Even if he hadn’t told her that he’d be gone when she awoke, she would have known. The residence took on a different feel when he wasn’t about. She couldn’t quite explain it, but it seemed emptier, less vital, more plain.
After Lila helped her dress, she stepped into the hallway just as a rather short and podgy servant was opening the door to the bedchamber across the hall. Ironed shirts were draped across his left arm. She tried not to stare at the clawlike gloved hand that seemed to be frozen in a most uncomfortable position. He stopped and gave Evelyn a quick bow. “Good morning, miss. I’m Mr. Easton’s valet. Bateman.”
Evelyn forced herself to smile so he wouldn’t read her mind. She was wondering how a one-handed valet could possibly see to his duties properly. He must have known what she was thinking, however, because he explained, “My hand got smashed when I was younger. It never healed properly. Still aches a bit, especially when the weather is cold and damp.”
“I’m terribly sorry, but I’m certain you’re a marvelous valet.”
He straightened his shoulders. “The master never complains.”
“Those are his shirts I assume?”
“Yes, miss. I was just putting them in his room. His tailor delivered them yesterday. He likes them washed and pressed before he wears them.”
At a quick glance, Evelyn estimated a half-dozen shirts. New shirts. So many. Although after last night’s encounter, he certainly needed to replace at least one.
Evelyn felt rather self-conscious pointing at the room next to hers, but it was part of her responsibilities to see that everything was taken care of properly for him. “But that’s his room.”
Bateman blinked. “No, miss. This is the room where I dress him. That room there, no one is allowed in there.”
“How is it cleaned and tidied?”
“As far as I know, it isn’t.”
“I see.” Only she didn’t.
“Will that be all, miss?”
Evelyn nodded. “Yes, carry on.”
After the valet disappeared into the room, she walked over to the door that she knew was locked. What secrets was he hiding in there?
The jewelers on St. James was one of the finest in all of London. When Rafe walked through the door, he wasn’t surprised to see a duke standing at one of the glass cases. He only wished it wasn’t that particular duke.
Due to the positioning of the door, and his limited sight because of the eye patch he wore, his brother had to turn almost completely around to see who was entering. “Rafe.”
“Sebastian.” He jerked his chin up. “Sorry. Keswick.”
Keswick shrugged. “Sebastian works. This is the very last place I expected to run into you.”
The clerk wasn’t about. Rafe considered leaving, but it had been a good many years since he’d felt the need to try to avoid the unpleasant, so he closed the door and walked over to the case. “Where’s the shopkeeper?”
“Retrieving a necklace that I had created especially for Mary. We’re hosting a ball in a couple of nights. Our first in London. She’s a trifle nervous about it. The one we held at Pembrook before Christmas went well, but you know how it is in London. Things are scrutinized a bit more closely.”
“She shouldn’t care what people think.”
“If not for our son, she probably wouldn’t. She married me, after all.” He turned his attention back to the jewelry case, which meant that he could no longer see Rafe. Rafe thought that perhaps he should move to the other side of him, but it was Sebastian’s choice to look where he wanted. “Did you get the invitation?” Sebastian asked quietly.
“To the Christmas affair? Yes, I sent my regrets.”
“To the ball we’re having this week.”
“I did. While I appreciate it, I won’t be able to attend that either.”
“It would mean a great deal to Mary if you would.”
“Yes, well—”
“And to me. To have us all in the residence, as we once were.”
Only Rafe wasn’t as he once had been, and because of that, he said, “I’m sorry, but business will keep me away.”
Sebastian merely nodded, and Rafe began studying the pieces in the case. He wanted to find something that matched the shade of Eve’s eyes, when he had risen over her and was gazing down on her face. Passion deepened the violet. He wanted to be able to show her what he saw when he looked into her eyes. It wasn’t like him to have such fanciful thoughts. As with the chocolate, giving her jewelry would be a mistake, would make her think that he cared for her in a way that he didn’t.
