She was in her nightdress by the time she heard him leave his bedchamber. She expected him to come to her, but instead his footsteps echoed in the hallway, growing fainter as he retreated down the stairs. She considered crawling into bed, but had decided this mistress business involved more than what happened between the sheets. He might not want it to be so, but it was. For whatever reason, he was estranged from his brothers, and while he might not admit it, it caused him considerable pain.
Grabbing her wrap, she slipped into it and belted it firmly at her waist before heading out of her room and following the path she was certain he had taken. He might have gone to his club for all she knew, but she hoped not. She knew it was his place of solace, when she dearly wanted to play that role in his life. She wasn’t certain when she’d developed such a fondness for him. He was obstinate, moody, and didn’t possess a frivolous bone in his entire body, but for the moment at least, he was hers.
Until he tired of her, she intended to have some purpose in his life other than looking presentable and being available for him to slake his lust upon. Because it was after midnight, the servants were already abed, so she opened the door to the library herself, not even certain why she knew that she would find him there—if he were still in residence.
He was. Dressed in his loose linen shirt and trousers, one arm raised, pressed to the mantel, while the other held an almost empty tumbler. He was staring into the barren hearth before glancing back at her, heavy lidded.
“Go on to bed, Evie. I won’t be bothering you tonight.”
Her belly clutched painfully, and her chest filled with a sadness that nearly cracked her ribs. Was that how he viewed things between them: that his coming to her was a bother for her? Did her cries of pleasure mean nothing? Did he not understand that she had come to cherish him? Did she mean nothing at all to him?
She wandered over to the table, removed the stopper from a decanter, and lifted it.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m of a mind to have something to drink.” She filled a glass. With decanter in hand, she walked over to him and poured the amber liquid into his glass. She could feel his speculative gaze on her, but didn’t dare bring herself to look into his eyes. They could easily dissuade her from her purpose. She returned the decanter to the table, took her glass, and made herself comfortable in a nearby chair, pulling her legs beneath her. She lifted her glass. “Cheers.”
She downed a good bit, let the warmth swirl through her, igniting her courage. “They didn’t want to leave you, you know.”
He released a strangled laugh. “I know.” He turned his attention back to the empty hearth.
“I understand that it doesn’t make it any easier, though. The knowing,” she said. “When I was a little girl and my mother was still alive, the earl would come to visit us. Every time he left, she sat by the window and gave herself leave to cry for two minutes. Then she would stop, wipe her nose with her silk handkerchief, and say, ‘He doesn’t want to leave us, Evelyn, but he has no choice. Duty and all that rubbish.’ I thought there must be something that would allow him to stay, and then my mother died, and I was able to be with him.”
He snapped his head around, penetrating her soul with his focus. “You didn’t make your mother die.”
“I know, but still it was a silly thing to wish for. Do you think either of them had it easier than you?”
“No.” His attention was back on the hearth. “But I don’t think either of them had to do what I did to survive.”
She swallowed more Scotch before tightening her arms around her legs. “What did you do, Rafe?”
Slowly he shook his head. “You don’t want to know, Evie.”
“Do you do those things now?”
“No.” He glowered at her. “Absolutely not.”
“Then perhaps they don’t matter.” She took another sip. Amazing how relaxed she was becoming. “Would it be so awful do you think to go on the boat with your brother?”
“Ship.”
She giggled, then sobered. “Their wives seem very nice. Did you know . . .” She looked at her glass, wrinkled her brow. “Oh, it’s empty.”
In long strides he went to the table, retrieved the decanter, and refilled her glass. He took the chair opposite her. “Did I know?”
Lowering her voice so revealing a confidence wouldn’t seem quite so wicked, she said, “Lord Rafe and Lady Anne were intimate before they married.”
“Yes, I knew. All of London knew. Even though he denied it later, I think everyone recognized his denial was a lie, a wish to protect her when it was far too late.”
“Oh.” Pondering, she took a long sip of the Scotch. “Why are mistresses looked down upon then? If others do it without benefit of marriage.”
“I suppose it has to do with love.”
“Have you ever loved anyone?” Looking at him over the rim of her glass, she sipped again. It was a funny thing but the more she drank, the more she wanted to drink.
“My father. Never knew my mother. She died when I was born.” He rubbed his thumb over his lower lip, a lip she wanted to kiss. What would he do if she got up, crossed the distance separating them, bent over, and placed her mouth against his? “I suppose she was the first person I killed.”
His words slowly registered through her lethargic haze. “What? No. It’s not your fault she died. It simply happened.”
“She gave birth to twins without dying. So why was I so difficult? I don’t believe my father blamed me, but still I reflect on it sometimes.”
“You shouldn’t. Not like that. She loved you, I’m sure of it. She’d want you to be happy.”
He chuckled low. “After everything that’s happened to you, how can you remain so damned optimistic?”
“I wouldn’t much like being the other way.” She squinted. “You need to stop drinking. You’re becoming blurred.”
He smiled, a real smile, she thought, but it was so difficult to see. The room was growing dark around the edges, and she was having a devil of a time keeping her eyes open.
“I believe you’re the one who’s blurred,” he said, and she could have sworn she heard the amusement in his voice.
“Who was the other person you killed? You said your mother was the first.”
“I don’t know his name.”
“He deserved it, though. You wouldn’t have killed him otherwise.”
He tilted his head to the side as though to see her more clearly. “Are you not appalled?”
She fought to shake her head forcefully, although it seemed to want to loll about on its own. “I wanted to kill Geoffrey, although he didn’t really deserve it. But I should have smacked him I think.”
