“We shouldn’t—” she began.
He leaned down to brush his lips against her forehead. Eliza could feel his hands moving now, one sliding up to her neck with the other pressing on her back to pull her closer. “No, we shouldn’t.”
She gasped eagerly at the feel of him, the world spinning, as it had in her dream, and her eyes fell closed in bliss. She should at least make some kind of effort to break the rousing contact between their bodies, but only found herself seeking more closeness . . . more heat . . . more of him.
He dove down with a hot, openmouthed kiss to sear the fragile skin of her neck, and Eliza cried out, gripping his shoulders to arch against him. The world moved as it had before, only this time it was because he was lowering her to lie in the soft grass beneath them, gazing down at her with a reverence she’d never seen from a man. The demanding pulses of her body didn’t care that she’d just rejected his offer of marriage. Her body knew the truth . . . that it would never matter how unsuitable anyone else thought he was, she would always want him with blinding force. But her mind knew better. She used every last bit of willpower to push him away.
“Thomas,” she said, her breathing rapid in apprehension. “Please—”
The haze of lust cleared momentarily. “I would never hurt you, Eliza. I know you are not mine to take,” he said, his fingertips tracing the edge of her face.
She was certain he did, but still he bent down to kiss her cheek. Then her eyelids . . . the tip of her nose. Her breaths came unsteadily now, the fire kindling to life once more. Eliza instinctively tilted upwards to meet him, only to have him evade her, planting soft kisses along her jawline. Desperately, she sought him again, her hunger sharpening more when his mouth closed over her earlobe, the teeth grazing her flesh.
She frowned in discontent and moaned quietly, eyelids fluttering open. Speaking the words would be a betrayal of everything she’d said today, but dear God, how she longed for him to kiss her. His hands roamed, determined to torture her, and he pulled back to gaze at her in inquiry.
“Do you want me to kiss you?” he asked, skimming one hand lightly over the unbound curve of her breast.
Eliza shook her head and pressed her lips together, unwilling to appear so weak.
There was a hint of a smile as Thomas allowed his fingers to drift across the thin fabric that stretched taut across her nipple. She arched upward in supplication, a tiny noise of pleasure escaping her lips. Slowly, he unfastened the top buttons of her shirt, then eased his hand inside to touch her breast, gently kneading in a way that caused her head to spin. His need was increasingly evident in the strained pattern of his breathing, and his fingers circled the aching tip, then pinched it gently, making her gasp.
“Christ, Eliza. Tell me to kiss you,” he demanded huskily. “I need to hear you say it.”
Still she resisted the words, so he moved the fabric aside and leaned over her, his gaze locked with hers as his head lowered. She couldn’t say what would end up happening if his mouth met her flesh . . . a kiss would be safer . . .
“Kiss me, Thomas,” she breathed. “Please—”
He paused, his color heightening in recognition of her words. Then his head dipped down anyway and his mouth closed over her breast.
Eliza released a strangled cry, then arched off the ground in wanton response, her fingers winding through his thick ebony locks as she pulled him tighter against her. He teased her mercilessly, alternating between wicked flicks of his tongue and a devilish suction that caused her to lift up even higher. Her head lashed the ground from side to side, and she tried to speak, struggling for coherency.
“N—no. Kiss me, please—”
Thomas stopped and levered himself above her, his chest heaving with desire. “Does that not count as a kiss?” he managed.
She stared at him, supposing it did, then tugged him down greedily to seal her mouth against his. There was no pause of surprise. He was ready for her and responded with excited impatience, his mouth teasing and tasting hers in the way she’d dreamed of for weeks.
Evanston’s low groan of greedy animalistic desire excited her beyond measure. She let her hands roam free over his body, exploring the hard revelation of his muscles, the planes of his back, the strong angle of his jaw. With a last squeeze he released her breast, sending his hand on a new course down her stomach, across her pelvis, to slide eagerly between her thighs. His long fingers set to stroking that sensitive place through the thin layer of her breeches, and Eliza cried out in surprise, nails digging mercilessly into his arms as pleasure flooded her limbs.