He was providing her with necessities. He didn’t need to provide her with frivolities. He should leave now, before he did something to make a fool of himself.
The curtains to the back room parted, and a man with a shiny pate ringed with white hair stepped out and smiled. “Good day, sir. I shall be with you in a moment. Here you are, Your Grace. I think your duchess is going to be most pleased with this.” He set a velvet box on the counter, and opened it to reveal a necklace with green stones interlaced with diamonds. A jolt went through Rafe at the realization that he and his brother were both seeking to acquire necklaces that matched a lady’s eyes.
“What do you think, Rafe?” Sebastian asked. “Will Mary like it?”
“I suspect she’d be pleased if you chained daisies together to put about her neck.”
The clerk drew himself up. “I daresay, she will not find another piece in all of London as much to her liking as this.”
“My brother’s a cynic, Mr. Cobb, so don’t take offense.”
Rafe grimaced as the clerk jerked around to look at him. “My apologies, my lord. I didn’t realize—”
“No apologies needed.”
“Lord Rafe is correct, though,” Sebastian said. “The duchess would be happy with daisies. But I know she will be happier with this.” Rafe thought if his brother still possessed two eyes he might have winked. “Add this to my account please.”
“Yes, Your Grace. Without delay.”
Sebastian slipped it into his pocket, turned to leave, and halted to hold Rafe’s gaze. “I have it on good authority that a gentleman can never go wrong purchasing a lady pearls.”
“You didn’t purchase pearls.”
“Not this time, no, but I have on other occasions. I’ll let Mary know that you’ve sent your regrets.”
Rafe thought if the clerk weren’t standing there, Sebastian might have said far more. Instead, he walked from the shop without another word spoken.
The clerk bustled over to stand before Rafe. “So, my lord, how might I be of service this afternoon?”
Rafe hesitated but a moment before saying, “Show me what you have in pearls.”
Evening was approaching. He would be here soon. Or so she thought. Hoped.
She wanted to be waiting on the terrace, but a misty rain had settled in so she sat in a chair near the window in her small sitting room, not certain when she had begun to think of it as hers. She still didn’t truly believe he was going to give her the residence. She could only hope that it would be a long time before she found out. Although a part of her worried that now he’d had her, he’d be done with her. Anyone could lie beneath him as he slaked his lust. What difference did it make if it was her?
He didn’t care for her enough to linger beyond the mating.
“You didn’t wear the red.”
Coming up out of the chair, facing the doorway, she despised the joy that nearly consumed her because he was here. She was surprised by how tired he appeared, as though he hadn’t slept. She wondered if he’d had to deal with trouble at his club. What did he do there all day, all night?
“No, I thought in order to hold your interest that it would be best if I weren’t predictable.” The pale yellow had arrived that afternoon and so she’d decided to go with it.
“The last thing I would consider you to be is predictable.”
“More so than you. I wasn’t certain when to expect you.”
He walked over to the fireplace. Shouldn’t he come to her, kiss her, take her in his arms—
“I wasn’t going to come until midnight, but I couldn’t force myself to stay away that long.”
A small thrill of happiness went through her. “I’m glad.” She wondered how he would react if she confessed to missing him. Would a mistress say such a thing? Had her mother? She’d told Evelyn often enough that she missed the earl, but had she ever told him? She hated that she didn’t know exactly how she was to behave. On the other hand, he’d never had a mistress before so he probably didn’t know how a mistress should behave either. If she made a mistake, he wouldn’t know, would he? She knew only that she wanted to matter, and she suspected that she didn’t.
“Shall I ring for dinner?”
“No.” His voice contained a tightness, and she realized then that his knuckles were turning white where he gripped the mantel. “I want to have you now, before we dine.”
Not exactly poetry, but then he had no need to woo her. Their arrangement didn’t require that he make any effort to lure her into his bed.
“Yes, all right. Shall we go to my bedchamber then?” Because surely he wasn’t thinking of taking her here, beneath her father’s portrait.
