Often, she would stop by Thomas’s door, wary and unsure. Eliza would touch the cool metal of the doorknob, wishing that she had the courage to face him. But her mind would make its excuses, and after all, it would be a shame for her to disturb him in the midst of his healing repose. Each time her fingers would drop heavily away, and she would hurry down the stairs into the library, either to distract herself with a book or to write additional letters updating their loved ones on the current status of the situation.
One evening, there was a soft rap on Evanston’s front door. Surprised, Eliza glanced up from her correspondence and waited to see if there was a servant nearby to answer. She knew Burton was likely busy upstairs with the viscount, as she had removed herself from that situation. Now the least she could do was open the front door to greet whoever was knocking.
She set the missive aside and rose from her armchair to walk swiftly out of the drawing room. Eliza threw open the front door to find, not a relation or acquaintance waiting upon the doorstep, but a rather scruffy-looking boy. He was small in stature, not altogether clean, and gazed up at her with uncertainty in his large blue eyes, a black smudge of soot marking his pale cheek.
“Beggin’ your pardon ma’am, but is the master of the house in?”
She regarded him in shock. A rush of cool evening air swirled around them both, smelling faintly of coal smoke and the Thames.
“Viscount Evanston is unavailable to visitors for the time being. May I help you instead?”
He shuffled his feet in their worn and ill-fitting brown shoes, hands plunging deep into his pockets. “No, ma’am. Only I was sent to ask after his condition by a lady, and wouldn’t want to return empty-handed, if I could help it.”
Something wretched clutched at her heart, and she looked upon him with newfound seriousness. “Who is this lady, may I ask?”
“You can ask for sure, ma’am, but I don’t even know. She didn’t tell me nuffin’ other than to find out about the master who lives here.” He blinked at her earnestly.
“I see. Well, Lord Evanston is indisposed,” she replied grimly. Sliding her hand into the pocket of her skirt, she retrieved a small purse. Eliza removed a crown from the interior and placed the coin into his hand. He stared down at it with wide eyes, then glanced back up at her mutely. She reached out to curl his fingers closed over the gleaming silver currency.
“But—but what’s this for, ma’am?”
She smiled. “That is to thank you for your visit. Now you’d best be off to report back to your mistress.”
He nodded and attempted a bow, still too flummoxed by her payment to fully observe etiquette, before dashing off into the shadows. Quickly, she retrieved her cloak and slid it around her shoulders, pulling the hood over her head before also entering the darkened streets. Eliza was intent on following the urchin to discover the identity of the woman who had sent him here. She had formulated a guess already, and if proven correct, knew this would not be their first meeting with one another.
Sweeping into the night, she pursued the visitor across the uneven cobblestone streets, being careful to stay concealed. When he ducked into a nearby alleyway, she pressed against the closest building and slowed her pace, inching along and straining to hear any semblance of conversation. After a few moments, her efforts were rewarded.
“That’s it?” a woman’s voice seethed in displeasure. “I wanted to know how the man fares, not simply that he is indisposed.”
“I’m sorry, me lady,” came the tremulous voice of the lad, “but she offered no other information.”
The woman issued an unladylike growl. “Well, that tells me nothing, boy. Begone.”
Eliza heard the boy scamper off down the alleyway, then stepped forwards into view, enjoying the expression of astonishment that overcame Mrs. Varnham’s attractive features, partially concealed by her own cloak.
“You should have paid the viscount the courtesy of asking yourself,” she said quietly. “I wouldn’t have turned away a well-wisher. Not even you.”
The woman forced her face into an attitude of concern that did not seem altogether natural. “Is it true? I have . . . heard . . . that Lord Evanston was attacked by a criminal. I only wish to know whether or not—”
“—he will live?” finished Eliza. “Do you truly care? And if so, why send an errand boy to inquire on your behalf? You’ve never been shy about confrontation before.”