“God, Eliza . . . yes,” he growled against her lips, his pace quickening, sending new delightful currents of sensation coursing through her.
It was all too much—the sight of him above her, the feel of his body against hers, the skillful weaving of ecstasy at his hands. The sensations layered on top of one another until she was nearly overwhelmed. She turned her head to the side and gasped.
“Oh, Thomas—”
Take me now.
The gravity of what she was about to do, and with whom, came crashing down with the force of a falling anvil. She was close again, incredibly close, to disregarding everything for the sake of losing herself in his arms. As if it were that easy. As if there were no other considerations, like Rosa, or William . . . her father, and Reginald.
Her head was awhirl. She was living her nightmare.
Mortified, Eliza twisted out from beneath him with a small cry and bolted up to a stand, immediately setting to right her unkempt appearance. He released her, but not before the same anguished look from earlier returned to darken his brilliant blue eyes.
The reality of her situation was an unwelcome burden. One she could not simply escape by pretending Lord Evanston’s faults did not exist, no matter how her heart sang when he was near. Landry would be here soon, and as was expected, she would accept him. Caroline would help her stay the course.
“You know I want you,” she said in a voice that was not steady. “Please don’t make this more difficult than it already is. We cannot be together.”
“I have heard you, Eliza,” he choked, standing to face her. “And I apologize . . . this never should have happened. But I—”
Thomas stopped to look away in sudden silence. His fingers flexed open, then curled tightly, and his broad shoulders slumped in defeat. Finally, he trained a curiously empty gaze upon her.
“I understand. I wish you and Sir James . . . every happiness.”
Evanston bowed courteously before climbing up onto his horse, and as he rode down the hill towards Lawton Park, she knew she hadn’t just succeeded in deterring a suitor.
She had lost her friend.
Chapter Fourteen
In Caroline’s opinion, men were often unworthy.
The crumpled sheet of parchment currently seized in her fist was a perfect illustration of why. It was a letter from Lord Braxton, declining Clara’s generous invitation to Lawton Park due to his sudden engagement to Miss King of Norfolk. It seemed they had met during the season and participated in what could only be described as a whirlwind romance. Of course, this was apart from his courting of Caroline prior to her departure from London, but she was certain he did not bother himself, or his new fiancée, with the inconvenient details.
The Countess of Ashworth cleared her throat discreetly from where she stood beside her.
“I am sorry to be the one to relate such unpleasant news, Lady Caroline,” she said, her eyes soft with sympathy, “but I thought you should be the first to know. I understood from Eliza that you held a preference for this man during the season.”
Caroline swallowed hard, willing the rise of her tears back into submission before answering. “Thank you, my lady. I—” Abruptly, she thrust the letter back into the hands of the countess, her mortification robbing her of words. Abandoned by her parents. Replaced by her suitor. How many possible ways could she be exposed to the ton for its mockery? She shook her head. “I’m not surpris
ed, really,” she finally finished.
Clara’s eyes widened. “Why would you say such a thing? Surely you did nothing to warrant such treatment from a man.”
“No, but I did depart from London before the end of the season.” Her gaze flitted about the drawing room and she lowered her voice. “My aunt is unwell. She sees things sometimes . . . hears things . . . has trouble remembering.” Caroline trailed off, then met Lady Ashworth’s eyes once more. “It’s something I’ve worked to conceal these past months.”
“My goodness, I’m so sorry,” said Clara, seating herself beside Caroline on the settee to give her shoulders a comforting squeeze. “If you don’t mind my asking, how did you manage to leave London without attracting unwanted attention?”
Caroline smiled ruefully. “In a most unexpected way. Lord Evanston provided his assistance, per Eliza’s request.” Seeing how Clara’s expression changed, she said, “I know, my lady. I too was surprised with the arrangement, at first. But the viscount was committed to keeping our secret and proved himself to be quite the gentleman. Although,” she added reluctantly, “he did impose upon Eliza one condition.”
