Eliza was unsure how things had changed between her and Evanston after her reckless visitation, but feared they were not for the better. His absence at various social engagements and, therefore, his silence on the matter did not ease her nervous suppositions that their friendship had been broken to an irreparable degree. She had already sent two missives to his residence, letters intended to be friendly inquiries, both of which had gone unanswered. Despite her best efforts at diverting her attention, the looming distraction of having lost Evanston’s regard bothered her more than she cared to admit.

Caroline had been understandably concerned upon learning of her detour to the viscount after the ball. Eliza recounted some of what had occurred, omitting, of course, any allusions to words or deeds of a more intimate nature, because while she appreciated Caroline’s confidence, she also knew that acknowledging her physical weakness for Thomas would only cause her friend to question her motives. Eliza had gone to his home seeking answers, but someone might wonder if her desire for Lord Evanston, accompanied by the thrill of seeing him late at night within his own domain, might have influenced her choice.

Which of course it had. Any woman with a modicum of intelligence would know better than to venture into his territory that way. Or at the very least, would know what to expect once she got there. Despite her unwillingness to outwardly admit this, she knew it to be true. But one thing she had not expected, one thing that had taken her quite by surprise, was the unmistakable flash of hurt that had darkened his features when she had rejected him. Could it have simply been the product of his wounded pride? Perhaps. But she’d always held the impression that he viewed his affairs with less feeling, not more. That his liaisons, while intimate in nature, never ventured anywhere near his heart.

Eliza considered the women in his life. Yes, there were his London amusements, but family? He had one close female relation she knew of—his mother, Gertrude Dornham, the Viscountess Evanston.

Lady Evanston had lived in relative seclusion on his estate since the death of her husband some ten years before. There were no other children, and Thomas had been born the solitary heir to his father’s title and lands. Eliza had been just eleven years old at the time of the elder viscount’s passing, but she remembered the man vividly. He had been tall and handsome, as was his son, with the same unruly black hair. His eyes had been blue as well, but were more muted in tone, not electric and striking like the ones Thomas possessed. She wasn’t certain where he had acquired those, as she’d always known his mother’s eyes to be cold, black orbs staring out from a sharply featured and unforgiving face.

As severe as his mother was, his father had been quite the opposite. Time had shown the passage of his more agreeable traits down to Thomas, and perhaps this was why Lady Evanston despised them both. Her husband had made no secret of his affairs with other women, and while his wife had eventually sought dalliances of her own, she harbored no small amount of resentment for the man’s lack of devotion, nor for her son’s tendency to emulate him. In fact, Eliza would have been hard pressed to recall ever hearing a kind word from Gertrude Dornham to her son. Was it any mystery, then, that the man had such difficulty in matters concerning love?

The very thought created a melancholy awareness of him that she could not shake.

Still, if that night had accomplished anything, it had eliminated any doubt that he would readily have her, were she willing. Her greatest challenge had been trying not to seem as willing as she really was. And try as she might, she could not forget his compliment to her at the ball . . . could still feel the dark tendrils of fire that had spun out of control upon hearing his words.

Have I told you how lovely you look, Eliza?

All this came as a surprise. Not simply that he viewed her as desirable after years of treating her akin to a relation, but that he might willingly jeopardize his relationship with William to have her. Surely Thomas knew the potential consequences, so why was he doing it when the cost could possibly be no less than losing his best friend?

These questions plagued her. And on this particular day, she did not feel like prancing through Hyde Park, paying calls or writing letters. Rather, she tucked herself away in the drawing room, curled up in an armchair, drinking tea. She was reading over her most recent correspondence from Rosa when a quiet knock intruded on her solitude.

“Yes?” Eliza called, not raising her eyes from the letter in her hands.

The door opened, and the familiar sound of her butler’s voice broke her troubled reverie. “Pardon me, my lady. Sir James is here to see you.”

The paper leaves wilted in her hands. She glanced up at Roberts in surprise.

“Is he?” She stowed the letter safely into her pocket, untucked her legs from beneath her skirts, then commenced struggling to straighten her appearance. “Please show him in.”

Eliza neatly smoothed a few errant strands of hair, taking an extra moment to pinch her cheeks for color, before discerning the sound of approaching footsteps. She straightened her posture in preparation to receive her guest.

Sir James entered with considerable pageantry, extending a formal bow in her direction before advancing to address her personally.

