Evelyn ran. And ran. And ran.
Her legs churning, her chest aching as she fought for breath, the tears blurring her vision. The rain pelted her, seeped through her clothing. Somewhere along the way she lost her hat, her pins. Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders, absorbed the wetness, weighted her down.
It was lies. It was all lies. Geoffrey wouldn’t be so cruel. In spite of the fact that he had never given her leave to think that he liked her overly much, he was innocent in this debacle. He’d not known what that horrid Rafe Easton had assumed, had planned. When she explained to Geoffrey what the man said, what he expected of her, Geoffrey would call him out. He would insist upon pistols at dawn. In honor of his father, he would protect her reputation. He would not allow her to be completely ruined.
Although he had never given her cause to believe that he would champion her, he was enough of a gentleman that he would not stand by while some cur took advantage of her.
All she had to do was get home. Thank God it wasn’t that far. She remembered the way. One street, and then another and another, and she would be there. The few people she passed stared at her as though she were a mad woman. But it was Rafe Easton who should be carted off to Bedlam.
Geoffrey would apologize for the misunderstanding, and then he would make everything all right. Years from now they might even laugh about it. When she was married and had children and a husband who loved her. He would love her. Maybe not at first, but in time.
What Rafe Easton proposed was so hideously horrible. How could he be so cold, so harsh, so uncaring? How could he think she would welcome his touch?
She wouldn’t. She would die first. She would scrub floors, she would . . . she would—
She couldn’t think, but it didn’t matter. Geoffrey had made a promise. He would keep it. He would see that she was well cared for.
Drenched to the bone, she turned up the long drive. The gaslights were lit along the path, guiding her. Her entire body was aching now. It was becoming harder and harder to pull air into her lungs. She stumbled, landed hard on her knees and hands, jarring her bones, rattling her teeth. Pushing herself to her feet, she staggered on and trudged up the steps.
She expected the door to open. A footman was always standing there to open it, but then they weren’t expecting her, were they? Grabbing the handle, she pressed it and pushed on the door—
It didn’t open. It was locked!
She banged the knocker. Over and over. Harder and harder, with the crash echoing around her. No one came.
“Geoffrey!” Oh, God, surely he wasn’t out of sorts about that. “Wortham! Wortham! My lord!”
She heard a click, the door opened slightly, and the butler peered out, barring her entrance.
“Manson, thank God. Let me in.”
“I’m sorry, miss. His lordship has forbidden me to allow you entry into the residence.”
“What? No, you’re mistaken. He wouldn’t—”
“I’m sorry, miss. But we have our orders.”
His expression as bland as unseasoned food, he closed the door. When she tried to open it, she found it once again locked.
She banged, kicked, screamed until she was hoarse. Her knuckles were bruised, her toes ached. Dejected, horrified, terrified, she unceremoniously crumpled onto the landing, all her strength zapped from her. The rain pelted her unmercifully, but surely he would eventually open the door if she just stayed here long enough. He had misunderstood his orders. Surely.
She became vaguely aware of someone crouching before her. She lifted her face. Through the haze of her hot tears, she saw Rafe Easton. His black hair was plastered to his head. He appeared to be as wet as she.
“Come with me, Evelyn,” he said, his voice calm, even.
She shook her head. “They won’t let me in. There’s been a mistake. He wouldn’t do this to me. He promised Father. He promised.”
“You’re soaked through. You’re going to catch your death.”
“I don’t care. He can’t be cruel enough to cast me out like this.” Why was she even talking to this callous man? He didn’t care about her. He only wanted use of her person. Her stomach roiled. She thought she might be ill. Shudders wracked her body. She didn’t know if it was the cold or the sobbing that almost had her convulsing. She’d never felt more dejected in her life.
A fog of grief snaked through her, settled around her. She was shaking so badly, her teeth chattering, that she could barely think. Where could she go? She had no friends, no one who would offer her sanctuary until she could determine how to resolve this dilemma. She had no funds. Everything was in her bedchamber. What had he said when he’d come for her? “We’re going for a ride.” And she’d been so grateful that she’d not questioned him further. Now she had nothing, no one. She wrapped her arms around her middle, trying to contain the pain.
“Damnation,” Rafe Easton growled.