“Which was?” asked the countess, her dark eyes alight with interest.
“He asked she postpone answering any offers of marriage she should receive, before returning to Kent.”
Clara leaned back against the cushions, lost in thought. “He was buying himself time,” she murmured.
“Yes!” cried Caroline. “I told Eliza the very same thing.”
“So you were aware of his feelings for her?”
She nibbled her lip. “I was. Although now I’ve been questioning the nature of those feelings.”
“What do you mean?” asked Clara.
“At the start of the season, I believed Evanston would attempt to seduce Eliza, if for no other reason than his own entertainment. However, after conversing with him in Hampshire, I was led to believe that he might actually—”
“—be in love with her?”
Caroline’s mouth snapped shut. She stared at Clara, nonplussed.
“Well, yes.”
“Have you been able to speak with Eliza on the matter?”
“She has been unreceptive to talking about the viscount at all since my arrival. Eliza seems almost preternaturally focused on accepting Landry, yet I know she has long nurtured an affection for Evanston. For how long, I am uncertain.” Caroline thoughtfully considered the point. “For years, I suppose,” she finally concluded.
“I think she may hold great affection for him still, and very little for Sir James, which poses an obvious problem,” replied Clara gloomily.
Caroline’s brows furrowed. “What if she is forcing herself to accept Landry when Thomas . . . I can’t believe I’m about to say this—”
“When Thomas might actually be the man who suits her most?” laughed Clara. “I think it’s possible. Although yes, it is a very unlikely turn of events. But what of Rosa?”
Heat spread over Caroline’s cheeks and she cast her gaze guiltily to the ground. She couldn’t help but remember the sweetness between Thomas and the little girl as they had danced in the hallway at Lawton Park. She also remembered keeping the truth of it from Eliza.
“Rosa loves him, I’ve seen it,” she confessed. “What’s more, he loves her too. I believe he’s just inexperienced with expressing his emotions.”
“Yes,” Clara agreed. “Perhaps, if he’d been better at it, we would not be in this predicament, waiting for Eliza to accept an offer from the wrong man.”
Caroline suddenly froze. “But what about the earl?”
The countess nervously ran a fingertip across the gleaming pearl earbob that was dangling from her earlobe. “Yes, things are indeed complicated between my husband and the viscount. I’ve advised Thomas to speak with him, but given the damaged state of things with Eliza, I’m not sure he’ll even bother.” She frowned, then nodded decisively. “Landry arrives in two days. You and I will have to help things along.”
“How?” she inquired. Caroline desperately wanted to help her friend. Given the disappointing result of her own recent courtship, she would do just about anything to spare Eliza from a similar fate, or worse. She couldn’t bear thinking of the smart, vibrant Eliza locking herself into marriage with a man who was all respectability simply for the sake of doing it. A man who would view her as a cold, gleaming trophy rather than the warm-blooded woman she was.
Clara rose to stand, beckoning for Caroline to follow. “It turns out I have helpful friends in many places. Belowstairs being one of them,” she answered with a playful smile.
Within minutes, the two ladies were having a clandestine conversation with a few trusted servants, tucked away in the relative privacy of a west wing bedchamber. Caroline could scarcely believe Clara might attempt such a daring operation for the sake of her husband’s sister. Then, she reminded herself of the woman’s enterprising and dauntless acts performed on her own behalf, which had turned out quite successfully. This scheme would likely be tame when compared to a plot of that magnitude.
“Right,” said Clara cursorily. “I understand this is highly unconventional. But please be assured that any action taken at my request, even one that goes against the rules, strictly speaking, shall be absolved. You are protected.” She sent a meaningful glance to her faithful lady’s maid, Abigail, who nodded taciturnly to her mistress in reply.
“Oh, no,” said the head housemaid, Amelia, smacking a hand faintly against her forehead. “What is this about, my lady?”