“Lady Eliza, I apologize for the spontaneity of my call, but I was beset by the need to see you following your absence in the park this morning.” She stared while he grasped her hand and pressed a kiss upon her bare knuckles, his perfectly coiffed moustache tickling against her skin.

“My apologies, Sir James. I certainly did not intend to cause you distress,” she replied with a smile, gesturing to the settee. “Will you stay for tea?”

He shook his head despondently. “Alas, I cannot. I am in the process of acquiring new horseflesh and must be off to Tattersall’s shortly.”

“I recall you mentioning the venture when last we spoke. I trust you are nearer to concluding your search for a trustworthy steed?”

“Indeed, I am close,” he replied solemnly. “Although I feel I’d be closer if your friend, the viscount, had not recently seen fit to interfere.”

The room suddenly seemed to shrink, as did the capacity of her lungs.

“I beg your pardon?” she inquired weakly.

“It appears I have surprised you,” Landry said, evaluating her closely. “Forgive me, dear lady, I thought perhaps you may have heard of it from Lord Evanston himself.”

“I have not been in correspondence with him for the past two weeks, since the ball.” Eliza felt a stab of guilt. She had seen him after that, of course. “And I can assure you that if I had any knowledge of his intention to disrupt your purchase—”

“No, no,” said Landry, rising to a stand. “I did not mean to imply you played a part in his scheme.” He paced back and forth, much as Evanston had done that evening she had called on him, although she couldn’t help but notice that Sir James did not possess the untamed grace that came so naturally to Thomas.

“Tell me what happened, sir.”

At this request, Landry looked slightly abashed. “Well, I suppose I don’t have any concrete evidence of wrongdoing on his part. Only, it seems too much of a coincidence that he would create such a scene at the ball, then simply happen to buy the very animal in which I’d shown a strong interest.”

She felt her face grow warm and tried very hard not to let a laugh slip out. Knowing Thomas the way she did, it had been no coincidence and was a deliberate action meant to aggravate Sir James. An inappropriate spark of delight raced through her. Evanston had thus far refused to return her correspondence, but could he be using these circumstances with Landry to exert his frustrations? If so, it would mean that he still cared enough to cause trouble—a notion that, although it should irritate her, pleased her as well.

Eliza evaluated her current facial expression, found it incongruous with Landry’s complaints, and censored herself into an attitude of supportive concern instead.

“Sir James, despite his conduct at the ball, it is entirely possible this could all be coincidence.” She fidgeted nervously before adding, “If you would like, I can make inquiries on your behalf?”

His pacing halted. “Good heavens, no,” he replied with distaste. “The deed is done, and I would rather he remain ignorant of my displeasure, if possible.”

She shook her head. “But why? Perhaps I can assist in resolving what may be a misunderstanding—”

“I care nothing for the viscount’s good opinion . . . only of yours. I have reason to believe our growing acquaintance offends him.”

Knowing it was true, she asked anyway. “Why would the particulars of our acquaintance offend Lord Evanston?”

Sir James shot a shadowy glance in her direction. “Because for once, he cannot have what he wants.”

Her mouth went conspicuously dry. “What makes you think he wants me?”

“He’s made it obvious,” he replied, tugging sharply down on his jacket. “And it takes quite a lot of nerve, if you ask me. Evanston seems set on humiliating me at every turn.”

Eliza’s brow furrowed. “Apart from the ball and buying the horse, what exactly has the viscount done to affront you, sir? Does it worry you that we are friends? Because after a lifetime, that is not going to change, even if he does misbehave on occasion.”

His hands slowly lowered to his sides. “Well, no. It’s not that exactly—”

“And if you are concerned that he is courting me, let me put your mind at ease on that account. Had he chosen to court me, though, would it not be his right? Without a proposal from another party, he may do as he likes.”

Landry’s mouth twitched. “Yes, certainly. I only meant that perhaps it serves him right that you would not have him, since he is known for his licentious behavior with women—”

Eliza stood abruptly. “He has been a loyal friend throughout my family’s time of great need.”

Landry stopped talking and stared at her. In a panic, Eliza realized that she had just placed the courtship of one man in jeopardy, in favor of loyalty to another whom she had already seen fit to reject, and with good reason. Still, she could not stand idly by while Sir James listed the faults of a man who had only ever been kind to her family, scoundrel that he was. She assessed him with a sigh.