There it was: more proof that he thought so little of her that he would use profanity in her presence. He considered her a guttersnipe. A wanton. Someone unloved. And now she was. She wanted to curl into a ball—
His arms came around her. She was vaguely aware of his holding her against his broad chest, lifting her as though she were little more than a sodden pillow.
She had a strong urge to protest, to let loose a scream that would wake the dead, but all she seemed capable of doing was sagging against him. She wished he were kind. She wished he had spoken for her, that he sought marriage, that his intentions toward her were not so wicked.
He wanted to ruin her, to take away her chance at happiness, a proper husband, and children. He wanted to dally with her, soil her reputation, then toss her aside. Wasn’t that what men did with mistresses? Her father might have even done that with her mother had she not died so young.
Her entire life she’d known exactly what her mother was: good enough to bed, but not to wed. Her father had always made her feel as though she were somehow better than that. Her brother made her realize that she wasn’t.
Beneath the roar of the pounding rain, she became aware of Rafe Easton’s muttering, “One more step, one more step. Almost there.”
She didn’t know why he was urging her on like that. She wasn’t the one taking the steps. Perhaps he thought his words would be reassuring, but she knew what would happen when they were finally there.
He would take the one thing left to her that mattered, that was of any value. She couldn’t allow that to happen, yet neither could she simply wander the streets. She would find the strength to fight him. She would find a way to barter, to bargain, to regain some pride and dignity.
She was vaguely aware of his climbing steps, of a door opening, of light washing over her.
“Good God,” a voice she recognized as belonging to Laurence said.
“I want a hot bath prepared for her. Rouse the maids to see to her care. She’s like ice. Hasn’t moved a muscle since I picked her up.”
Hadn’t she? She’d thought she’d been protesting, but perhaps it was all in her mind. She was conscious of him going up stairs. The wide sweeping ones that had so impressed her when she’d first stepped into the residence, before she’d known exactly why she was here.
She could hear other footsteps rushing by them, those of a servant perhaps. They reached the landing. The click of a door opening. He swept through the entry, his progress muffled by thick carpets before he set her on the bed. He grabbed her wrists, unlocking her arms from about his neck. When had she clutched him so? Why had she?
He stepped away without a tender touch, a word of kindness, a whisper of reassurance.
“Get her warm,” he barked. “Find her something dry to wear.”
Then she became aware of gentle hands urging her to care, to ignore the fact that the remainder of her life would be spent within the bowels of hell.
Hell and damnation!
As soon as Rafe was in his bedchamber with the door slammed behind him, he began tearing at his sopping clothes before they suffocated him. Buttons went flying, brocade and linen ripped. He was fighting to draw in breath, had been ever since he’d made the ghastly decision to cart the woman back to his residence. He knew it was a mistake the moment she wound her arms about his neck and clung tenaciously to him.
He couldn’t very well drop her at that point, no matter how desperately he’d wanted to be rid of her cloying hold. So he’d urged himself on with a mantra: One more step, one more step. Almost there.
Knowing all the while that he was lying to himself, that he had a good distance to travel. Why the devil hadn’t he taken the time to have his carriage brought round? He’d been almost certain where she was going. Instead, like a blundering idiot, he rushed out into the rain after her to ensure that she reached her destination without being accosted.
He’d wanted Wortham, the worthless blackguard, to tell her exactly what his plans for her had entailed, that he had purposely set out to ruin her, to turn her into what her mother had been. Rafe had intended to lead her back to his residence with the assurance that he would forgive her unconscionable behavior, but he would not tolerate it in the future.
Instead, he had watched as she’d banged on the locked door, had heard her exchange words with the butler when he finally appeared to her summoning, had seen her crumple into a shattered heap.
Damn Wortham for being the coward he was!
With his clothes finally strewn about his bedchamber, Rafe marched to the fireplace, set match to kindling. When the fire was finally going properly, he stood. The flames licked at the air, but the warmth barely reached him as, legs spread, head bowed, he grabbed the mantel and stared into the writhing precipice. Finally able to breathe again, he gasped in great draughts of air.
Anger swirled through him. Anger at Wortham for his insipid handling of the situation; anger at the woman for looking at him in abject despair. Images of his own caterwauling at the age of ten had rushed through his mind. It was disconcerting to feel completely helpless, to not know how to right things for her. He’d wanted to shout at her to stop blubbering, buck up, be strong, stop being a baby—
He pressed his head to the hard edge of the marble mantel, welcomed it digging into his brow. Was that the reason that Tristan had lashed out at him, called him a baby all those years ago? Because he’d felt helpless, maybe even terrified himself, had feared that he was on the verge of tears as well?
