Evangeline attempted to read her book, hoping that the novel written by an anonymous lady would sweep her away from the man who’d stolen her wits. But every time she read of the mysterious, lordly hero on the page, Anthony’s face came to mind.

“Blast,” she muttered then flung her book down. The pages opened and she felt immediate guilt. Her poor book was not to blame. Just her foolish heart.

Slowly, she bent and picked the tome up from the ornately woven red rug and placed it carefully down on the polished mahogany table. All her life, she’d dreamed simply of escape. But something had happened in recent days. She’d dared to dream of something more.

The soft knock at her door jarred her away from the fire and she stared at the wood panel, certain she’d imagined it.

But then it came again. So soft she’d have missed it if she’d been engrossed in her book. She glanced to the door separating her room from Charlotte’s. Her friend had sought sleep hours ago and was, no doubt, deep in Morpheus’ arms.

Heart hammering in her chest, Evangeline walked to the door and opened it cautiously.

It was almost as if she had conjured him with her imaginings.

“What on earth are you doing?” she hissed.

“May I come in?” His voice was barely more than a rough breath.

Wisdom bade her to shut the door in his face. Desire made her do something very different. She opened the panel but lifted her fingers to her lips in the acknowledged gesture of quiet. “Miss Treadwell sleeps in the next chamber. I’ve shut the door but I don’t wish her to hear voices.”

He nodded as he strode quietly in. He sought out the fire, his gaze fixed on the ruby flames which gave him an otherworldly glow.

She shut the door then slowly crossed to him.

“What has possessed you?” she asked, desperately glad he had come yet terrified by the prospect of the consequences of being found.

“You know,” he said softly.

“I don’t.”

“You. You have possessed me.”

She gaped at him even as his words stole through her, burning her with their intensity and meaning.

“I don’t believe you,” she replied even though she did. There was something wild about him just now, his hair ruffled, his gaze dark.

“Don’t you?” he asked, hunger roughening his tone.

She bit her lower lip then nodded. “It is hard for me to believe you could want me but I see you do.”

Pain tensed his features. “I hate to hear you speak thusly. I saw your worth the moment you came to me alone. I wish the world had seen it sooner.”

She smiled then. “So do I.”

“Even so.” His face hardened. “I’ve come to tell you nothing can come of this thing between us.”

There. There it was. Her dream, the fantasy she had barely acknowledged, dashed.

But then, she lifted her chin. Seizing her newfound boldness, she looked him squarely in the eye and said, “I don’t believe you.”

“You should.”

“Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments,” she blurted, her voice hushed despite the abruptness of it.

A wry smile twisted his lips. “Shakespeare? I did not realize you were such a romantic.”

“Shakespeare isn’t romantic,” she corrected. “Not really. Beautiful, poignant, true, but romantic? No. He saw people for what they were.”

“Oh?” he challenged. “And what was that?”

“Imperfect.”

“Ah.” He drew in a long breath. “I cannot agree.”

“Indeed?” She was surprised. She had not thought him to be a man who’d given it such thought.

“Not to him understanding humanity but his lack of romanticism.”

She frowned impatiently. Were they to argue the merits of The Bard at such a moment?

He hesitated then began in the gentlest of tones whilst slipping his fingers around hers. “What light is light, if Silvia be not seen? What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by? Unless it be to think that she is by, And feed upon the shadow of perfection. Except I be by Silvia in the night, There is no music in the nightingale; Unless I look on Silvia in the day, There is no day for me to look upon; She is my essence. . .”

She gasped, for it seemed with every “Silvia” he was, in actuality, speaking her name, Evangeline.

“Do you do that with all the women you long to seduce?” she asked, trying to hide her bitter disappointment that he could at once tell her she could not have him then speak so beautifully to her.

“I’ve never done this with anyone.”

“Then kiss me,” she urged, madly. For she was afraid that if she did not ask him to do it now, she never would have the chance again.

“I came here to tell you we cannot have any illusions about our friendship.”

“Since I cannot have you, as you claim, let me have this. And then you shall go and we shall think no more upon each other.”

Had she truly just spoken so boldly? Had she demanded a parting kiss when they had never even had an understanding? But they did. Even he knew it. For there was no other reason than to choose the verse from Two Gentlemen of Verona. They were, inexplicably, two halves of the same coin and yet seemingly condemned to be apart.