“I brought you something to wear.”
Before she could make any sort of inquiry, he reached inside his jacket, removed a nicely crafted leather box, and held it out to her. She stared at it. Her father had given her a similar appearing box once. Inside had been a sapphire necklace.
Rafe gave it a quick wave. “Take it.”
Her fingers trembled slightly as she did so. As though something might jump out and bite her, she opened it with extreme care. Inside, resting on velvet, was a pearl necklace. Smiling, she said, “It’s beautiful.”
He looked so terribly self-conscious, as though he were anxious that he might displease her. For all his gruffness and his rules and his distance, she found something incredibly touching about him.
“That’s all I want you to wear,” he said. “Tonight.”
“I shall require fifteen moments to change.”
“Ten.”
“You are quite dictatorial.”
“If you knew the restraint I was exhibiting not to have you on the floor at this precise moment, you’d already be on your way out the door.”
“You want me that badly?”
“I’m dying here, Eve.”
While she knew that it was probably not her specifically that was driving him to madness—but rather only the thought of having a woman—she did take some satisfaction in his suffering. “Twelve minutes.”
Before he could protest, she was hurrying out the door.
Rafe turned, gripped the mantel, and stared at the clock. He was ignoring his own rules for her. He didn’t live his life counting minutes, but he had spent most of the day doing precisely that, striving to determine how soon he could appear without giving the impression that it had been torment to be away from her. It was only because he’d taken her but once last night, out of concern for the soreness she was no doubt feeling. But tonight, hopefully, she would experience no pain, and he could have his fill of her and this awful need to see her smile, to inhale her fragrance, to hear her voice would dissipate.
The necklace had taken her by surprise. It gave him satisfaction that it had, that she’d not been expecting it. She’d been pleased by it. Tomorrow perhaps he’d bring her a matching bracelet. The next night earbobs. Then he would move on to diamonds, rubies, emeralds. She would have a collection to rival the queen’s.
A minute had gone by. Bloody hell. He’d stopped keeping track of time when he was at the workhouse. Minutes ticked by at an infernally slow rate. It was torture. Best to just exist, not to think, “I have a thousand more moments of this hell.” Counting them down was not a relief. Counting them not at all was better. Time had begun to have no meaning—until the night when he was waiting for Sebastian and Tristan to return. It had been the longest night of his life.
The minute hand on the clock jerked. He’d given her enough time. If she wasn’t prepared for him, he’d speed things along by helping her get ready.
He stopped in the bedchamber where he kept his clothes, where the servants were allowed to see to his needs. After removing his jacket, he tossed it onto a nearby chair. His neckcloth, waistcoat, and shirt followed. He sat down and removed his boots. Warm water was waiting in the washbasin. He’d ordered it sent up before he went in search of Eve. He washed quickly, considered shaving when he rubbed his hands over his rough face, but he didn’t have the patience for it. He’d probably nick his jaw or worse, slice his throat. No, better not to risk it.
He headed across the hallway, opened her door without knocking, and came to an abrupt halt at the sight of her lounging against the pillows on the bed, her hair cascading around her. The only thing she wore was the necklace. He’d expected her to be obstinate about it—the way she was with the red gown. He’d thought she’d be in a nightdress, her chin angled high, daring him to find fault.
Even when she did what he commanded, she was unpredictable because he didn’t know if she would heed his words. Oh, she was skilled at this mistress game. If he didn’t know her history, he’d have thought she was a trained courtesan. Although perhaps her mother’s influence had rubbed off on her.
She’d left but one lamp burning low, and it cast her in provocative shadows. He liked that she wasn’t modest, that she was already comfortable enough with him that she felt no need to be coy.
“Please, do close the door,” she said, and only then did he realize that the sight of her had stopped him dead in his tracks, his hand gripping the door handle. He closed the door, shed his trousers, and strode over to the bed. Her second time should be gentle as well, he thought. But it wasn’t going to be. He had envisioned her beneath him for hours now. He craved the feel of her hot velvety tightness closing around him.
