Before she could reconsider, Eliza leaned forwards to rap against the roof. The carriage slowed immediately and she could see Linton rotating on his bench to peer through the window at the front of her enclosure.

“Yes, my lady?” he called out.

“Lord Evanston’s residence, please.” At the driver’s disbelieving stare, she added, “I am aware of the hour. Now make haste.”

His mouth clamped shut instantly, a bow of deference signaling his compliance. Then he efficiently turned back around and snapped the reins. One sharp lurch and they were off, leaving Eliza to wonder, heart leaping in her chest, if she had finally managed to go stark raving mad. She supposed she could allow this transgression to go unanswered this evening, but something inside of her—perhaps her pride—demanded an explanation from the viscount while the injury was still fresh.

Eliza had known Thomas for all of her life, and William had seen some of his more sordid behavior firsthand. He’d even alluded to it in his repeated attempts to convince her that the viscount was not marriage material. Likewise, Eliza was not deaf to the rumors of his dalliances with certain married women—and widows—of the ton, and neither, she was sure, were their husbands, likely off having discreet affairs of their own. While such behavior was considered quietly acceptable within London’s elite, each new tale of his prowess, whispered in hushed giggles by the glittering women at after-dinner card tables during various soirées, had caused her blood to heat ever so slightly. The hold he’d unknowingly had over her for years had only tightened since her arrival in London, and she knew she must resist or risk making the wrong choice.

It also reminded her of their kiss on that warm summer day when she’d been just sixteen years old, and then how he had walked out of that room, never to speak of it again. Oh, he would flirt with her, to be sure. Even bed her, if he was bored and should the opportunity arise. But would it mean something to him?

No, and it never would.

Still, the image of him angrily—for it had been angrily—striding over to grasp her wrist and tug her onto the dance floor had stayed with her since then, a shock of warmth blooming deep inside her belly each time she recalled the event. She should have refused him, made some attempt to gracefully exit his hold before reaching the dance floor . . . if not to preserve her own sense of dignity, then on behalf of her intended dance partner. But she’d chosen to do no such thing. Evanston had claimed her before the ton, and even in front of Sir Landry himself.

Had it been the element of surprise, or the pull of her own indecent desires, long held in check, that permitted him to do so? While it was impossible to comprehend the viscount’s feelings and motives behind such a move, one thing was for certain.

She had enjoyed it.

Fury flared through Eliza’s chest, white-hot and undeniable. Who was Lord Evanston to invade the London season, her season, and interfere with her efforts at finding a proper husband?

The detour was brief, and they arrived at Evanston’s doorstep within a matter of minutes. She accepted Linton’s proffered assistance down the steps of the vehicle, hazardous considering the length and breadth of her formal dress with its abundance of petticoats and skirts. Sweeping them aside with her right hand, Linton steadied her on the left until she reached solid ground, then did his best to appear inconspicuous. He finally elected to return to the carriage, deciding wisely to avert his eyes. She couldn’t blame him for his discomfort. It was unseemly for her to be climbing the stairs of the viscount’s town house in the middle of the night, and she cast a quick look at her surroundings before clearing her throat and using the brass knocker to rap loudly three times against the door.

Eliza pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Two minutes passed in silence, and with each dragging second her cheeks burned in mortification. This had been a mistake, but she had already made her presence known and was committed to the act. Once more, she raised her fingers to utilize the brass knocker, the noise a stark disruption in the surrounding stillness. The street remained thankfully empty of gawking passersby, but still her embarrassment rose. With a humiliated sigh, she turned to go back to the carriage just as the door to Evanston’s residence flew open behind her. Spinning back around, she lifted her chin in anticipation of an awkward conversation with his butler, but no words left her lips in the stunned silence that ensued.

It was not a manservant, but Lord Evanston who stood before her in the gloom, holding a candle. Eliza, only mildly comforted by the fact that he too had been caught unawares, met his equally surprised gaze before realizing the compromised state of his attire. The formal clothing from earlier—his jacket, waistcoat and cravat—were missing. His shirt was unbuttoned much farther than would normally be considered appropriate. She had interrupted him in the midst of his repose, which made sense at this hour. An image of him resting in his study, eyes drifting closed, leaning back in a comfortably worn leather chair, glass of brandy in his long-fingered hand, entered her mind.

