Chapter Three
1818, Present day…
Mayfair, London
“There now, that is just right,” Emily Rose Maitland said, a pleased smile curving her lips. Eyes a perfect golden replica of Richard’s glowed with happiness. Tilting her head to his hovering valet, she grinned. “Ain’t it perfect, Mr. Colby?” his daughter asked, tugging at the mess she had made of the cravat. His valet scowled, no doubt wanting to chuck her from the chambers so he could complete the finishing touches of Richard’s evening attire.
“I wish to be at this ball, Papa. Are you sure little girls cannot go?” she queried, her eyes hopeful but so alive with merriment.
Acting quickly, he grabbed her and tossed her into the air, enjoying her fake squeal of terror and chortling. It was a little over two years since he’d found her in the heart of London, in one of the nastier and most dangerous areas—St. Giles. That was the first time he had been truly grateful for the exacting and ruthless skills he had acquired from scouting for the army. The baby farm had sold her to men who routinely hunted for the most vulnerable children of society and pressed them to work as pickpockets, chimneysweepers, and even in brothels. It had taken him a few weeks to find her, and he had been relentless in his search, threatening many and hurting several men before he’d found her in a hovel, huddled with several more children, thin blankets attempting to cover thinner shoulders.
He lowered her and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Yes, I am certain.”
She pouted prettily. “Will you miss me?”
“Always.”
Her face lit with pleasure. “I’ll wait up for you.”
He arched a brow. “You’ll be in bed by nine.”
Mischief danced in her eyes, and somehow, he knew no matter what time he came in, she’d be up, waiting or sleeping in the center of his bed.
Her eyes widened in apparent guile. “I love you, Papa.”
He smiled. Never could he have imagined the intensity of emotion he had for his daughter. He scooped her into his arms and strolled past his disgruntled valet from his room and down the hallway leading to the stairs. Richard held her securely as they descended. “I love you, too, but you’ll still be in bed.”
She giggled and pressed her nose into his neck. Richard rarely left her for long bouts of time, having even taken her with him to London instead of leaving her in the country with governesses. But tonight, his presence was needed at Lady Beaufort’s ball. The first such invitation he was accepting this season.
It was time he seriously considered taking a wife. His Emily needed a mother. After two years of trying to fulfill all her wants, he had concluded he was not providing for all her needs. The wistful way she stared at the ladies when he took her to Hyde Park or the botanical gardens was informative and heartrending. Whatever his daughter lacked, it was his duty and pleasure to provide it, despite his serious reservations about marrying any woman. His reputation and the world he moved within would hardly inspire a lady to want an alliance with him, even if he was the heir to a dukedom. The idea of marriage also left him cold and uninspired.
Tonight, he would try dancing with a few ladies to see who desired his attention despite his notorious reputation. Though, the most appealing aspect of tonight was that he was certain to see her—Evie.
Richard held himself at a distance because of how popular and admired she had become in society. In a perverse quirk of fate, the darker and more dangerous his reputation got, the more Evie’s presence at balls and drawing rooms was sought after. She was a diamond of the ton, and it offended their sensibilities whenever he socialized with her. He’d seen enough of the scandal sheets, where cartoon caricatures were drawn of him as a scarred beast absconding and ravishing their fair beauty. But once several weeks passed without him seeing her, an irresistible pull would draw him to her, causing him to watch her from a distance, or endure some society event, just so he could see her and perhaps pass some trivial pleasantries with her.
At times, the weakness was abhorrent to him, at others, he simply accepted Evie would always own a piece of his heart, and she would always be his friend. It was a pity he could not take her to be his wife. The irony was that he cared for her too much to embroil her in the scandalously dangerous life he led, especially when her position in society was so important to her. Most in the ton hated his presence and the ideals he advocated. Ever since the world learned of his daughter, doors that had once been open to him had closed with alarming speed. He had been blackballed from clubs, pushed out from investments, and had been given the cut direct many times because he dared to love his daughter.