It had unnerved Rafe to see her reduced to a lifeless heap, especially when the evening before she’d been daring enough to inform him that they didn’t suit. As though he wanted them to be well matched, as though it mattered to him.
He should have left her on her brother’s front stoop, but by God, she was his now. He had claimed her, whether she liked it or not. Whether he liked it or not. He had put a great deal of effort into building a reputation as being someone who was dangerous, who got his way at all costs, who was not to be trifled with. What would happen to his reputation if word got out that he’d allowed her to escape him?
The aristocracy’s fondness for gossip was astounding. That he and his brothers were often the center of the gossip was beyond the pale. Why anyone cared what they did was outside his comprehension, but care they apparently did. Ever since the brothers disappeared on a cold wintry night in the year of our Lord, 1844. Rumors abounded regarding what had truly happened to them. When they returned to Society, the gossip worsened. They were viewed as barbaric, just because Rafe had held a pistol on a servant who had refused to announce their arrival at their uncle’s ball, and Sebastian had very nearly choked their uncle to death when he’d first clapped eyes on him. It had not helped matters that several months later their uncle died mysteriously.
So it was with certainty that Rafe knew a good many people were well aware he had taken on a mistress. Which meant, by God, that she would serve as his mistress. Whether she wanted to or not. Whether he wanted her to or not.
He was not a man known to waver when it came to decision making. He set his course, traveled it, and Lord have mercy on anyone who sought to block his path or prevent him from reaching his destination.
He didn’t know how long he stared into the fire arguing with himself, convincing himself that the arrangement regarding Evelyn—a name that didn’t roll easily off his tongue—had been made, and that he would follow it through, regardless of cost, when the rap on the door brought his scathing diatribe up short.
“Yes?”
“The lady has finished her bath, sir. She is presently drinking tea.” Laurence spoke through the door. Every servant knew that no one was admitted into Rafe’s chamber. No one. They thought him eccentric. If they knew the truth, they would believe him mad.
“Very well, that’s all,” he replied before shoving himself away from the mantel. He had a blinding headache. He combed his fingers through his unruly hair. It was dry, so he must have been waiting for her to be ready to receive him for some time now. When he was lost in thought, minutes could slip away without him realizing it. He didn’t allow clocks to govern his life. He did what he needed to do when he needed to do it.
Now he needed to speak with her, make sure they came to an understanding regarding this situation.
He didn’t bother to ring for his valet. No need to dress formally. Trousers, loose shirt was about all he’d need.
He glanced at the door that separated his room from hers. He wouldn’t use it tonight. For her sake he would enter through the hallway, but after their discussion, she would understand that no barrier had the power to keep him from her.
The room was warm, the fire crackling, and yet sitting in front of the fireplace, Evelyn felt as though she were carved from ice. Her own clothes a sodden mess, she wore one of the maids’ nightdress and dressing gown. She had soaked in a tub of hot water for what had seemed like hours. Her hair was washed and braided. She curled one bare foot over the other. She should strive to determine what she was to do about this unfortunate circumstance, but she seemed incapable of managing little more than staring at the yellow and orange flames.
Geoffrey’s strange behavior in the carriage, his cryptic words—she was quite amazed that he had been able to meet and hold her gaze at least once. If she sought to destroy the very fabric of his being, she’d not be able to face him.
A mistress, not a wife. That was what she was to become, what he expected for her future, what he sought to give her. Not love, not a family, not a place in Society. It was not to be tolerated.
What were her options? Literally, all she possessed were the clothes on her back. Well, the clothes she’d been wearing on her back earlier. The clothes she now wore were not hers. She wore them only because of the kindness of servants.
She heard the door click open, without a knock, without warning. She might have assumed it was a servant, but the very air in the room seemed to shift and change as though a mighty gale had suddenly swept through it. The fine hairs on the nape of her neck and arms rose. The footsteps were almost silent, and yet she knew to whom they belonged. Breathing became a chore, but she forced herself to do it because she refused to swoon. It was bad enough that he had witnessed her unconscionably weak and falling apart.