The unfairness of it galled her, but she would not beg him to see reason. For reason had little to do with the heart.

“Kiss me,” she whispered again. “Or go.”

This was her last chance to know such passion and record its every detail, and she would not turn it aside.

* * *

Anthony hated himself. Standing before the fire, her fingers entwined with his, he hated himself more than he ever had in his life. He hated himself for telling her they must part, even as he took her hand.

For now that he was here, he found himself wondering if he’d known exactly what would transpire between them.

Despite recent claims, he was no fool.

He wanted her just as she did him.

The ancients had believed in the forces of the stars. He had not. Until this moment, where he felt as if he were on an irreversible course that had always been ordained.

So, despite the doubts, he could not deny her or himself.

When would they have this chance again? Never.

So, he lingered, angling his head, savoring the line of her throat, the curve of her lips, the almond shape of her eyes and the promises therein. He had to remember every nuance of her.

With aching slowness, he lowered his mouth to hers. This had to last. It had to last a lifetime.

Without hesitation, she kissed him in turn. Her free hand slid up his arm. Her fingers wound into the hair at the nape of his neck.

Holding him close, as if he might suddenly disappear, she opened her mouth to him.

Intoxication had always been something created by wine or discovery. But Evangeline was more powerful than any libation, any bit of knowledge, any unknown land.

He tasted the line of her lips then tangled her tongue with his. No passive participant, she gave him kiss for kiss until, once again, what little mind he had with her was scattered.

Nothing else mattered but the feel of her body pressing into his. God, how he wished he could make them one and never let this go.

He lifted her against him, leaving her toes barely brushing the floor.

Her head dropped back, an invitation.

An invitation he could not resist. So, he pressed open-mouthed kisses down the line of her throat, unable to bear the exquisiteness of the hollow of her throat.

Her scent of lavender undid him as he buried his face against her neck, biting the fragile skin ever so lightly.

She gasped and her hands dug into his hair.

The sensation, both pain and pleasure, pushed him further. Kissing lower now, he touched the swells of her breasts.

With her head back, her neck arched, she was the most perfect offering. Except he realized Evangeline was nothing like an offering.

She was partaking.

Her hands slid down his back then paused at his waist. “I have never wanted anything as much as I want you.”

The confession, compelling and powerful, jarred him.

The passion that raced through him, like wicked fire, broke his hold of her.

“I beg your forgiveness,” he choked.

“Forgiveness?” she echoed.

He backed away, his hands leaving her body as if she’d scalded him. But he knew, it was he who burned. Years ago, this had been done to him. He could not want someone like this. As if he would destroy worlds just to have her.

That was the path to ruin. To cruelty.

“This was not my intent,” he bit out. “I cannot. We cannot.”

“Oh, Anthony.” Her whole body seemed to exude acceptance and sadness. “I am the one who is sorry.”

“You’re innocent.”

“Yes, I am,” she agreed. “But you are not. I see the pain in you and I wish you would let someone help you heal it.”

“You cannot heal me,” he said firmly.

“No,” she said bitterly. “No one can. I think only you can free yourself. It is what I have done. But you did help me.”

He swallowed. It was there in her last words. Could he not just allow her to help him?

But he had never taken help from anyone. He feared it too much. Needing someone.

Carefully, he backed away. “Accept Ellesmere. You will be happy.”

She smiled sadly. “I am not yours to give away, Anthony. Just because you do not want me does not mean I will marry Ellesmere.”

“Don’t want you?” he breathed. “I want you more than I want to see the sun again this dawn. But I know where that wanting goes.”

“Where?” she pled quietly.

“To hate,” he spat.

“Oh, Anthony.”

“Hate walks hand in hand with love,” he rushed quietly, “waiting to destroy its opposite.”

“But Anthony,” she began. “Hate is not the opposite of love.”

“It is,” he growled lowly. “I’ve seen it.”

She shook her head. “I know what it is, I have felt it. It is indifference. Hate means you care. The opposite of love is to be banished from all care.”

“I cannot do this. Forgive me,” he said again and he bolted from her side, less careful now, opening the door and rushing out into the hall. Away from the past. Away from her. Away from hope.