When he was near enough, he cradled her jaw, lowered his head, blanketed her mouth with his, and came very close to losing all control. The taste of her made him more heady than his finest Scotch. His body cried out for him to whisper the words, “Touch me,” but he didn’t dare, for fear that the madness would come upon him and he would cause her to suffer. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her, and yet he knew that he already had. Selfishly, he had carried her onto the path that made it unlikely that she would ever have the husband and children she wanted.
Children. Damnation! He’d brought sheaths with which to cover himself, to ensure he didn’t give her the children out of wedlock that she didn’t want, but they remained in his jacket. He should return for them but he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her at that moment.
He skimmed his hands over her, parted her thighs, felt the molten heat, and realized she was anticipating what was to come. He’d done so little, yet she was ready. Her moans and sighs echoed around him.
Her hands skimmed through his hair, and he groaned with the sensation of her scraping her nails over his scalp. Stop her, stop her. But he didn’t. One minute more. But it wasn’t long enough. When had time become so short? Why did it encompass an eternity when he wasn’t with her, yet hurtled along as fast as a train when he was? He wanted to slow it down, make it last forever.
Her fingers flexed, tightened, pressed—
Grabbing her wrists, he broke off the kiss. Locking her wrists together with one hand, he carried them over her head as he climbed onto the bed and positioned himself at the core of her heat. He kissed a trail along the top of her necklace, then below it. With his free hand, he balanced himself over her and slid into the molten recesses. He almost closed his eyes with the marvelous sensations that swelled up within him, but that would have denied him the sight of her.
Rocking against her, he knew the moment that pleasure took hold for her, the wonder of it traveling over her face. Her thighs squeezed his hips. He bore it because he wouldn’t deny her the journey. He was grateful that she was so responsive, quick to settle into the rhythm of their mating.
Lost in the wonder of her, he rode her fast and hard until she was crying out and arching against him. Only then did he let himself go, give the myriad burgeoning sensations the freedom to rip through him, take his breath, his reason, his thoughts. To consume him.
Evelyn feared her wrists might be bruised in the morning. She knew he hadn’t realized how tightly he was gripping her when he bucked against her with his final thrusts. Locked in her own web of passion, she hadn’t noticed it either until she’d gotten up to clean herself and fetch the silk robe that he’d had sewn for her. He’d slipped into his trousers, and now sat with his back against the headboard, his ankles crossed, as he ate a meat-filled pastry. The tray of food rested between them on the bed. At least he hadn’t left immediately. Although based on the way he watched her, she suspected they’d have another rousing round before he did.
“I like the necklace,” she said.
“I’ll bring you another tomorrow.”
He said it as though there was nothing special about it. It was simply a thing to be given. As she was just a woman to be taken.
“You’ve given me so much already, you don’t have to give me jewelry.”
He stopped chewing, studied her as though seeing her for the first time. “Mistresses are supposed to want things.”
“Rafe, I’m not here to get things out of you. I’m here because I want to be.”
“What do you mean, you want to be?”
“I like being here. I like the residence. I like the servants. I even like you, as impossible as that may sound.”
Averting his gaze, he reached for a strawberry. “I’ve given you no reason to like me.”
“I suppose that’s true enough.” Only it wasn’t. He’d rescued her from Geoffrey, protected her, always seemed intent on ensuring she had what she needed, even if he did it in a high-handed manner. Even that high-handed manner was becoming endearing to her.
“What do you do when you’re not here?” she asked.
“Purchase you jewelry.”
She rolled her eyes. “I assume you go to your club. What do you do there?”
“Boring things. Look over ledgers, calculate the money coming in, the money going out, make adjustments so always more is coming in than going out. Decide the liquor to be bought, the games to be added, the ones to be taken away. Determine which lords need to be spoken to about their debt.”