“Jack,” Emily called out, stirring in Richard’s arms. The small boy strolling down the hallway faltered and turned. He smiled in genuine delight, a reaction only Emily seemed to provoke. Jack had been there the night Richard found her, a fierce protective force of all the beaten and starved children, though Jack was only eight at the time, and he himself bruised and bloodied.
She wriggled, and Richard lowered her. After bestowing a careless wave in his direction, she dashed toward Jack, clasped his hand, and resumed walking. Richard watched until they entered the smaller and more intimate parlor. Voices spilled toward him as the other children rambunctiously greeted their arrival. No doubt they would partake in their nightly reading, and then play whist or chess.
With a smile, he swiveled and slowed his steps as a familiar veiled lady came into view, his butler preceding her.
“My lord, you have a visitor,” Mr. Powell murmured.
Why would his sister visit him at this hour? “I’ll take it from here.”
“Certainly, my lord.”
In silence, he escorted his sister, Phoebe, to the library. As he closed the door, she threw up her veil, her soft brown eyes glowing their happiness to see him. His sister was slightly above average height and slender, with a fair complexion, dark ringleted hair, classic features, and a stubborn mouth that was now curved in the sweetest smile. “It’s been a while, brother.”
“Did you come alone?”
She sobered at his abrupt tone. “I promise you I was careful. I did everything you taught me to check if I am being followed.”
His sister was a few months shy of eighteen, and he hated the risks she took when she slid away to visit him. “I’ve missed you, poppet. Your last visit was three months ago.”
“I’ve missed you dreadfully, too.” There was the slightest hesitation before she lifted her chin. “It’s Father. He is ill, and he won’t send for you,” she blurted.
Richard’s heart iced over. “That does not explain your presence, Phoebe.”
Frustration flashed in her eyes. “You know Father is stubborn. Please, won’t you make amends?”
“You know why we are estranged.”
She blushed. “Yes, everyone knows. But if you would take the first step—”
He smiled grimly. “The night I found Emily, I appeared on Father’s doorstep with blood pouring from my face, my half-starved and beaten daughter and her friends with me. He was furious and worried about our reputations instead of their lives. Even if such an atrocity could be overlooked, he knew my daughter, his granddaughter had been placed in a baby farm to suffer. He saw her as nothing but an unpleasantness that must be buried. Tell me, sister, why should I give a damn if he is now feeling poorly?”
When he’d refused to abandon his daughter and the five children found with her, his father had cut off his allowance and severed their connection. But what Richard had found unforgivable was that his father had known of her fate. His father was a powerful and influential man in society. A duke. He could have found another home for Emily, ensured that she had been taken care of as was her due. That night, as he walked away from his father’s command to return her to an orphanage, he’d felt the strings of his former life snapping and reforming into something harder, more filled with purpose.
“I’m so sorry,” Phoebe said hoarsely. “I…I never realized Father had been so harsh.”
“It’s fine. When he is dead, the solicitors will know where to find me.”
Her eyes widened in horror at his callousness. Suppressing his sigh, he strolled over to her and cupped her cheeks. “You must return home before your disappearance is noted.”
“I hate this,” she cried fiercely. “I hate that we do not see each other. I hate that when we see you at balls, I have to pretend you are unknown to me. Mother and Father act as if you were never born, and Mother has even said she wished it was you and not Francis…” Phoebe closed her eyes, unable to continue. “I want us to be a family again,” she whispered, her voice shaking with the force of her emotions. “You are my brother, and I miss you dreadfully.”
Yet the rift would not end simply because she wished it so. Their father was a severe and exacting man. He had been instrumental in Richard’s exile from polite society, his clubs, and several investments. But Richard was savvy and cunning when needed, and he had found ways around his father’s actions and had grown his wealth to an impressive fortune. In fact, since the fateful night he’d rescued his daughter from her hell, he’d not spoken to the duke, nor had he made any overtures. His allowance had ceased immediately, and his management of a few estates had been terminated. All his fortunes were his through his own sweat, ingenuity, and foresight.