A shadow of guilt passed over her face. She glanced to the side and chewed on her lip, which got Eliza to thinking. Frantically she searched her memories, grasping at the words Thomas had uttered in the midst of his fevered state.
. . . sends her regards . . .
Her eyes widened.
“You did it!” she cried. “You sent a man after Evanston!”
The woman flinched at Eliza’s accusation, still unable to meet her gaze. Her shifty discomfort confirmed her role in the whole affair.
“Now that is jumping to conclusions—”
“Why?” Eliza’s gaze narrowed dangerously.
Heaving a sigh, Mrs. Varnham finally raised her eyes to meet Eliza’s. “He’d moved on,” she rasped. “I never thought he would. You must believe me . . . the man wasn’t supposed to have a knife.”
Eliza turned to ice. Gooseflesh erupted across every inch of her skin and her fingers clenched into hardened fists. “But he was supposed to hurt him.” She saw the large satchel resting on the ground next to Mrs. Varnham’s skirts. “And it appears you are ready to leave town? A wise choice. You should do that before I am able to summon the magistrate. I think you should leave and never come back,” she said coldly.
Needing no additional motivation, Evanston’s former mistress only nodded and grasped the handle of her bag. Eliza watched as the woman hurried away, the sound of her departing footsteps echoing within the alley until finally fading into nothingness.
Nearly five days later, Eliza found most of the household business had been addressed and all the required communications had been sent. Taking advantage of the opportunity, she slipped out discreetly for a warm bath in Evanston’s slipper tub. She submerged her tresses beneath the water, then sank until her face gazed upward through the shimmering lens of the liquid, wishing she could wash away her cares. She knew she must brace herself for the possibility that even after all they had been through together, and after caring for him at his bedside, Thomas might have already closed his heart to her.
Sputtering for breath, she emerged from the depths of the tub to grasp distractedly for her towel. There was nothing to be done, save for convincing him of her sincerity and, failing that . . . returning home alone. Her mood was subdued at the idea. She dried herself and donned a loose muslin dress in dismal contemplation, pinning her thick golden hair into a messy chignon. Patterson would have been horrified by the lazy attempt, but Eliza was too sullen to care.
Later that evening, the declining autumn sunlight sparkled at her from the edge of the crystal brandy decanter on the sideboard in the library. The doctor had come and gone yet again. Eliza had inquired with the maids regarding Thomas’s welfare, then returned to her refuge downstairs. She had long since finished her day’s letters and sent them off with the post, but still she sat alone in the empty library. Her aversion to facing the viscount was not necessarily a reasonable reaction, but she was feeling it, nonetheless. If the two of them never spoke, he could never reject her, as she had done to him before. She sought to preserve the distance that prevented such a thing from happening.
The echo of Burton’s footsteps in the foyer alerted her to his presence mere seconds before he entered the library after a brief, perfunctory knock.
“Lord Evanston is awake, my lady. He has been awake and sitting up for the past four days.”
She flashed a smile. “That’s lovely, Burton. The doctor has told me.” Her glance dropped to her hands. “How does he feel?”
“A bit tired perhaps . . . restless . . . Dr. Brown says he has the fortitude of an ox.” The b
utler frowned as he viewed her askance. “Honestly, my lady, you would already know, were you to see him yourself.”
“Yes, of course,” she admitted, wincing at his subtle censure. “I plan on it, just as soon as I—”
“How about now?” he offered a little too pleasantly, taking a step back and gesturing towards the doorway.
At her hesitation, Burton paused, closed the library door, then approached her with a kindly expression.
“He loves you,” stated the man in a hushed tone, “but you lose your nerve after he’s declared himself? That is something I do not understand.”
“No,” she responded hotly, “you don’t. You haven’t seen how I’ve rejected him. How he’s been hurt by both me and my family—”
“You’re wrong,” Burton interrupted. “I have seen him. I’ve seen him after your spurnings and rejections.” He leaned closer. “And what I’ve also seen, for the first time since I’ve known him, is that he persisted . . . regardless of his mounting failures, because of that love you would not give him credit for.”
