Part 2 (2/2)
Blood pounding, he forced himself to stop. ”It's nothing. Caught my foot.”
No matter how much he wanted to, he wasn't going to seduce Loveday again. He breathed deeply, trying to steady his hammering pulse and shaking hands. He turned his back on the useless blasted curtain and let out a pent-up breath. His gaze fell on the note against the candlestick.
He strode over and picked it up: Evelyn came by to collect the paintings. I have gone out for a meal with him. I won't be late. L.
Brief. To the point. And so unlike the way she would have once written to Lionel. Lionel, who had once savagely demanded to know what Evelyn's intentions were toward Loveday. He remembered with shame his wordless reaction, his shock at the thought of marrying so far beneath him, his horror at the thought of his family's likely response.... Lionel had read his answer in his face, dropped him with one swift blow and left.
Evelyn picked up the pencil and scribbled a note at the bottom.
He was waiting by the outer door when she emerged, and his breath hitched. It wasn't the gown. That was gray, ill-fitting and b.u.t.toned to the throat.
It was her hair. Released from the imprisoning knot, it was pinned up more loosely, curling around her face as it always had, so that his fingers itched to slide in and tumble the fiery ma.s.s around her shoulders, spread it over crisp white linen as he- He clamped down on his unruly thoughts, glancing at the note to remind himself of the promise he had written there. To himself as much as Lionel. His word, irrevocably given.
”You'll need a cloak,” he said, picking up his own evening cloak and moving to the door to open it for her.
She shook her head. ”No need.”
”Don't be an idiot. It's cold out. Fetch your cloak,” he said, swinging his to his shoulders and feeling for the clasp.
She swallowed. ”I don't have one.”
His fingers stilled on the fastening. Her cheeks were fiery.
”Why not?”
Her jaw tightened. ”Because I sold it, if you must know!”
His stomach clenched. Things had been that bad? He held back the words that leaped to his tongue. He had bought the paintings. The money was in the bank, albeit Lionel's account. They would be all right now.
”No matter,” he said. ”Use mine.” Swinging the cloak from his shoulders again, he went to her and settled it around her, drawing it close. A mistake. The fragrance of cinnamon and apple curled through him again. Sweet. Spicy. Intoxicating.
With a mental curse he stepped back from her quickened breathing and the temptation of the drifting curls.
”Come. You must be hungry.” G.o.d knew he was. He held the door for her and tried not to breathe as she pa.s.sed.
Halfway down the creaky stairs she stopped.
”Oh!” Her hand went to her mouth. ”I might have left a candle burning. In...in the back room. Wait here. I'd better check.” And she hurried back up the stairs.
He waited at the bottom. Moments later she reappeared.
”Had you?” he asked.
She looked blank. ”Had I what?”
”Left a candle burning.”
In the gloom of the yard he could have sworn she was blus.h.i.+ng.
”No, I hadn't.” Then, her voice a little high, she said, ”We will not be very late, will we?”
”No. Not late,” he replied. And wished it were otherwise-that he could keep her out shockingly late, scandalously late. That he could take her home to his bed and spend the whole night ravis.h.i.+ng her and being ravished in return....
She forgot all her worries. Forgot everything except that she was with him again, and that they were Loveday and Evelyn, not the aristocrat and the painter's sister. She remembered things, too. Such as his undignified enjoyment of hot, roasted nuts bought straight from the vendor's brazier.
And if her heart skipped a beat to find that he remembered things, what did it matter? Did it matter that he bought her eels down by Westminster Bridge, and stole several bites as he had always done? Or that he wiped her fingers afterward with his handkerchief, as he had done long ago, laughing at her protests?
She floated through the evening enfolded in his cloak and scent, a fragile bubble of joy surrounding her. She knew it could not last, that when he took her home she must let the evening's delight pa.s.s from her, and not try to cling. That would extinguish even the memory of joy. But she would not think of it now.
She had relaxed. And he had never enjoyed an evening more. The ball he had planned to attend later was far from his mind. And as for the dinner he was supposed to be enjoying right now at his aunt's house, while meeting the lovely and wealthy Miss Angaston...well, Aunt Caroline was going to tear strips off him, but the bites of jellied eel Evelyn stole from Loveday were far more to his taste. He shared the roasted nuts with her, too, popping them into her mouth one by one, holding back the rising tide of desire when her lips closed on his fingers.
The evening wore on. Nine o'clock came. And went. Ten o'clock. He should be at the Hardress ball by now. Aunt Caroline, already furious at his non-attendance at her dinner, would be fuming. Every polite smile and charming excuse she made for him would only add to the reckoning. But what if he took Loveday home and Lionel wasn't there?
Even here, out in the street, he was aware of her every breath, the fragrance of her hair, every eyelash. In the confines of her lodgings his control would be stretched to breaking point.
He shouldn't have brought her out like this, though. She was far from the only woman being escorted by a man. He knew what many of them were. Once, he would have been looking at them. As the other men looked at Loveday. Even men with other women. Snared by the flaming hair and pausing to look further, hot speculation in their eyes.
Evelyn thanked G.o.d for the enveloping cloak, but nothing could veil the sparkle in her eyes or hide the sweet fullness of her mouth. Fortunately, a threatening glare from him was enough to keep the others at bay.
Until they ran into Huntercombe.
”Hi-St. Austell!”
He would have kept going except that Loveday, hearing him hailed, had stopped.
”Evening, St. Austell.” Huntercombe's gaze flickered to Loveday, slid over her in speculation.
A slow burn ignited in Evelyn's gut. Huntercombe was the sort of pond sc.u.m that gave ponds a bad name.
”Huntercombe. You'll excuse us.”
Lord Huntercombe grinned. ”Oh, of course.” He cast another appraising look at Loveday and Evelyn felt her shrink closer, felt as though a bucket of slops had been tipped over them both.
”Huntercombe at your service, my dear,” the man murmured.
Loveday said nothing, but Huntercombe didn't seem to care. He addressed Evelyn again. ”Very nice, St. Austell.” He leered at Loveday. ”As tasty a morsel as ever I saw. Let me know when you're done plowing her, and I'll-”
Huntercombe crashed into the gutter, doubled over, clutching at his midriff, blood pouring from his nose. And Evelyn found himself standing over him with clenched fists, his knuckles bruised, rage burning unfettered, and Loveday clinging to his arm.
Slowly her voice penetrated the red mist. ”...No, Evelyn, please. You mustn't. Please, come away.”
Huntercombe sat up, wiping away blood. ”Good G.o.d, St. Austell!” He staggered to his feet with the help of one of his friends. ”Are you mad? What's the-”
”Apologize.” It was all Evelyn could get out from between gritted teeth.
”What?” Huntercombe's eyes goggled. ”d.a.m.ned if I will! Apologize? To some doxy you're- All right! All right!” He backed away, stumbling over the gutter.
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