“I’ll think of it,” he said, knowing it to be an empty promise. The rift could only be solved with his father’s acceptance of Emily’s place in Richard’s life. And that would never happen, for he offended his father’s sensibilities and his assumptions of how their world should be ordered.
Bastards were an embarrassment. The people Richard associated with were dregs of society, guttersnipes, and trash, and little thought should be spared to them. It had become a scandal that Richard publicly supported reforms of the injustice meted out to women and children in Newgate Prison. His father did not see the disgrace in poverty and injustice, and Richard would forever be his shame.
“Let’s get you home,” he said, pressing a kiss to Phoebe’s forehead.
Reluctantly she allowed him to lead her from the library to her waiting carriage outside. The crest had been covered, but the equipage was properly staffed with footmen and a coachman. Still, he would have her followed, to ensure her safe return. After bidding her farewell, he went inside and bid the children a good evening, and then a few minutes later he was off to one of Lady Beaufort’s famous balls to see his own special brand of torment.
…
Lady Honoria was a silly girl prone to fainting spells and hysterics, a gossip of the worst order, and the Marquess of Westfall was going to marry her, or so the rumors circulating insisted. Lady Evie buried the swift feeling of shame for having such uncharitable thoughts about Honoria. Evie was no better in her thoughts and character for having judged her in such an unladylike manner.
Still…what is Richard thinking?
This was the second season their names had been aligned, to Evie’s distress. Last year, when the rumors had surfaced, she had asked after Richard’s intention, and he had said he was thinking of offering for Lady Honoria. Except, he’d made no offer and Evie had been lulled into a false sense of security. Richard had all but disappeared from society, no doubt shattering several expectations.
Blast the man.
“Will you be attending Lady Brantley’s garden party, my lady?” her current suitor—Viscount Ponsby—asked, smiling, showing two rows of perfect teeth.
“I cannot recall if Mamma has accepted. I shall, of course, check and inform you on our carriage ride tomorrow.” Though Evie was largely responsible for organizing her own social calendar, of late she had been restless, distracted, and had been ignoring the mountains of invitations and correspondence that required her attention. There were times she felt an irrepressible desire to be herself. To admit her love for baking when asked what her best pastime is. To admit she read the papers for political news and the latest scandals and fashion. She did crave something new, something wonderful in the predictability that was her life.
She normally had a hectic social schedule during the season. Her life revolved around assisting her mother in ordering the household, planning balls, and other society events, attending more balls, musicales, and picnics. She had looked forward to each season with excitement for all the thrilling events she would attend. The only thing she dreaded was the many suitors she would have to subtly discourage without her mother realizing. Evie had failed to bring anyone up to scratch because she’d thwarted her mother’s matchmaking efforts from the first days of her coming out. But her mother had increased the pressure for her to find a beau tenfold, and Evie was painfully aware her parents might simply decide for her soon, without her approval.
It wasn’t that she had no desire for matrimony, far from it. In fact, she desperately desired the most particular attentions of a certain marquess. She wanted Richard as her husband, an occasion unlikely to ever happen, but she remained stubbornly hopeful.
“Would you like me to procure another glass of champagne?” the viscount asked, tipping his chin toward the near empty glass in her hand.
“Please,” she answered with a smile, eager to be alone with her thoughts, if only for a few moments.
With a nod, he pushed through the throng, skirting the dance floor, and headed toward the footman by the terrace. He was the latest suitor in the dwindling line of men trying to win her hand in marriage. The viscount was handsome, favored among the ton by ladies and gentlemen alike, and boasted an income of fifty thousand a year. Mamma was in raptures over the man’s obvious keen regard for her daughter. Evie, of course, did everything in her power to ensure her replies during conversations were noncommittal. Her actions when they walked together gave him no encouragement that she would welcome advances of a romantic nature. Yet the dratted man was not easy to discourage and was quite relentless in his pursuit. Very unusual, for all other suitors had melted away with little fuss once she had shown resistance and a nature contrary to their expectations.