“Did you speak to Geoffrey? I know he owed you.”
He nodded. “That’s the reason I was in attendance that night. He wanted to demonstrate his plan to ensure that he paid off his debt. I was there to only observe, but when you walked through the door . . . you fairly took my breath.”
She sat up. “You barely gave me the time of day.”
“Never let anyone know how badly you want something. It gives them an advantage.”
She tried not to give more credence to his words than they deserved. He meant that he wanted to bed her, not that he wanted her for herself. “You didn’t tell me how you came to have the scar on your thigh.”
“It doesn’t make for a very entertaining story.”
“I’m not interested in entertainment. I long to know about you.”
He picked up the nearly empty tray and carried it over to a table. When he returned to the bed, he stretched out on his back, shoved one arm beneath his head, and stared at the canopy. Rolling onto her side, she studied his profile.
“It happened after my brothers had made their way back to London. Sebastian had reclaimed the title, returned to Pembrook with his new bride, and asked me to look after the London residence. One night I saw a silhouette lurking about, so I went to confront the intruder. He fired a bullet into me before I realized he had a pistol.”
It took her a moment to understand that he thought he was finished telling the story. “So then what happened?”
He turned his head to the side and looked at her. “You asked how I came to have the scar. That’s how I got it.”
“But how did you get away? Why was he there?”
“Our uncle hired him and his two mates to do away with us. They came out of the shadows. I beat them to a bloody mess until they were unconscious.”
“While you were wounded you managed to overcome all three of them.”
“I was angry. They tried to murder Sebastian. If he dies, Tristan becomes duke. He’s killed? I become duke. I don’t want to become duke.”
“I think you would make a marvelous duke.”
He scoffed. “I have no patience with Society and it has none with me. But you on the other hand—” He rolled onto his side, slipped his hand inside the silk, and cupped her breast. “I have quite a bit of patience for you.”
“I don’t know about that. Things went rather quickly earlier.”
“They will again, I suspect,” he murmured just before he leaned in and kissed her.
He tasted of strawberries this time, and she couldn’t determine if she preferred the fruit over the heady taste of his liquor. The spirits seem to suit him more; the other seemed far too innocent for one such as he.
Without breaking off the kiss, he deftly unknotted her sash and spread her robe wide so he could have easier access to everything he wanted, and it appeared he wanted everything. She had to admit that he was a considerate lover. With an understanding now of how things were between a man and a woman, she was well aware that he could have taken his own pleasure without giving any to her. While she thought it would increase her enjoyment to be able to engage him fully—holding him, climbing over him, rolling about with him—she couldn’t fault him for giving her what he could.
She didn’t want her hands clamped together this time so she refrained from reaching out to touch him, but it was difficult, so difficult not to touch, not to feel the warmth of his flesh, the softness of his hair.
He lurched from the bed, and she bit back the cry of protest. Of course, he needed to rid himself of his trousers. While he was about that, she worked her way out of her robe completely and tossed it onto the floor.
When she turned back to him, he was standing there magnificently displayed, the flickering flame in the lamp sending light and shadows dancing over him. She rose up on her knees, sat back on her heels, and simply appreciated the sight of him, of what she longed to touch.
With a devilish grin, he crooked a finger at her. With widened eyes, she wondered if he’d managed to read her thoughts, if he knew her deepest desires resided in sharing more with him. “What are you thinking?”
“Just come here.”
She scooted to the edge of the bed, made to get off of it, and he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “Lay back, your legs dangling over the edge.”
She’d be so extremely exposed, and while he’d seen all of her, touched all of her, to do as he asked made her feel vulnerable. Yet how could she deny him, and she wondered when his wants and needs had begun to take precedence over hers. She did as he asked, lay back, and stared at the canopy.
He skimmed his warm roughened hands over her, and she slid her gaze down to his. At least he allowed her to hold his gaze.
“You’re perfect, you know,” he said.
“Careful. You’re beginning to sound like that poetry you abhor.”