Her eyes wandered further down to the strong column of his neck, the sleek contours of his collarbones, the slight dip where they came together. She saw the hint of crisp dark hair that adorned his chest. An unwelcome surge of need, swift and hot, flowed through her body and before she could censor her traitorous brain, another image emerged. One where he was occupying the same study, the same chair, but was not alone. This time she was with him, removing the brandy from his grasp to set it firmly on the desk before shifting her heavy skirts to sit astride his lap, the hard feel of his body beneath hers as he leaned back with a muted groan . . .

His low voice interrupted her illicit reveries.

“You should not be here,” he said, the edge of his words softened by drink.

Eliza dragged her focus upward to his face, partially illuminated in the unreliable glow of his candle. He appeared tired now, with dark smudges beneath his eyes, but before she could allow herself to feel pity for the man, she registered cool resentment behind the hypnotic blue gaze. Lord Evanston was angry with her for some reason. Which served to remind her . . . she was angry with him as well. She summoned all the indignant fury she possessed.

“You owe me an explanation, Thomas. And an apology.”

Evanston stared at her for a moment, unimpressed. “You will receive neither from me, however, so I will bid you good night.” He took a step backwards, swinging the door closed as he did.

Without thinking, Eliza placed her foot in the doorway, her formal slipper doing little to impede the momentum of the heavy wooden door. At her pained cry, Evanston jerked the door back open, concern stamped plainly upon his face.

“Eliza . . .”

As upset as she had been with him just a moment before, her humiliation now outweighed any other competing emotion. Suddenly, all she wanted was the privacy and relative comfort of her own home. She cast a wretched look at her carriage, hoping Linton might come and assist her. But her driver was far enough away that he remained studiously unaware of Eliza’s predicament.

She tried standing on the injured foot and her next words were cut short by a sharp hiss of pain. He muttered an oath and set the candle holder on the table in the foyer.

“I—I’ll be fine. I just need to—”

Before she could finish speaking he sighed and bent forwards to gather her in his powerful arms, one supporting her back with the other sliding under to cradle her legs and mass of skirts. Lifting gently, Lord Evanston compressed her against the warm, solid span of his chest, and she gasped again but for a different reason entirely. Her head spun in dizzy circles. How had this happened? Eliza was dangerously close in proximity to that sculpted neck she’d admired mere moments ago. She tried to stifle her cries, but her agony won out and she turned her face towards his shoulder, unable to prevent the flow of her tears from seeping into the fine linen of his shirt.

Were she not in so much misery, she might be able to enjoy the fact that Lord Evanston was holding her now, pressing her against his chest. With Eliza in his arms, Evanston took a cursory glance up and down the street, then brought her inside, kicking the door shut behind them.

He wronged you tonight. Don’t forget why you came here.

She knew part of her wanted to forget, though. Wanted him to stride past the drawing room and continue up the staircase. Make her forget the intense throbbing in her foot with other, intensely pleasurable sensations. In this moment, it didn’t matter that he would never love her, or that he wasn’t suitable, or that he would never ever be faithful . . .

Her distant and ludicrous hope of being ravished was dashed as Evanston turned to enter the drawing room, carefully navigating the darkened surroundings. Eliza was barely able to register her disappointment, for by the time he set her down on the settee her teeth were chattering from discomfort.

“Truly, Thomas, I’m f—fine—”

Ignoring her, he strode to the hallway to fetch his abandoned candle holder, the golden glow illuminating his familiar chiseled face upon his return. Placing it on the table beside them, he knelt before her and sighed.

“Yes, I’m certain you are, but I’d like to have a look all the same to be sure.”

His hands stretched out to encircle her ankle and she twitched her foot back beneath her skirts.