Evie would be flattered by the viscount’s regard if her heart hadn’t been irrevocably entangled elsewhere. All her instincts for these sorts of predicaments told her he would propose marriage to her on their carriage ride. She would hate to bruise his feelings, which was inevitable upon her refusal, so she had to deter him tonight.
Lord Ponsby returned with a glass of champagne that she took with a thankful smile.
“May I call on your father tomorrow before our ride? I have a matter of urgency to discuss.”
She peered into his earnest face, a pang traveling through her heart. “Why?” she asked softly, surprising herself. Normally she would have deflected him with the delicate methods she had honed over the years, but there was something in his earnestness that gave her pause.
“Surely you have not mistaken my affections? Can there be any doubt I admire you, Lady Evelyn? You are poised, beautiful, well connected, and a lady who understands her place in society and her role as a genteel lady. It is evident you were trained well, the very picture of female respectability and correctness, and you would make an excellent mistress for my home,” he said with a warm smile, oblivious to the horror icing through her veins.
Well trained…female respectability and correctness. He made her sound dreadfully boring. And wasn’t she? What risks had she taken with her life, what pleasures had she partaken in? “I thank you for the sentiments, my lord, but I do not return your regard, and I cannot in good conscience encourage you to speak with my father.”
“My lady…I…I…” He was flustered, no doubt at her forwardness. “You are overwrought from the crush, surely you cannot mean to reject out of hand the deep admiration I have for you.”
“Forgive me, I have no wish to bring you distress, but I must be honest. I have no tender feelings for you. My heart is engaged elsewhere,” she said softly.
His lips went taut, and disproval darkened his eyes. “I’ve just recalled I committed to a previous dance with Miss Dawson, nor do I believe I shall prevail myself upon you for the carriage ride.”
She would lose the friendship of his dear sister and his affable company. Her throat closed. “Think nothing of it,” she said graciously. “I understand, and I relieve you of your commitment to me.”
The viscount hurried away. Suitor number three of the season discouraged with simple honesty. She took a sip of her champagne, curious at the hollow sense of victory. Life had become predictable and uninspiring; discouraging suitors had become tedious. Though she had never boasted of uncommon beauty or superior intellect, Evie enjoyed a peculiar degree of popularity among the young swains, and even the admiration of several connected ladies of the ton. She was quite aware something was missing from her life, and she felt the keen loss of that something which she’d never had.
She hungered for a place to belong. Evie pressed a trembling hand to her stomach. It felt unusual to be so alone amid friends. Her eyes strayed to the Marchioness of Belmont’s gentle rounded stomach that was quite evident to Evie below the high-waisted gown. Yearning struck her heart, the desperate ache of it smarting her eyes. The ache for a similar happiness had never been more evident. If only her heart hadn’t been so dreadfully stubborn. It would not allow her to settle for an unhappy union based on monetary gain with little or no tender regards, not since she was quite aware how possible happiness and love was in a marriage, despite her mother’s arguments to the contrary.
“I see little has changed.”
The smooth voice slid under her defenses with ridiculous ease. Her heart lurched, and her hand reflexively tightened on the champagne glass. Westfall. What was he doing at Lady Beaufort’s ball? The past several months had seen him shunning the glittering whirl of high society. Many rumors swirled about Richard because none understood him, and Evie had begun to realize the small part of him that she thought she knew, the part she had fallen in love with, might exist no longer. Some called him vindictive, merciless, others called him the dissolute Westfall, and shockingly, it was gossiped that those in the dregs of London slums referred to him as the Saint. She had heard that tidbit from maids as they whispered below stairs. The Saint. She had hardly known at the time what to do with such revelations.
“Will you not face me?” His drawl was mocking.
“Perhaps I need a few moments to gather my composure.”
“Rattle you, did I?”
“You must admit your presence after ignoring so many of my invitations is decidedly…discomfiting.” The more notorious his reputation had become, the less frequently they’d had opportunities to socialize. She had dreadfully missed their friendship, and the opportunity to seduce him to her way of thinking.
