two hands as though she needed it to balance herself. “Of course, I know and understand that items are purchased, that nothing is free, but I never considered everything that must be bought.” She faced him. “It was just always there. Father provided it. He never spoke of paying for it. I never thought to ask how it all worked.” She sighed in frustration. “I’m not saying this properly. I understood that items were purchased. I just never contemplated precisely how much it might cost if I burned a log in the fireplace or used coal. The minutia, you see. I never considered the minutia. My God, I must owe you a fortune already.”
He tossed the paper onto the desk and walked over to where she stood. He inhaled her fragrance, glad that he was near enough to smell it. “Hardly a fortune, and I told you before that I’m not keeping tally. So if you need something, purchase it, or send Laurence or one of the servants out to fetch it.”
“So we’re talking an allowance here?”
“If you wish, if you’re more comfortable assigning a name to it.”
“For what amount?”
He couldn’t stop himself from grinning. “Now you’re talking like a mistress.”
“As you professed to have never had one, I’m not certain how you know that.”
“When men gamble, they do one of two things: they either grumble or they boast. And both are exaggerated. Nothing is as bad as they seem to make on that it is, and none of them excel at whatever they’re talking about to the extent that they would have one believe. But often the topics revolve around their wives or their mistresses.”
Reaching out, she touched a fold in his cravat, her fingers working to right what he wasn’t certain needed be righted. His gut tightened as though she’d gone further and actually removed the blasted neckcloth, in anticipation of removing everything.
“You didn’t answer my question regarding how much,” she said.
“As much as you like.”
She lifted her gaze to his, and he was grateful to see a bit of spark there. “I’ll put you in the poorhouse.”
“I think that highly unlikely. Shop all day every day if you wish.”
“You’re too generous.”
“Don’t mistake my spendthrift tendencies with generosity. A generous soul gives his last and only ha’penny to someone else. You saw my gaming establishment. Trust me when I tell you that as long as men believe that they have a chance of winning fortune rather than earning it, I shall never have a last and only ha’penny.”
She gave him a self-effacing smile. “Well, this is certainly not how I’d planned for the evening to go. All this talk of money. I’d hoped for the evening to be about us.”
Us. It had been years since that word had been part of his vocabulary. He almost told her that they should only think of him and his needs, but if that was part of tonight’s plans, he wouldn’t be standing there in a damned waistcoat, jacket, and cravat, feeling on the verge of suffocating. He’d done it for her. He was beginning to realize that he was doing a great deal for her. Giving her leave to spend as much as she wanted? He’d never been a spendthrift. His coins were too hard-earned. He certainly never did without anything he wanted, but what he wanted most was more coins.
Taking her empty glass, he set it aside. “Let’s go to dinner, shall we? I’ve been anticipating it ever since your invitation arrived.”
They ate in the sitting room that looked out on the garden. She’d had her father’s portrait removed earlier. She would have it returned tomorrow. But for tonight she wanted the intimacy of a smaller room. The dining room was too large, too formal, too cold.
Candles flickered. Servants brought in the food, one course after another. She barely touched anything, was aware of his constant gaze. Whether he was eating or sipping on his wine, he
was looking at her.
She had clung to a vain gossamer hope that things between them would not progress, that she might become more of a companion than a mistress. Talking of inconsequential topics over dinner, reading to him as he’d asked that first morning. But the extent to which she was already in his debt astounded her. She’d given no thought to the small things.
“That’s how men lose fortunes, isn’t it? They lose a little bit at a time, hardly giving it any credence—then suddenly they look about them and everything is gone.”
He studied her over the rim of his wineglass. “Usually, yes.”
She could sense a tension building on the air, like a dark storm sweeping over the moors. She’d known when she penned her invitation where things tonight might eventually lead, that she would end up playing the part of seductress. It had been her intent to ease the loneliness she sensed in him, to give him more than he required, to be more than the bargain demanded.
“You went to a great deal of bother to arrange things for this evening,” he said quietly.
She nodded, touched the necklace at her throat. “It just seemed that a mistress should ensure that the evenings are rich with flavors and fragrances. I know you’re not wooing me, but I thought I should create an atmosphere in which it appeared you were.” She didn’t know how to explain it without sounding like an absolute ninny. “I came to the realization last night that you’re not such an awful sort—”
“High praise indeed.”
Darkness hovered at the edge of his grin, and she wondered if he would ever bestow upon her a smile of pure enjoyment. Ignoring his interruption, she continued. “This afternoon I came to understand that with my father’s passing, I lost everything. I was simply too overcome with grief to fully comprehend the extent to which my life had changed. I’m here until you tire of me, so up to that moment I shall strive to make our arrangement pleasant for both of us. I thought I could read to you after dinner. Or play the pianoforte, if you prefer.”
Lorraine Heath - [Lost Lords of Pembrook 03] Page 17