She concentrated on the fire. But even it seemed to have grown smaller in submission.
“Here, you’ll find this will warm you more efficiently than tea.”
A large hand holding a thick tumbler came into her field of vision, very nearly kissing her nose. Long, thick, powerful fingers. She imagined they could wrap easily around her neck and choke the life from her body. Inhaling, she recognized the scent.
“Do you think Scotch is the remedy for all ills?”
“You’d be surprised by the answers you can find in the bottom of a bottle. Take it.”
It was not an invitation, so much as a command. As much as she didn’t want to obey, she knew she needed to pick her battles. Keeping her hands steady, she set the teacup and saucer on the small table beside the chair, then took the offered glass.
She’d ignored the contents earlier in the evening when he’d given her a tumbler. This time she took a small sip. It burned, but he was right. It also warmed as it went down, the heat spreading out to her fingertips.
He moved away, placed himself by the fireplace, rested his forearm on the mantel. She wondered if he was as cold as she after their journey in the rain. His hair was much curlier now, as though he’d not bothered to tame it. His white shirt was loosely fitting, buttoned only to midchest. Black trousers fit snuggly over his legs. His boots were polished to a shine, and she thought he would see his reflection in them if he glanced down.
Instead, his gaze was focused intently on her. He, too, was holding a tumbler, and when she lifted hers to take another sip, he did the same, his eyes never straying from her. He was a large man. She had felt his corded muscles beneath her fingers, pressed against her body, as he’d carried her here. He’d never paused his rapid steps. He’d never struggled for breath. He’d seemed unbothered by the pelting rain.
She suspected he was a man very much accustomed to having his way. And he wanted his way with her.
“I’ll fight you, you know,” she said. “I shall kick and scream and claw out your eyes.”
She thought she saw a twinkle of humor light those very eyes that would feel the scrape of her fingernails, but it happened so quickly she couldn’t be sure. His throat worked as he took another long slow swallow of his Scotch. She couldn’t recall ever seeing so much of a man exposed: his neck, the narrowing V of skin down his chest. She saw strength there, potency that Geoffrey didn’t possess. Neither had her father. Before his illness, his form had been robust but it had not exuded power. Food, rather than anything of an exertive nature, had shaped him. Rafe Easton obviously did not lie around all day doing nothing more than ordering servants about.
“I’m not in the habit of forcing women, Evelyn,” he finally said. “But I am pragmatic. If you do not become my mistress, what recourse is open to you?”
Ah, there was the rub and well he knew it. She fought not to let her shoulders slump with her despair. “He didn’t let me take anything, not even the jewelry my father gave me. I could have sold it—”
“And how far do you think you would have gotten with it?”
She shook her head, hating to admit, “I don’t even know where I would have sold it.”
“With me,” he said, “you will have a roof over your head, food in your belly, a clothing allowance to rival the queen’s, as well as jewelry, trinkets, baubles. You will never want for anything that is within my power to purchase.”
“But I must give you my body.”
Another long swallow of Scotch, a slow nod, a half closing of his eyes in acknowledgment.
She was suddenly unbearably cold again. She took a big gulp of her drink, but it failed to warm her. “I want a husband, a family.”
“How do you expect to acquire that? By sitting out on the street in your hideous black gown until someone walks by and thinks, ‘By jove, I’d like that lovely for a wife.’ How will you eat? Where will you find shelter? Be realistic, Evelyn. You have nothing. You have no one. You have no options.”
“I could work for you. Oversee your household as I thought—”
“I have someone who sees to my household. Shall I dismiss her, toss her out on the streets because you don’t want to warm my bed?”
She shook her head, wishing she was of a selfish bent, content to think only of herself. “No, you’re right. That’s not fair either. Perhaps you would be kind enough to allow me to stay here for a few days until I find employment—”
“What skills have you?”
She wanted to blurt out something, anything, but the truth was that she wasn’t certain she could even manage a household. She’d never helped with the servants. She knew only that tables were never dusty, fires were always ready to be set, floors were always polished, her clothes were always pressed. She was horrendous at stitchery, her penmanship was not precise, and numbers were not her friend. They never added up the way they should. She could read, very well in fact, but who would hire her to read?