A breath of air passed too close to the nape of her neck, and she stifled a gasp. Surely he had not dipped his head and inhaled. Had he? It was not in his nature to act so wickedly toward her. Though the ball was a crush, and everyone seemed overly busy just trying to maneuver through the crowd, an eagle-eyed gossiper might have seen.
“Walk with me to the gardens,” he commanded softly.
She faced him and tilted her head back to look him in the eyes. “Hello, Richard.”
A smile tugged at his lips, drawing her gaze to the mysterious scar running from his forehead down to his chin on the left side of his face. Around the time he had found his daughter Richard appeared with it and had been indifferent to society’s rabid curiosity. She, too, was curious but trusted him to reveal how he had attained the disfigurement when he was ready. He seemed so dark and sinister in appearance tonight. A fierce, painful longing surged through Evie’s heart as years of deeply held yearning pulsed through her.
His gaze moved over her appreciatively. “Hello, Lady Evelyn.”
The warmth with which he’d normally greet her had been replaced by cool, polite constraint. She arched a brow. “When did our friendship change to standing on such formality?”
He shifted inappropriately closer, a deceptively graceful quality in his movement, one that she most assuredly admired. She stood her ground, refusing to allow the dratted man to rattle her.
“You are beautiful tonight…Evie.”
She’d dressed in a high-waisted rosebud pink silk gown with a daringly low neckline. It bared her shoulders, and three rows of lace alternating with gauze ribbon edged the hem. At the front of her dress, a small corsage of white silk rosebuds emphasized her perfect skin. Her hair was piled atop her head and wound with more gauze ribbons and silk rosebuds. She wore tiny pearl earrings that matched the three strings of pearls around her neck. “I’m always lovely.”
He watched her with impenetrable eyes. “Still ungracious in accepting compliments, I see.”
“Did you expect some change because we have not seen each other in four months and a week?”
A dark eyebrow arched at her precision in recall, and a blush warmed her cheeks. Drat.
“It sounds as if you missed me, dreadfully, too.”
“I also see you are still adept at self-flattery, my lord. I am relieved some of the former traits from the old Richard remain.”
He smiled, and she forced her silly heart to beat to its normal rhythm. He was still such a handsome devil. Though he had a distressing and mysterious scar running from his forehead to his cheek, it did not detract from his innate beauty. Most in society were hard pressed to meet his regard directly, and even a few debutantes had fainted upon looking at him, creating quite a stir. But not her, never her. He was decidedly wicked, with an air of danger, inherent power, and ruthlessness that surrounded him. It should have made her wary; unaccountably, Evie only found him more appealing. If only he would conform himself to the norms expected to those belonging to their society, then the battle she waged to capture his heart would be less…difficult.
“Four months and three days are more accurate,” he said unexpectedly.
Warmth slid through her veins, and it was impossible to contain the smile bursting on her lips. “I am reassured of our mutual affection.”
“Are you well, Evie?”
“As can be expected.”
“And Lady Gladstone?”
“Mamma is cheerfully employed with urging my brother to find a wife and provide a new heir for our family line.”
A soft noncommittal grunt escaped him.
“And how is your daughter?” she asked softly.
His eyes shadowed. “Well.”
His reply was so chillingly succinct she could only stare at him helplessly. Two years had passed since the ton discovered he had an illegitimate daughter, yet Evie had only four occasions upon which to see her, the most recent a few months past at her dear friend Adeline’s, now the Duchess of Wolverton, twin boys’ christening. Richard guarded his little Emily with a fierce protectiveness, which the ton gleefully hated him for. The missed opportunity to stick their vicious barbs into tender flesh was deeply resented. She understood his protective caution, but it shredded her heart that he also kept his daughter from her. On more than one occasion she had sent an invitation to tea, and there had been no reply.
“Will you take a turn with me in the gardens? There we should have relative privacy to converse,” he said smoothly, then frowned, his eyes shadowing. “It will not bode well for society to see us alone.”