“I think not, my lord. You may consider me easy prey, but you are mistaken,” she said, not truly feeling the certainty of her declaration, but needing to say something to keep him from touching her now.

Evanston jerked his eyes up to meet hers, cocking an eyebrow and leaning back on his haunches. “Have I ever treated you like easy prey?”

“I don’t know,” she snapped, her nerves on fire. “What do you call it when you take advantage of a young girl?”

He stared at her, and she was surprised to see a flicker of remorse behind his eyes.

“I’m sorry if it felt that way to you,” he said. Then, bracing his hands upon his muscular thighs, he leaned closer, and her lungs stopped working. “But I don’t remember you objecting until the kiss was finished. Do you still think it fair to lay the blame solely at my feet?”

Eliza’s embarrassment worked its way up her neck to flood her cheeks, and she sighed. “No,” she admitted, chastened by his serious tone.

“Then all physical charms of your ankles aside, do you mind if I ensure that your foot isn’t broken before allowing you to travel home? Besides,” he added gruffly, “you act as if I’ve never seen your ankles before.”

She gaped at him in offense until he clarified.

“The oak tree, remember?”

In an instant, Eliza did. She only wondered at his remembrance of the event. Often, growing up, she and her brothers would traverse the countryside that lay between Lawton Park and the Dower House, and Thomas was regularly with them. There was a hill that signified the halfway point between the houses, and one time when she was no older than fourteen, the boys—men really, as they were home on holiday from Oxford—took turns climbing first the knoll, then the singular great oak tree atop it.

Each boy conquered the tree handily, waving down at her from the pinnacle. She had glowered at each one in envy for she could not follow, burdened as she was by the skirts of her walking dress. One by one, Lucas, William and Thomas jumped down from their respective perches to resume their course down the hill. But she couldn’t resist trying, at least once, to emulate their victory.

She’d fought her way up to the first set of branches, a rush of triumph accompanying her clasp around a wooden limb, swiftly replaced by fear as her fingers lost their hold to send her crashing to the ground below. Her right ankle had bent wickedly beneath the force of her fall, and she had yelled in pain, hoping beyond hope that someone was still close enough to hear her.

Clutching her sprained ankle in mounting desperation, she’d nearly given up thinking any of the boys would come back to find her. Thomas had been the one who’d returned.

He’d hushed her cries and had examined her ankle with care, causing her cheeks to burn crimson in adolescent mortification. Then he had scooped her up, much as he’d done tonight, and taken her to William and Lucas. Recalling it now, she realized he had never once reprimanded her efforts to climb the oak as her brothers had. Thomas had refrained from judgment, seemingly acknowledging the fact that until Eliza had made the ascent herself, even were she to fail, she could not possibly be satisfied.

Evanston had helped her before, and he wanted to help her now. Nodding stiffly, Eliza extended her leg back into view. She jumped with excitement as his hands slid around her ankle, lifting it so he could remove her slipper. He began his examination by caressing her lightly, running his fingers over her stockinged foot.

“Does this hurt?” he murmured.

She wished it did. Maybe then her thoughts wouldn’t be running wild with ideas of what could happen if his fingers continued their incendiary pathway up her leg.

“No,” she managed.

He flexed her ankle, and when she gave no reaction he gently moved her toes. The play of candlelight within the varied layers of his ebony hair was mesmerizing, but she forced herself to focus on the task at hand. Eliza had very nearly forgotten about her injury by the time Thomas found the sensitive place where the door had struck the outer edge of her foot, and she issued a distressed cry, pulling it away from his hold.

“Ouch,” she yelped, trying not to sound pathetic.

Evanston winced and tilted his head in thought. “I’m no physician, but I don’t believe your foot is broken or there would likely be more swelling. You should rest now, though, to minimize your discomfort.”

She watched as he stretched his long torso across the settee to retrieve a cylindrical pillow, then raised her ankle carefully to place it beneath. When he was finished the room had gone strangely quiet, and Eliza almost believed she could still feel the warmth of his hand on her leg. With a start, she realized he had never removed it.