“Forgive me, Sir James, but I cannot understand why you would be so anxious where Lord Evanston is concerned. True, he is flawed,” she confessed with a tug at her heart. “I only wish you were not so quick to judge, for if there has been a man created without imperfection, I have yet to meet him.”

Sir James’s mouth opened to say something, then closed mutely. Finally, it opened again.

“I can see I have upset you. Forgive my pride and lack of judgment in this matter.” He came forwards to clasp her hand, pressing a kiss against it once more. “I—I hope you will permit me to call again soon.”

Eliza felt a small twinge of remorse as Landry bowed, turned on his heel and made a hasty exit from her drawing room. Her head hurt, and she pressed her hand against it to ward off the pain, sinking back down into her favorite armchair.

She could only imagine how different her season could have been without the added complication of Evanston. Hating him was impossible, loving him even more so. But one thing was absolutely certain as she reflected on the situation with Landry’s “stolen” horse, her lips reluctantly curving into a grin.

He was certainly entertaining.

Eliza arrived at Caroline’s town house as daylight gave way to dusk. She wondered if Caroline might find amusement in the retelling of Evanston’s latest disturbance, or whether she, like her suitor, might find cause for upset. The truest reason for her friend’s dismay would likely stem from Eliza’s argument with Landry. No, better to leave that part out.

Anticipating a quiet dinner with Caroline and her aunt, she relinquished her shawl to the butler and followed him into the residence. Upon being escorted into the empty drawing room, however, she had the unmistakable sense that something was wrong. Rarely did her friend keep her waiting. The apprehensive countenance of the butler as he rushed about to bring refreshments did not quell her uneasy feelings. Yet there was no need for anxiety tonight—not for a routine evening spent among friends.

She sat waiting for nearly a quarter of an hour when the muffled sound of yelling from upstairs nearly caused her to drop her china teacup. Eliza set it down on the side table with a disharmonious clank and rushed out the doors to the foot of the staircase. Meg, Caroline’s now wide-eyed housemaid, stood sentry between her and the steps beyond.

“Excuse me, please,” said Eliza in a low voice.

The girl trembled before her. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but Lady Caroline requested that no one be allowed—”

She narrowed her eyes.

“I’d like to check on my friend. Move aside.”

With less fight than anticipated, the maid hopped to the side. Eliza lifted her skirts and began a harried course up the stairs to stop at the door to Lady Frances’s bedchamber. A tumult of noise—objects falling, panicked yells and Caroline’s hushed pleas—was audible through the wooden portal. She rapped sharply on the door.

“Yes, come in, Meggie. I need your help,” came the desperate reply.

Eliza twisted the metal knob and pushed open the door. She saw Caroline, her hair mussed and bodice crooked, with frantic eyes that grew huge in recognition. Her friend threw her hands outward, beseeching.

“No, Eliza. Stop there. Please—” she cried, her voice choked with emotion.

Too shocked to stop, Eliza allowed the door to fall open, revealing the source of Caroline’s alarm. Her friend’s elderly aunt, a woman who was normally the very example of polished refinement, was running madly across her bed, gray hair flying, clad in only her chemise.

“The rabbits have escaped their hutch!” she yelled. Latching onto Eliza’s surprised gaze, she lurched forwards on the bed, lowering her voice into a harsh whisper. “Quickly, you must get Father!”

A tear trailed down Caroline’s cheek and she huffed in frustration. “I’ve told you, Auntie, we have no rabbits.”

“Liar!”

Lady Frances reached over to her bedside table and hurled a candlestick across the room, and Caroline raced to the bed to wrap her aunt in her arms. Eliza guessed the gesture was both meant to restrain and comfort. She stood dumbfounded for another second, watching the pair struggle with each other, trying to make sense of what was happening. Lady Frances was in a confused and agitated frame of mind, and upon watching her friend’s practiced attempts to soothe the elderly woman, it became clear this was not the first episode. Indeed, it might explain Caroline’s abstaining from certain social gatherings in weeks prior.

Suddenly, an idea came to her.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, staring beneath the bench at the foot of the four-poster bed. Eliza dropped down and made a scooping motion with her hands to retrieve a small pillow, most likely flung during the lady’s fit of rage. “I’ve found one!”

The motion on the mattress stilled. She glanced up to see both sets of gray eyes staring at her, one set shining and hopeful, the other faded and wary.

“Show me,” came the demand.

Making a display of cradling the pillow, Eliza rose and approached the bed.