“Would you not prefer to dance?” Though her heart lurched at taking such a bold step, she did not want him to believe for even a moment she was scared to be seen in his arms, hopefully waltzing.
His gaze scanned the crowd, and it was quite easy to see the disdain he felt for the gathering. “No.”
His presence at society events excited malicious speculation, which the ton made no effort to curtail, and it was evident now in the whispers stirring the air around them, the pointed suspicious looks directed her way. Perhaps it was best he had declined to dance, for the last time they partook in such a pleasure, society had not been kind—the cartoons had been horrific, and her mother had been insensible with mortification. She ignored the pinprick of unease at being the regard of their speculations. “There are a frightful number of guests in the gardens being wicked no doubt. Perhaps it would be best if we visited the conservatory.”
They maneuvered through the crush, he a few discreet paces behind her. They entered the entrance hall and Lord Beaufort inclined his head to Richard with a smile. He ignored the earl and his countess, walking with purpose ahead. From the few gasps and twitters, his action had been noted, and it would appear in the morning scandal sheets that Lord Westfall had given Lord and Lady Beaufort the cut direct.
A pang went through Evie’s heart at Lady Beaufort’s evident embarrassment. Richard had changed from the amiable and caring man she had known over the years. Once, she’d asked if he was a libertine, and he’d said no, a claim he was unable to boast any longer. Now he was the most dangerous degenerate according to several scandal sheets, uncaring of society’s views and expectations. He despised high society for some unfathomable reason, and he made no effort to conceal his distaste. And she was being inexcusably reckless. Despite their friendship and the cravings in her heart, his reputation did not allow for them to be alone. Although her logical mind argued her to caution, she continued through the side door leading to the terrace.
They exited, and she moved to walk beside him. “You were quite rude just now. What have they done to suffer your disdain?”
“Their existence offends me,” he said flatly.
“You have the sensitivity of a battering ram,” she muttered. “Lady Beaufort is still struggling to be accepted by society after her daughter eloped to Gretna Green with her music tutor. Your actions gave society more reason to condemn her.”
“You chide me as if I might feel remorse.”
“I daresay you ought to feel some regret. I never knew you to be unfeeling.”
He shot her a derisive glance. “A boy of eleven was caught poaching on their land. A pair of pheasants to feed his little sisters. The gamekeeper caught him. Do you know where that boy is now?”
She frowned. “No, but surely you cannot resent the earl and the countess for handing over a thief to the magistrate.”
“A thief?”
“Well, yes,” she said carefully. “He did take something that did not belong to him.”
“That boy of eleven years was sentenced to seven years’ hard labor for a pair of birds. Would you like your liberty to be taken for food?”
Shock coursed through her. Seven years? “It is the law,” she said faintly.
“Then it is easy for me to deduce you would treat your tenants with similar contempt, Evie.”
Uncertainty sifted through her. There was an undercurrent in his tone she was unable to decipher. He’d sounded disappointed in her defense of the earl. They slipped through the gardens and toward the glass house. They entered the well-tended conservatory, the laughter and excitement of the ball a distant buzz. “I do not agree the boy should be given such a harsh sentence, but I cannot defend his thievery as you easily do.”
Richard’s lips curled. “As expected from a lady of society.”
There it was again. The veiled disdain he felt for the ton. The lump in her throat grew larger. It had become distressingly clear these past few months that he equated her with everyone in society. The bonds of their friendship had been straining, quite severely. “It relieves my mind to know that you are in attendance tonight,” she said softly. “It has been a while since we’ve had any occasion to converse.”
“Ah…I thought that had been deliberate. I was met with chilling incivility upon our last encounter.”
Evie could feel her face redden. “You attended Lady Welsh’s ball with…with your mistress. Certainly you did not expect me to own to our acquaintanceship and dance with you?”
“I expected kindness.”
And in his eyes, she spied a peculiar coldness he’d not normally reserved for her. It pained her to see it. “You were introducing her to our society. I thought you would desire for me to speak with her.”
“Shocking that I expected you to be civil.”