It also seemed she was very good at drinking Scotch. She downed the last of the liquid in the glass and set it aside. With smooth unthreatening movements, he exchanged his glass for hers. Did he have to be so graceful, so masculine, so utterly gorgeous?
“Geoffrey informed me that you own a gambling establishment. Perhaps I could work there.”
“The women who do wear very little clothing and spend a good bit of their time sitting on gentlemen’s laps. Do you prefer to spread your thighs for many men rather than only one?”
Her mouth opened, her eyes widened. If she were a true lady, he wouldn’t speak to her of such raw, carnal things. But then if she were a true lady, she wouldn’t be in this predicament.
Crouching, he added a log to the fire and stirred it. His trousers outlined his muscular thighs and firm buttocks. She imagined guiding her hands over them. Was that what she would do if she was his mistress? Touch him, caress him, tell him how marvelous he was even though at this precise moment she hated him with every breath she took?
She reached for the almost half-full glass of Scotch and tossed back nearly half of it. It fairly scalded her as it traveled through her. But it made her limbs feel as though they were no longer part of her. If she drank enough could she lie beneath him and pretend she wasn’t truly there?
“I know what it is, Evelyn, to have no options.” He was still stirring the fire, not looking at her. “To think: this cannot be my life. It is not where I was headed, and yet . . . it is where I have arrived. To survive, you learn to make the best of it. It’s not easy. It’s not what you want, but you can still own it, make it yours.”
He unfolded his magnificent form, placed his arm back on the mantel, and studied her with those icy blue eyes. “Your brother sought to humiliate you, to degrade you, to give you a place in Society that is no place at all, where you would not be seen or acknowledged. What better revenge than to become the most infamous courtesan in all of London? I won’t hide you away. I’ll flaunt you. I’ll teach you to manage your money. When our time together comes to an end, as long as the ending is of my choosing, you may have the residence and everything within it. You won’t be forced into becoming any other man’s mistress. You can select your paramours, be choosy if you wish. Seems a rather fair trade to me.”
“Fair? I will be ruined.”
“You were ruined the moment you were born.”
Her stomach lurched at the truth of his words. Her father had protected her from the gossip and rumors, and in doing so, he’d given her false expectations. She thought she would marry a lord, and now she was discovering she wasn’t worthy of a guttersnipe.
Studying this man, she saw no kindness in his features, no compassion, no sympathy. Yet he had come after her, had carried her through the rain. Because he thought he owned her, or was it because as he’d said, he knew what it was to be where she was? But how could that be when he was the third son of a duke?
“I’ll have your answer now,” he said.
“You won’t even allow me the kindness of sleeping on it?”
“I told you last night that I am not kind.”
But she could see that he was strong, implacable, confident. If she could learn from him to be the same, perhaps no one would ever be able to take advantage of her again. It made her stomach roil to realize that all the men last night had been contemplating entertaining themselves at her expense. Their lascivious gazes made a great deal more sense. She suspected that one or two of them would have already had her on her back by now.
“If I say no?”
“I’ll have the servants return your damp clothes so you are free to take your leave.”
And go where? Do what?
“You’ve only given me the illusion of choice,” she said.
This time, she couldn’t mistake the appreciation that lit his eyes. “I knew you were a woman of keen intelligence.”
“You promise to help me ensure that Geoffrey regrets what he did?”
“I have a talent for making men regret what they’ve done.”
She wasn’t quite certain that it was a talent to be boasted about, but she had little doubt that he was a man of his word. He could have taken her already. He could have barged in here and had his way with her. For all her bravado about fighting him, she knew he could conquer her, quite easily if he set his mind to it. That he hadn’t already told her a good deal about his character, when it came to women at least.
“I suppose this arrangement will begin tonight.”
“Not tonight. It’s late. You’re undoubtedly tired. I’ll give you a few days to become accustomed to the notion, to become more comfortable with me. I don’t want you dreading what is to happen between us. But make no mistake that if you spend tonight here, you will spend other nights in my bed.”
She heard a cold ruthlessness in his voice. A gambling hell owner. A man to whom Geoffrey owed a debt. A man who had sat alone the night before, that all the other lords watched warily from a good distance away.
“Have you a coin?” she asked.
He furrowed his brow. “A coin?”
Her stomach gathering into little knots, she nodded. “It’s something my father taught me, when I had a difficult decision to make, and wasn’t quite certain which way to go. I flip a coin.”