“You must be careful.”

Gently, she passed the cushion to Lady Frances, who skeptically examined the object even as she accepted it into her arms. Eliza’s eyes flitted to her friend’s, both women holding their breath in expectation of the older woman’s temper. To their surprise, though, the lady cooed softly and sank back into a jumbled mass of blankets.

“There, there. You’re safe now, little Tipper,” sang Frances. She raised her eyes imploringly. “Girls, quickly. You must find the others.”

It took Caroline a moment to realize what needed to be done, jumping off the bed a moment later to join Eliza in the rabbit hunt. They were unsure how many rabbits would be required, but thankfully Lady Frances possessed multiple pillows and had hurled them all to various corners of the room. After the pillows had been collected, they sheepishly presented their offerings to Caroline’s aunt, who scrutinized each one in turn.

“Yes, I see Crumpet, you naughty boy . . . and Digger . . .” Her voice trailed off and she suddenly glanced at Caroline in offense. “Wait, what’s this? We’ve only got three rabbits—”

Before her agitation could rise once more, Caroline tossed the extra cushion out of sight and reached out to stroke the woman’s shoulder. “Auntie, I’m so glad we found them. Do you want us to put the rabbits back in the hutch? Or would you like to hold them a little while longer?”

Lady Frances greedily hugged the pillows to her chest. “I’d like to comfort them a bit more,” she said in a breathy tone of voice.

“Why don’t we get you settled too?” asked Eliza. She and Caroline helped ease Frances back into the bed, tucking the coverlet snugly around her hips while the lady quietly soothed her imaginary pets. Caroline cleared her throat.

“I’ll ring for some tea. You just relax.”

The women tiptoed out of the room, terrified that one misstep might alert Caroline’s aunt to the false pretense to which she had succumbed, and gently clicked the door shut behind them. They stared at one another until a sob escaped Caroline’s lips and she slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle it. Her weeping began in earnest once Eliza pulled her into her arms, hugging her tightly.

“Oh, Caroline. Why did you not tell me?”

Sniffling, her friend raised her red-rimmed eyes to meet Eliza’s. “I was hoping it would pass,” she admitted tearfully. “But the episodes have become more frequent, and . . . more intense.”

Eliza’s thoughts went immediately to Thomas. William would have been willing to help, but he was back in Kent with Clara and Rosa. It didn’t make sense to impose on him when his best friend, the man who had come to her aid countless times—the one she had defended to Sir James this very afternoon—was right here in London.

Even if she was no longer certain Lord Evanston would help her.

She gave Caroline a reassuring squeeze before releasing her to step backwards. “I’ll make some discreet inquiries, my dear. It may be that returning to Hampshire is in both your and your aunt’s best interest.”

Caroline nodded, sending a crystalline teardrop sailing off the tip of her nose. She sighed dismally. “I suppose it is ironic that the one time I find an interesting man in London, my season is to be cut short. Lord Braxton will surely move on once I return home.”

“Not at all. The season is nearly over as it is, and I will speak to my brother about inviting him for the house party he is planning.” She smiled in reassurance. “I’ll work out the logistics of getting you and Lady Frances back to Hampshire, but it may take a few days. In the meantime, you must try to act normally.” She paused. “It might mean requesting a bit of help from Thomas. Would that be amenable to you?”

Caroline gasped quietly. “Oh no, Eliza. Don’t place yourself in such an awkward position.”

Eliza waved off her protests. “Nonsense. Evanston and I know where we stand with each other.”

Her friend easily discerned the falsehood and frowned while retrieving a handkerchief from her pocket to dab at her nose. “That is categorically untrue and you know it. How could I forgive myself if he used the situation as an excuse to—”

“Honestly, Caroline. If he hasn’t already taken advantage of me by now, I think it’s safe to say he is immune to my attractions.”

Although he certainly had not acted immune while I was on his settee . . .

She dismissed the intruding remembrance before it could make her blush. In fact, it was probably best to change the subject. Catching sight of Meggie peering from around the wooden banister, Eliza quickly waved her over and bade three dinner trays be prepared and brought up to Lady Frances’s bedchamber. As the maid hurried off to carry out the request, Caroline wrapped her arms around Eliza in a fierce embrace.

“You are so kind,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

Eliza pulled back to kiss Caroline on the forehead. “You are very welcome. I wouldn’t want Lady Frances to be alone tonight.”