“Richard, surely you understand my reputation would have been sullied if I had conversed with her.”
“Your reputation was never in danger. Mrs. Cranston is a widow who has seen better times, but she was never my mistress.”
“There are rumors she has been the mistress of Lord Percival. Her reputation and connections are dubious, and to bring her to the—”
“The hypocrisy of the ton sickens me.” The anger he was controlling was blatant in his hard stare. “I have tupped more than one of the ladies there who cut her most unfairly. They judged her for the acts they do so avidly behind closed doors.”
Heat blossomed in her cheeks. “You’ve changed.”
“Have I?”
“Yes, and you are aware of it, Richard. Everyone refers to you as a disgraced lord, and Mamma has been reluctant to send you invitations to our balls.”
“Disgraced?” His gaze was flinty. “It is your kind who are disgraceful.”
Evie flinched, pain blooming in her heart. “My kind? What have I done that you would hold me in such contempt?”
“That is precisely it, Evie, you have done nothing.”
She faltered at his harsh tone. “Permit me to—”
His unswerving gaze made her uneasy. “I will permit you nothing. You live in a gilded cage; one you are happy to reside within. You have no concept of the real world outside, of the sufferings that poor orphaned children, widows, and disabled veterans endure. People, Evie, people who hurt as we do, who bleed as we do. Your life is tea parties, balls, and musicales. You have no notion of the harsh realities of life, and you seem quite content with your ignorance.”
She was shocked by his ruthless candor.
He swore under his breath and raked his fingers through his thick raven-black hair, turning its careful disarray into a tangled mess. “Forgive me, I digress. I did not come here to quarrel.”
Struggling for equanimity she scanned the room, seeking for a less distressing topic. She spied a flower array and walked toward it. “Such a beautiful arrangement, in all its particulars, wouldn’t you agree?”
He dealt her a considering glance. “It is unlike you to quibble.”
“I thought it best to converse about something else, or we shall spend the evening arguing.” She inhaled softly. “Why are you here, Richard?”
“I received your note.”
“I write to you all the time.”
“The one where you heard the most odious and distressing news, and we must confer at once. That one.”
Evie contained her wince. “I sent that weeks ago.” She’d written that letter with her heart aching desperately and anger scything through her veins.
“And would I have been admitted to your parents’ parlor if I’d paid a social call?” he clipped icily.
She closed her eyes briefly before snapping them open. “Forgive me, I am being contrary. There are…rumors once again linking your name to Lady Honoria. I wonder at their veracity.”
His face shuttered. “I’ve not made my intentions public.”
She stared at him, suddenly unable to speak. His intentions? “You called upon her twice, before noon, walked with her in Hyde Park, and danced with her at Lady Pomeroy’s ball last week. The scandal sheets have been voracious. You never dance when you deign to attend a high society event.”
Incredulity filled his tawny gaze. “And?”
“Surely you see that was what has society agog.”
He scowled. “I dance with you upon occasion, and there are no rumors of such a nature.”
She gave an indelicate shrug. “Yes, but all of society knows we are particular friends when they are of a mind to recall it, and to not paint our friendship in a deprecatory fashion with ridiculous drawings in the scandal sheets. I daresay we have been in each other’s company for years, so if there had been something deeper than friendship it would have made itself evident, wouldn’t you agree?”
Good heavens, Lord, forgive my unruly tongue. Evie braced herself for rejection, her heart hammering in her chest. She had never spoken in a fashion that would hint at the tender feelings he roused in her. She hurried to him and pressed three of her fingers against his lips. “I spoke hastily. There is no need to address my outburst.”
He remained silent, but his eyes held a thousand questions. He encircled her wrist gently and shifted her hand. “Shouldn’t I?”
Surely he did not want to speak of tender sentiments between them? “No, there is no need.”
He contemplated her with an enigmatic half smile. “What are you afraid of?”
Evie stiffened under his probing regard. “I assure you I am not anxious.”
“Honesty between us has always been the foundation of our friendship.”