“This may hinder your ability to dance for a few days,” he stated with what sounded like regret. “Although I could probably manage to still lead effectively regardless of your infirmity. Something your other suitors are likely not up to—”

Her gaze snapped over to his, and he fell silent. She stared at him in remonstration, then suddenly remembered her reason for coming here this evening.

“Why did you humiliate me at the ball, Thomas?”

Evanston’s brow furrowed. “That was not my intention.”

“And yet it happened. So, what was your intention?”

His hand slipped away from her ankle and she felt an internal tremor of remorse. Discarding the annoying reaction, she stared expectantly at the viscount. After all, she had come here seeking an explanation and she wasn’t leaving until she had one.

Thomas rose to stand in one fluid motion and began pacing the carpeted floor, hands restlessly clenching and unclenching. “I’m not sure I had one. It was simply a reaction.”

“That is a not an excuse. I don’t suppose you know how it felt to be embarrassed in such a way.”

“And I don’t suppose you know how it feels to watch that arrogant little man dance with you over and over,” he snapped.

She rolled her eyes. “Thomas, he can hardly be held responsible for the fact that you tower over every man in London—”

His pacing paused. “You’ve managed to miss my point entirely.”

Eliza shifted to glare up at him, elbows digging into the plush settee on either side of her.

“Oh, I think I understand. What I fail to grasp, however, is how I’m meant to accept jealousy as an excuse for your poor behavior, based on the fact that you’ve never shown an interest in me. Please explain.”

Evanston’s eyes searched hers, but he said nothing.

“Besides, how many women would eagerly warm your bed?” She was both emboldened and mortified by her own audacity. “Ten? A hundred? Widows? Debutantes? Does it even matter . . .”

“It does matter,” he ground out. “I want you in my bed, Eliza.”

Her defiance evaporated in an instant and the breath whooshed out of her. When she managed to regain her voice, it was barely more than a croak.

“What did you say?” she whispered.

“I said that I want you,” he repeated, dropping down to kneel beside her. His eyes grew brighter as his hand traced along the bare length of her arm. “In my bed.”

Eliza stared at him in shock, shaking her head. “I—I don’t understand. The moment I venture away from my brother’s estate, you suddenly decide that I am worth your attention?”

Thomas stroked her palm with his thumb and his eyes flicked up to capture hers. “Perhaps I’ve come to realize that you were always worth my attention.” He raised her hand to drag his mouth across the sensitive flesh of her inner wrist. “And perhaps I stole you away from Landry tonight because I couldn’t bear the sight of you with someone else.”

A fiery need coiled inside her, low and hot, while her heart hammered in panic. She had every intention of shoving him away. But the sight of him looming beside her in the candlelit dark . . . powerful and masculine and longing for her . . . was the manifestation of countless fantasies, now spectacularly come to life. She might not have protested when he’d kissed her before, but she needed to now. Eliza knew what would happen if she did not.

“Thomas . . . you shouldn’t. We’re only meant to be friends—”

“And could we not be something more?” His eyes closed as the sculpted softness of his mouth brushed against her skin. In a barely perceptible voice he added, “Are we not already?”

Rotating her hand, he guided it to rest lightly against the square line of his jaw. Although he had clearly shaven before the ball, she could feel the new, rough growth of his beard beneath her fingertips. He turned his face to bury it into her palm and Eliza remained frozen, driven to exquisite madness by his lips. Many, many times she had imagined such a scenario. His mouth . . . her skin . . .

Eliza watched in both fear and excitement while his kisses coasted steadily farther up the length of her arm. A surge of adrenaline brought her back to reality, and she pulled away just enough to break the contact between her skin and his mouth.

“We can’t—”

Evanston allowed her to retreat, then countered by leaning over her to place both hands on the settee, bringing himself even closer until their faces nearly touched. His gaze snared hers, then dropped to her lips, causing her heart to stutter. He bent forwards and lightly, so lightly, brushed his lips against the corner of her mouth.

“Can’t we?”