“You’re far more comfortable with me than I’d ever hoped you would be.”
She was far more comfortable with him than she’d ever expected to be. But she sensed that he was not nearly as comfortable with her. Oh, when it came to the physical, certainly he had no qualms about baring his flesh to her, but it was his soul she longed to see, his heart she yearned to find.
Kneeling, he gently parted her thighs and buried his face against her soft curls. She sighed in bliss. She dearly wanted to rub her soles up his back, over his shoulders. Instead, she pressed her tongue against her upper lip and fought to concentrate on her own escalating pleasure instead of what she might give to him.
With his tongue, he worked his magic, circling and stroking. Oh, the wicked, wicked man. Welcoming the sensations rioting through her, she dug her fingers into the sheets. Glorious, glorious. She wondered if he was spoiling her for any other man.
She thought she might be beginning to understand why a woman was ruined if she was bedded before she was wedded. Having known one man, would a wanton forever compare the next to the one who’d come before?
With his hands, he kneaded her breasts, and the sensations tripled, quadrupled, threatened to overwhelm her, to bring tears to her eyes. It felt so good. She shouldn’t allow it to be so, but she could no more deny herself the gift he gave her now than she could deny the acceptance of the pearls.
When she thought she could stand no more, her body folded in on itself, raising her back off the bed before slamming her into a whirlwind of pleasure that had her crying out. Through heavy-lidded eyes, she watched as he rose to his feet like some sort of god emerging from desire, his face set in a mask of determination, his nostrils flaring, his eyes burning with want, want of her. Cupping her thighs, he brought her nearer before plunging into her with one bold sure stroke.
She was fascinated by the pumping of his hips, the undulating of his flat stomach. She could see him so much clearer from this position: the tautening of his jaw, the clenching of his teeth, the flopping of his hair against his brow. The muscles bunching in his arms as he adjusted her position, held her legs.
Throwing his head back, he growled low, slamming into her with his final thrusts. His body was coated in a fine sheen of sweat. His eyes were closed tightly, his lips parted, his breathing harsh. While she thought it inconceivable, he’d never looked more beautiful—in a barbaric sort of way. Untamed, uncivilized. Fierce.
When he finally opened his eyes, they shone with the victory of a conqueror. He took a deep breath before slowly extricating himself from her. Her legs weak, she scrambled back. He fell onto the bed, stared at the canopy, his breathing still labored. She thought if she were allowed to place her hand on his chest that she would feel his heart pounding, fast and furiously.
One of them should say something. Instead, she remained silent, curled on her side, and simply watched him, wondering all the while what sort of musings traveled through his mind.
She was going to be the death of him. She was different from the others. He tried to convince himself that it was because of her innocence, because she was his mistress, because she was supposed to be different.
But it was her, the essence of her, not whatever label he’d given to her to make her less dangerous. It was the manner in which she trusted him, the way she opened herself up to him, the unaffected way she responded. She was honest, pure, even now.
He feared he would come to care for her. Along that path lay disaster.
Rolling his head to the side, he discovered she’d fallen asleep. As gently as possible, without disturbing her, he reached down, grabbed the blankets, and brought them slowly up over her. She released a soft sigh, and snuggled in against them.
He experienced a sharp pain in his chest as though his heart had ceased its beating. How desperately he wanted her snuggling against him, her hand furled on his chest, her breath stirring the fine hairs.
What a fool he was. He needed to stop this mooning about. She was nothing more than a convenience, a very lovely one to be sure, but the means to an end, not the end itself. She was spoiling him, however. When he was done with her, he would acquire another mistress. He discovered that he rather enjoyed the expediency and accessibility of having a woman at his beck and call. When the need struck, she was there.
The problem was, with her at least, the need seemed to strike with increasing frequency. He wasn’t spending nearly as much time at the club as he needed to. Tomorrow night, he vowed he would not return here until midnight.
He would regain control of himself, of the situation.