“I can arrange that if you like.”
She heard laughter. As his mouth was closed, she supposed it was coming from her. “I’ve decided I feel rather sorry for him. He’s weak, not to be admired. Not worth the effort of me slapping. Besides, I don’t think I can get out of the chair.”
“Yes, I assumed that when you dropped the glass.”
She looked at her hand, her fingers. “I was holding it, wasn’t I?”
“I think you’re quite into your cups.”
She lifted her gaze to find him hovering over her. Reaching up, she trailed her fingers over his lips. “Do you like me?”
“Very much. That’s your misfortune. I thought I’d be done with you by now.”
“I thought you would as well. I don’t think you quite appreciate yourself.”
“And you, my sweet, are drunk.”
He lifted her into his arms and she rested a hand on his shoulder. “I won’t hold you, but this is like when we were waltzing. I liked waltzing.”
“I’ll take you to another ball.”
She was vaguely aware of his long strides taking them out of the library.
“I should like to go on your brother’s boat.”
“You shall have to call it a ship.”
“I will, I promise. So will we be going on it?”
“I don’t know. I’ve not yet decided.”
“Have you a coin?” she asked.
“What has that to do with anything?”
“Have you a coin?” she insisted.
“Yes. The same one you used before.”
“Then set me down.”
“You’ll fall on your face.”
“No, I won’t. Set me down.”
He did as she ordered, and her feet settled on the cold marble. They were in the foyer. She wobbled around a bit, before he set his hands on her shoulders and steadied her.
“All right, take out your coin. You’ll be the one to flip it. Heads we go on the ship, tails we don’t. Agreed?”
“I don’t believe in giving fate—”
“Trust me. Are we agreed on the terms?”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Agreed.”
“Toss it in the air, but don’t look at it when it lands.”
“How will I know—”
She placed her fingers against his lips. “Don’t think about it. Just do as I say.” She forced herself to concentrate on his face, his eyes. “Toss it.”
He flipped it up, it spiraled down—
“There,” she said, putting her hand up so he couldn’t see the coin as it clinked with its landing, rolled, and fell onto a side. “There, that split second before it landed, what did you think?”
“That this is ridiculous.”
He started to move away, and she stayed him with a hand on his arm. He glared at her. There was a time when the fierceness of his glower would have sent her cowering up the stairs, but that was before she knew him. “My father taught me that when you flip a coin, there is always a second, just before it lands, when you think either heads or tails. And that’s when you truly know what you want the outcome to be. So what did you think? I saw it in your eyes. I know you thought one or the other.”
“The first night you were here, you flipped a coin.”
“Yes, but I didn’t tell you if heads meant I stayed. And actually, tails meant I stayed, so I lied to you and said it was heads. But you see, that’s the beauty of it. It doesn’t matter what lands. What matters is what you hoped would land. And that’s your answer. So what did you want, Rafe?”
“Doesn’t matter what I want.” He swept her into his arms. “We’ll go because you’ll harp about it if we don’t.”
Suddenly exhausted, she rested her head against his shoulder. “When have I ever harped?”
Rafe set her down gently on the bed and unknotted the sash of her robe. She barely stirred as he worked her out of it. Bringing the covers up over her, he was incredibly tempted to slip beneath them with her. But it had been years since he’d been able to stand the weight of covers lying heavy on his body.
She didn’t harp, she didn’t complain. The more he came to know her, the more he realized she’d have not ended up in St. Giles as he’d originally assumed. She possessed a determination, a strength of will that would have had her finding a way to avoid the rookeries. She’d taken the path of least resistance by staying with him, but it had also been her smartest move. Smarter yet to make him think that she’d allowed fate to decide when she’d done it all along. She was here because she had chosen to be. Which meant she could just as easily choose to leave.
He broke out in a fine sheen of sweat. He didn’t care if she left. She meant nothing to him. He hadn’t enjoyed dancing with her. He hadn’t taken pleasure in seeing her in the red. He wasn’t glad she’d worn his pearls. He was ready to leave her now, to get on about his business. Yet he stood there, watching her sleep, thinking that she deserved to have a man holding her tightly, his breath wafting over her neck while she dreamed.
And he found himself desperately wishing he could be that man.
After extinguishing the lamp, he left the room and returned to the foyer. His coin was still on the floor, tails winking up at him. His father had given him the coin one blustery morning. “Go into the village and purchase some humbugs. We’ll share them tonight when I regale you with tales of our hunting.” Then his father had mounted his horse and gone off with his younger brother, Lord David. Rafe had never made it to the sweet shop. It was a cold day, so he’d lounged by the fire instead, playing with a carved wooden horse he’d stolen from Tristan. He didn’t like going to the village alone. He’d planned to convince his father to go with him when he got back.
But his uncle was the only one to return. Servants were sent out to retrieve his father and to put down the horse that had thrown him.
Rafe rubbed his fingers over the coin. He didn’t know why he’d kept it all these years. There was many a time when he could have used it to purchase food to fill his belly. But he had held onto it.
He would never admit it to Eve, but he had hoped for heads. During that one second, just before it landed—heads, his mind whispered. As much as he hated to acknowledge it, he was curious about Tristan’s yacht. Rafe had been disappointed that Tristan had sold his ship before Rafe had a chance to sail on it. If he hadn’t avoided his brothers, if he hadn’t isolated himself—
He’d always known, deep in his gut, that they’d had no choice except to leave him behind. But he also knew that if he’d been stronger, sharper, quicker they might have taken him with them. It was what was lacking in him that had forced them to abandon him. He was tired of clutching to the past. Yet it was so damned hard to let go.