I love your sister! he had shouted at William. I would have followed her anywhere . . . done anything to show her . . . risked any friendship for just a chance . . .
She hung her head in shame. Even now, when she had come to terms with her own love for him, she was unable to give him the credit he was due. This was Thomas, the man who had stood up for her on the night of Rosa’s birth. Who had teased and annoyed her in London until she could think of no other man. Who had laid his own heart at her feet . . .
A moment later, she found herself faced with his bedchamber door once more. Inhaling a deep breath, she rapped her knuckles softly against the oaken surface. When no answer was forthcoming, she cracked the door open for a peek.
Evanston was reclining against a mound of pillows, asleep. Once she had closed the door behind her, she allowed her gaze to travel across him in the way she had not permitted herself to while he was sick. The first thing she noticed was that his shirtless state was not the benign, medical necessity it had once been. Now, the sight of him, recovering and at rest, healthier than she’d seen him in days, stirred something dark and carnal inside of her.
Eliza came closer to notice that his sleek black hair had been washed and combed, his stubble shaven meticulously away. She longed to stroke his chin with her fingers, to feel its smoothness for herself, but stayed the inclination. He was only just recovered and she was still unsure of his feelings towards her.
Yet, she recalled how good it had felt to kiss him, despite the sorrow that had prompted her to do so. It had not been so long ago, yet if felt like ages had already passed. To kiss him now felt forbidden. The fear that had kept her away caused her to linger again, unmoving and inactive. She clenched her teeth in determination and approached to seat herself on the bed beside him.
“Thomas. Can you hear me?”
The last time she’d spoken those words, he had not reacted well. This time, his head rolled slowly in her direction, and he awoke. He stared at her, his eyes a cool blue flame.
“Hello, Eliza.” His voice sounded rusty and unused.
She pressed on, hopeful. “How are you feeling?”
A ghost of a smile lifted at the corner of his mouth. “Like I’ve been hit by a steam engine,” he said, his eyes drifting closed briefly, then opening again to view her. “Burton says you’ve been here for days. I didn’t believe him.”
“Why not?”
Thomas winced in pain and shifted himself higher up on his pillows. “Well, for one thing, you wouldn’t show yourself. And when last we parted—”
“Stop, please,” she said quickly with a stab of guilt.
Rather than attempting to continue, he fell silent and evaluated her curiously.
“I heard you from my place in the darkness, you know.”
Her eyes widened. “You did?”
He nodded. “You said the nicest things, which was how I knew I must have been dreaming.” A tiny gleam in his eyes told her he might have been teasing, but she wasn’t certain.
“I’m sorry, Thomas,” she murmured, eyes focused on the hands fidgeting in her lap. “I’ve been so awful to you.”
Thomas considered this a while before answering. “I think you were doing what you believed was the right thing to do,” he replied carefully.
She raised her eyes to meet his. “What if I told you that I refused Landry’s proposal, and I believe it was the right thing to do?”
He opened his mouth to reply, then closed it. He glanced away.
Eliza leaned closer to him on the bed, sliding her fingertips across his chin as she had longed to do earlier. The skin-to-skin contact caused him to freeze, even as he submitted to her touch.
“What if I left for London immediately after, in the barest hope you might forgive me despite everything I’ve put you through? That I believed it was the right thing to do?”
His mouth twisted. “Eliza, don’t.”
“What if Rosa believed it was the right thing to do? And William?”
Thomas’s gaze snapped over to meet hers, but he said nothing.
Terrified but resolute, she continued. “What if,” she said, her hand straying down towards the hard, muscular planes of his chest to cover his heart, “I’ve wanted you since before my marriage to Reginald, and loved you nearly as long?”
His gaze sharpened. “That’s a lie.”
“What if it’s not?”
Even with his resistance, she felt his temperature increase at her words. Could see his pupils dilate, the black pools spreading in a sea of blue. She let her fingers trail through the dark hair on his chest, feeling her own response to his nearness. Drifting closer, her lips passed over the sharp angle of his cheekbone. Evanston’s eyes fell closed.