As her years of celibacy could attest, she was not a widow given to casual lovemaking. But the question, posed by this particular man in a voice unsteady with longing, was nearly impossible to resist. Her earlier wish to have him ravish her in his bedchamber was rapidly replaced by the very real possibility of being taken right here in the drawing room instead. Loneliness had been a wretched companion in the years since her husband’s death . . . She knew that losing herself in Evanston’s arms would be infinitely more pleasing . . .

Thomas hesitated at her silence, then kissed the delicate outer shell of her ear, the whispered current of his breath laying waste to her plans of resistance. A soft groan escaped him, and his hands wound around her bodice. She felt his long fingers curling into her waist as the force of his desire increased, and the possessive clasp unleashed a wave of lust that sent an accompanying jolt of pleasure racing between her thighs. Grasping for anything to pull her out of the sensual fog that was rapidly clouding her judgment, she thought of her family.

Reginald. Father. Lucas. William. Men, both departed and alive, who had held Lord Evanston in high esteem but still would have taken great issue with Evanston for presuming to approach her. William could still thrash him, and probably would, should he ever discover the truth.

His kisses strayed dangerously to her collarbone and her head fell back, mind whirling at all the things Thomas could accomplish with her lying on his settee. She felt the scrape of his cheek, and then he turned to blaze openmouthed kisses over her chest, down to the swells of her breasts, displayed as they were by the restraining fit of her satin bodice. Eliza let out a shaky moan, her traitorous body quivering in anticipation while her mind was still feebly attempting to remind her of why this was a dangerous endeavor. She was drunk off the feel of him, the heat, the smell. Starched linen, soap, brandy, mingled with his own powerful, aroused scent. In a daze, Eliza wondered how he would taste.

Rosa. Her daughter, who cared for Thomas, but would never understand when he would probably disappear for days at a time, or why he’d perhaps become bored with her mother. If not for herself, she owed it to both Reginald and Rosa to choose a husband with an established history of managed appetites, not one of indulged vices.

She wanted him, yes. He knew it, and here they were. But she could not allow herself to be seduced by him now.

Thomas leaned over her, his eyes kindling with desire. “Kiss me, Eliza.”

It was impossible to tell if he was making a plea or a demand, but regardless, she found herself wanting to submit. To this and any other request he might make of her.

“I can’t,” she said desperately, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to steel herself against his scorching advances.

He came closer, the tip of his nose softly brushing hers. “Kiss me now.”

Eliza could imagine William’s fury at discovering them like this. But here in Lord Evanston’s drawing room, she found herself contemplating the extent of the fallout that would occur if she permitted this one night’s indulgence . . .

Her eyes flew open and she brought her hands up against his shoulders to give him a shove.

“I can’t!”

Evanston finally recognized her urgency and jerked back to gaze at her, hurt evident within the shadowed planes of his handsome face. She guessed it could have been the only time he’d ever encountered such a reaction from a woman. The emotion vanished and he stood quickly, the angled planes of his face shadowed in the flickering light. Eliza watched in trepidation as he worked to master himself before speaking to her, his broad chest heaving. Finally, he turned to face her.

“You don’t trust me,” he rasped.

“No, Thomas. I don’t. And I can’t believe I have to remind you of this, but I came to London in search of a husband—”

“—not a man like me,” he muttered under his breath.

“Yes!” she exclaimed. “I cannot be just another one of your widows, and it’s selfish of you to expect it.”

He shook his head in bitter acceptance. “So you wish to save yourself for Landry.”

“The notion of marriage has never been approached by Sir James,” she said, blinking. “But if I did accept his proposal, then yes. I feel I would owe that to him.”

The muscles of his jaw flexed as he retrieved the candlestick from the table and strode to the doorway. “I understand. This was a mistake—” His teeth squeezed shut at the end of his sentence, and he cleared his throat to speak once more. “You are injured. Pray, don’t trouble yourself. I will fetch my infernally lazy butler and he will escort you to your carriage, since any contact with me is so apparently odious to you.”

Her mouth fell open to make a reply in her defense, but he had already ventured down the hallway, taking the light with him and plunging her into darkness.