Outwardly she ventured a smile, but inwardly she was already steeling herself for a thorough rejection from Evanston who, by this point in time, likely wanted nothing more to do with her.

“A letter for you, my lord.”

Thomas glanced up from the soft refuge of his pillow, vision clouded after a night of cards and heavy drinking, then shut his eyes against the intruding butler and lowered his head once more.

“Not now, Burton. I’m busy,” he mumbled.

It was both a blessing and a curse that he was a member of all the fashionable gentlemen’s clubs. Brooks’s, White’s and the slightly less savory Putnam’s were places to which he could easily escape—something he’d desperately needed as of late.

He much preferred the skillful machinations of cards in the clubs to the dice games in the gambling hells, where the player’s success relied solely on luck. Luck would always be part of any game, but as it turned out, his improved dramatically when playing whist. Thomas played to win, but in what some would deem an uncharacteristic break, he refused to “play deep,” acting on advice his own father had delivered shortly before his death:

There is excitement in the challenge, but no thrill to be had once you’ve lost it all.

This was advice that could have easily applied to his relationship with Eliza too except he hadn’t had the good sense to follow it with her. Normally, he might be waking next to some delightful minx he’d met the night before, sated and carefree. But his current condition—head pounding from an excess of brandy, lying askew on his bed in last night’s clothing—was a worrying reminder of how things had changed. That the one woman he longed for during his moments of ecstasy would never be there, and the imposters in his bed would serve as paltry imitations. He didn’t think he could cope with the inevitable disappointment that would follow, so he drank instead. Especially when tormented by the memory of Eliza’s scowl as she had shoved him away from her.

It took him half a minute to realize that Burton had still not retreated. Rather, the butler remained standing beside him, nearly concealed in the poor lighting of the bedchamber, a gleaming silver salver held steadily in his gloved hand. Thomas stared up at him in bleary disbelief.

“Can I help you? Or would you rather find employment elsewhere?” he snapped.

Burton’s spine stiffened at that. “No, my lord. But this is a letter from Lady Eliza.”

The air was suddenly heavy with the weight of her name lingering, and Thomas sat up to glare at the man. “I instructed you to dispose of any incoming correspondence from her.”

“Yes, my lord. However, seeing as this is her third letter to you in fewer than as many weeks, I thought you might make an exception.” Burton executed a small bow. “Just this once.”

Evanston clenched his teeth. “You mean you want me to make an exception.”

“It is not my place, of course, to have an opinion one way or the other.” Stepping closer, the man extended the silver tray, burdened only by the singular ivory envelope upon it. “I only thought you might consider it.”

Despite Burton’s insolence and his own increasing annoyance, Thomas squinted in the gloom to stare at the letter, mocking him from its seat on the platter. After reaching out to snatch it quickly, he squeezed the parchment in his fist.

“Fine, I’ve taken it. Now leave me.”

Burton acquiesced with a bow, then lighted a lamp beside the bed for easier reading. “I’ll send your valet up to help you dress, my lord,” he said, leaving the room before his master could curse at him.

With the door safely closed, Thomas let out the breath he had not known he’d been holding and glanced at the missive in his hand. A trace of fragrance, barely detectable, filtered across the still air of the room. Jasmine. Her scent.

The smell was indistinct, too faint to have been spritzed onto the stationary deliberately. It had likely been absorbed by simple contact with her.

Contact with her. His jaw tightened at the remembrance of the last time they had touched. His lips, her skin, his hands on her, the smell of her hair . . .

Evanston examined the pretty style of her penmanship in the flickering golden light. He’d been trying to forget about her. Truly, he had. Even dealing with Ashworth’s blasted cotton mills was preferable to torturing himself over the man’s sister. But her refusal had grated on him like nothing ever had, and the idea of her marrying another was troubling. He could imagine Landry or some other stuffy aristocrat trying to manage the vivacious Eliza and her spirited daughter, expecting them to comply in all manners of propriety. Unlike other, more suitable men, he rather liked them the way they were.

At this point, he longed to move on. If he could not have her himself, it was the most he could ask for. But how was he supposed to move on when she persisted in sending him these damned letters?

It could be an apology. An invitation.

But he knew better, didn’t he?

He glanced down to find the missive a crumpled mass in his palm. Before he could give it additional thought, Thomas unfurled the envelope and tore the letter to pieces, tossing the remnants out across the dim expanse of his room.