Dratted man. “I could not bear to hear you admit you require nothing more than friendship between us, ever,” she admitted softly.
He faltered into complete stillness, and she wanted to die from mortification.
Then something shifted in his eyes, raw and provocative. Was it desire? Her breath trembled on her lips, an unknown sensation erupted in her stomach and overwhelming weakness quivered through her. Oh! She dropped her hand from his mouth as if she had been burned. “Richard?”
His expression was decidedly sensual. “I won’t pounce, despite the temptation.”
She was suddenly breathless and utterly dispossessed of all rational thought. “You’ve thought of pouncing on me?” Though she hardly understood what he meant, the notion seemed frightfully exhilarating.
“From the first time I met you,” he said, rueful amusement twisting his lips. “You were sixteen, and I was a cad for having thoughts of kissing you senseless.”
Evie was disconcerted by that unexpected admission and the ease with which he’d made it. They’d always been honest with each other, but this…dear Lord, her heart was a beating mess.
“I…” Unable to form a coherent thought, Evie chuckled nervously. Why was he so frank now? “I…I truly believe you have rendered me speechless.”
His gaze dropped to her lips, and it was with evident reluctance he shifted his regard. She moved closer to him, irresistibly drawn by the sensuality etched on his face. How had she not known he was similarly attracted to her? She’d always thought the kiss they had shared an aberration, a wonderful comfort she had provided when he had been in such need. An inexplicable desire to touch him welled within her, and Evie stood on tiptoes, then brought her hands to his jaw, cupping his cheeks. “How I’ve missed you…”
He stroked his thumb back and forth along her cheek. “You’ve always tempted me to be foolish, Evie, and once again you are doing so.”
Always? She was filled with delight.
Richard lowered his hand but remained scandalously close so the hem of her ball gown spread over his shoes. She felt tied to him by an invisible thread, unable to care at this moment about duty to her mother’s expectations and propriety. “Why have you not acted upon your feelings?”
He frowned and the shadows of his face became saturnine as his mouth curled almost in derision. “I would ruin you, Evie.” One long finger reached toward her and touched tenderly behind her ear, the finger caressed with a featherlike touch, moving down her neck and across her collarbone.
“So ruin me,” she breathed, desperate to step free of the cage she lived within, if only for a few precious stolen moments. It was also hard to resist someone so delightfully wicked and appealing.
His eyes flamed bright gold with something akin to predatory anticipation. His fingers paused at the scooped neckline of her ball gown and followed the single line of lace down to where it ended in a point, revealing the barest glimpse of the shadow between her breasts. Evie tried to stay still, to appear unaffected, but as his finger lingered between her breasts, a twisting sensation spiraled through her stomach. Her breasts felt peculiar, suddenly heavy and full, her nipples tautening into almost painful sensitivity. “Richard…”
The fierce intensity with which his brilliant golden eyes raked her frame had dual needs of wariness and yearning throbbing through her. His supercilious mien had vanished and within his eyes was something far warmer—longing, admiration, perhaps even need. Time became frozen, her breathing suspended as anticipation of something, anything, scythed through her veins, but then she found a breath and time moved on.
His finger moved to one of her steepling nipples, circling the silk puckered by her arousal, the pressure gentle. Her knees wobbled, and she rested her forehead on his shoulder, and the familiar scent of him filled her with pain. A shocking surge of heat quivered through her. Nothing had ever felt as needed to her as Richard’s touch. Hunger clawed through her with greedy force and speared down to her most intimate secret place. She ached. Shaken by a response that she couldn’t control, Evie shivered.
What are we doing?
As if she had spoken aloud, he lowered his hand.
“I ache to take everything you are so naively offering and damn the consequences. But I won’t be responsible for ruining you, Evie. I’ll always be a gentleman, despite the powerful need to succumb to your delightful charms.”
He stood up straight, before sweeping her a graceful bow and depositing a terse kiss upon her gloved fingers. Then he turned and walked out of the conservatory, leaving her alone and bereft.