“What if you became the worthiest suitor by far, and I was just too blind to see it?”
“Worthiest might be an exaggeration,” he said quietly.
She silenced him by pressing her lips against his, gently at first, then more insistently. Rather than shove her away, as she had feared he might, his hands slid up to cradle her head, pulling her closer so he could deepen the kiss. His tongue slowly stroked hers, and she accepted his invitation, darting to meet and match his movements. Evanston’s breathing hastened and a low groan issued from his throat.
Reluctantly, Eliza broke the kiss to pull back and gazed down at him. Hope lightened her expression, but the worry remained.
“Thomas,” she breathed, pleading, “I’ve been so foolish and I cannot bear to lose you. Please say you’ll marry me. A life without you doesn’t seem like much of a life at all.”
Despite his impassioned state, he did his best to appear uninterested, turning his head away with a bored glance and a mischievous smile.
“Perhaps. But not until after I’ve made you suffer sufficiently for such torment,” he teased.
The veil of doubt that had burdened her for years finally lifted and a thrill blossomed inside her heart. “Are you going to make me beg?” she asked hopefully.
“I’d consider myself a failure if I didn’t.”
She brushed her lips against the tip of his nose. “I think I’ll make you beg, instead.”
“Oh, you do?” he scoffed.
He pulled her down again, savoring her lips, tasting her deeply, only to ease her away when her kisses became too eager. She gave a soft cry of complaint, then decided to take charge, shifting across the bed to climb over and straddle him. He uttered a soft laugh at her impatience, but his amusement subsided quickly when she lowered down against him. Eliza could feel the large shape of his manhood pushing through her skirts and she writhed insistently on his lap, excited to feel how well they fit together. But no . . . she was unwilling to rush their lovemaking. Not after years of dreaming about being with him.
Evanston tried to seem indifferent in an attempt to tease her and failed with a groan, flexing his hips up to meet hers, his eager hands coasting upwards to squeeze the heavy weight o
f her breasts. The thin fabric of her dress did very little to mask the sensation of contact and Eliza could not conceal the intensity of her reaction. With a moan she moved on top of him while he gasped and kneaded her flesh through the muslin.
“I’m sure this is against all doctor’s orders,” he managed to say, “yet I can’t seem to care.”
Tugging the front of her bodice sharply down, he exposed the naked curves of her breasts to his greedy gaze. The abruptness of the motion caused her to gasp in breathless surprise.
“Dear God, how I’ve dreamed of you,” he said, his voice roughened with what remained of his restraint. His thumbs caressed the tips of her breasts and he leaned forward, letting his lips drift across her shoulder, over her collarbone. “You are . . . beyond gorgeous,” he whispered. “You’re perfect.”
He slid his hand around the supple curve of one breast, then took her nipple into the warm depths of his mouth. Suckling until she cried out, he then teased the tip with soft flicks of his tongue and pulled away. Evanston gently squeezed the moistened peak with his fingertips before moving to the other side to torment her there as well.
She wanted to make some reply. To tell him how very happy he had made her. That despite the advice of everyone around her and her own best laid plans, he’d always been the only man for her. But she could only call out his name and rake her fingers through his thick black hair, arching forward to bring him even closer.
Although still sapped from his recent illness, he possessed every ounce of his usual male virility as his body responded beneath her. Reaching down, she slid her hand beneath the sheet and exhaled softly in appreciation at the extent of his arousal. She started to caress him, tearing a hoarse gasp from his throat, and she realized how grateful she was for the chance to discover him in this way after nearly losing him.
“I need you, Thomas,” she sighed. “I’ve needed you for so long.”
Evanston made a low noise back in his throat and removed her hands with a devilish glance. “You touch me like that and this will be over before it’s started,” he whispered against her neck. “There’s no need to rush . . .”
Viscount Can Wait, The EPB Page 27