Clara pointed at her and smiled. “I’m glad you asked. I am entreating your assistance with a most delicate matter. As you may be aware, Lady Eliza is anticipating a marriage proposal this weekend by one Sir James Landry.”
The dark-haired maid, Stella, glanced at Mrs. Humboldt in apprehension. The cook looked intrigued, however, leaning forwards eagerly.
“Yes, my lady. What of it?” she asked.
“Well, I would like to create an opportunity for Eliza to accept an alternative offer.”
“Who is it?” Mrs. Humboldt asked, her cheeks growing rosy in scandalized excitement.
Clara paused for a moment. “It is Thomas, Lord Evanston.”
A heavy silence pervaded the room before it was cut through by the cook’s short bark of laughter. Soon, Mrs. Humboldt was clutching her generous bosom, lost to gasping fits of hilarity. However, at Clara’s prolonged and serious evaluation of her, she eventually stifled her mirth to view the countess in shock.
“You’re serious?”
“Deadly serious. I’d like to give Eliza one more chance to consider her options before Landry calls on her.”
“Oh!” cried the cook, her surprise having transformed into enthusiasm. “I could serve him up a bad bit of potato. That might keep him occupied—”
“I have an idea, my lady,” Abigail said suddenly. “It’s not terribly complicated but will require accurate timing, for certain.”
If Caroline remembered the story correctly, Abigail had been the one to help orchestrate Clara’s escape from her fiancé, as well as secure her servant’s position at Lawton Park.
She saw Lady Ashworth’s mouth curve upward in sly contemplation of her lady’s maid.
“Thank you, Abigail. I knew I could count on you.”
Guests began arriving on Friday afternoon, with Landry among their numbers.
The house party would have been considered small by most lofty standards, particularly those of the London set. Still, the west wing had been opened and refreshed for the event, and the scale of the gathering felt appropriate for Lawton Park’s first house party in nearly five years.
It was a shame Thomas was going to miss it.
In fact, a great many things were a shame. He thought back to the years he’d spent here, even the dark ones following the tragedies that had derailed them all. How he’d wasted his time with Eliza, allowing himself to dismiss her as simply the sister of a friend when she was the only woman with any sub
stance to her at all. Both William and his father had considered Thomas undeserving of Eliza’s heart, and to be honest, Evanston agreed. Eliza Cartwick had been through enough, and he understood why she was reluctant to open herself up to more suffering with a man who had shown himself to be unreliable. He understood, even as it tore him apart.
So here he was, at this journey’s inevitable conclusion . . . a broken man. Turned inside out by the only woman who mattered enough to affect him in such a way. His priorities had shifted finally, but too late. He hadn’t been able to nurture the trust necessary for her to love him, and now she was somewhere downstairs preparing to marry another. Eliza thought him fickle and unsure, when the truth of it was she was the only thing he’d ever been sure of in his life.
La douleur exquise. A French expression he’d thought to be ridiculous and trite at one time, now seemingly the only apt description of this black existence carved out before him. Literally translated as the exquisite pain, it described the notion of not merely unreciprocated affection, but the indescribable agony of suffering it at the hands of the one you loved.
Well, he was done with it. His trunks were packed and he was leaving tonight. He was both unwilling and unable to watch as Eliza promised herself to another man. This past week of acting as if things were fine around William had already strained his ability to pretend. He had requested that his carriage and horses be brought round in secrecy, as the situation dictated, although he was never sure how well servants could be trusted to keep a secret. Thomas had no desire to cause controversy, only to slip out discreetly so he could take refuge in London and drink himself into oblivion.
He shrugged on his coat and seized his hat. Downstairs, guests would be in the process of assembling in the drawing room prior to dinner. Men in formal black and white, and ladies in their finest gowns. He wanted to leave before he would be overtly missed—
A quiet knock sounded at his bedchamber door and his gaze locked onto it.
Inwardly, he cursed. Whoever was on the other side of that portal could easily interfere with his departure, and once he was seen in something other than his dinner attire, word would surely make its way to William and Eliza.
Viscount Can Wait, The EPB Page 21