She thought she saw the barest twitch in his lips. “You’re going to allow chance to decide so grave a matter?”
“You should appreciate that—being a gambling house owner.”
“Fate is seldom a friend.”
“At this moment, it may be the only friend I have. A coin?”
He took a long breath, studied her, looked as though he might comment further, but finally reached into a small pocket at the waist of his trousers, removed a silver coin, and offered it to her.
Taking it, she skimmed her thumb over Victoria’s profile, inhaled deeply, tossed it, and let it fall to the carpet. “Heads,” she said quietly. “I stay.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You’re supposed to announce before you flip what you’re associating with each side.”
“My father taught me that I didn’t have to do it like that.”
“Not much of a gambler, your father.”
She shook her head. He never spoke of gambling. “A fortunate thing, as he gambled on Geoffrey seeing after my welfare. A rather unfortunate wager.”
Leaning over, he snatched up the coin and slipped it back into his pocket. “That remains to be seen. You stand to gain a great deal.”
“But at an unconscionable cost.”
“Still, you agree to the terms?”
As much as she didn’t want to, she nodded. She had decided her course, she would see it through.
Stepping forward, standing in front of her, he held out his hand. His large, long-fingered, ungloved hand. She must have somehow managed to swallow a bird because there was intense fluttering just behind her breastbone. “You said you wouldn’t bed me tonight.” Her voice sounded small, fearful. She hated it.
“I’m not. I’m merely going to help you to your feet.”
She placed her hand in his. Hers seemed so tiny, and when he closed his fingers around it, she was incredibly aware that he could easily break her with very little effort. She was surprised by the coarseness of his flesh. These were not the hands of a gentleman. He drew her up, then expertly moved her arm behind her back, somehow snagging her other wrist until both were held within his firm grasp. With his free hand, he cradled her face, stroked her cheek with his thumb.
“You will learn to do things as I like them done,” he said softly, in a voice that promised pleasures. His eyes captured and held hers, and she thought that even if he wasn’t holding her, she’d not have been able to break away. “I have particular needs. The first is that you are to never wrap your arms around me.”
“Why not?” she whispered.
“Because it’s what I require.” He lowered his lips to hers, and she realized that if he hadn’t manacled her wrists that her arms would have twined about him of their own accord, simply to ensure that she remained standing when her knees grew so weak.
His tongue toyed with her mouth, painting it, outlining it as though he wanted to be intimately familiar with it. Then he was urging her lips apart and delving into the depths of her mouth with an urgency that astounded her. He might not like her, but it was becoming plain enough rather quickly that he was quite fond of her mouth. He explored every inch of it, every nook, every cranny, every hidden corner. When she dared to meet the thrust of his tongue with a thrust of her own, he groaned low and pressed her against his broad chest. Through the thin linen of his shirt and the maid’s well-worn nightly attire, she could feel the thudding of his heart, sense its increase in tempo.
When she tried to break free of his hold, his hand clamped harder on her wrists, just shy of causing pain. She relaxed her shoulders, relaxed her arms. Why couldn’t she hold him? She’d held him in the rain as he’d carried her home. Had she hurt him? Was she stronger than she thought? Had it been unpleasant?
She didn’t know what to make of his rule, his demand, and she wondered if he would have many. She suspected he would. She was agreeing to allow him to do whatever he wanted with her, and yet if his kiss were any indication of the pleasures she might find with him, she thought that perhaps he was right—it would not be such an awful trade.
The kiss deepened, grew hungrier. Her sighs were now mingling with his groans. She felt guilty for enjoying the way he played with her mouth. She should be ashamed, but perhaps she was more like her mother than she realized. Her mother had not required marriage in order to lay down with the earl. And here she was coming to understand that her regrets regarding this arrangement might not outweigh the benefits.
Breaking away, he stared down at her, his icy blue eyes not quite so icy, a heat there that astounded her.
“I think you’ll do rather nicely,” he said. Releasing his hold, he walked from the room before she could gather her wits about her to reply.
She sank back into the chair, brought her legs up, and wrapped her arms tightly around them. His comment left her empty. Suddenly her brother wasn’t the only one she wanted to have regrets regarding his treatment of her.
She wanted Rafe Easton to regret having taken her as a mistress instead of a wife.