“I said that I want you,” he repeated, dropping down to kneel beside her. His eyes grew brighter as his hand traced along the bare length of her arm. “In my bed.”
Eliza stared at him in shock, shaking her head. “I—I don’t understand. The moment I venture away from my brother’s estate, you suddenly decide that I am worth your attention?”
Thomas stroked her palm with his thumb and his eyes flicked up to capture hers. “Perhaps I’ve come to realize that you were always worth my attention.” He raised her hand to drag his mouth across the sensitive flesh of her inner wrist. “And perhaps I stole you away from Landry tonight because I couldn’t bear the sight of you with someone else.”
A fiery need coiled inside her, low and hot, while her heart hammered in panic. She had every intention of shoving him away. But the sight of him looming beside her in the candlelit dark . . . powerful and masculine and longing for her . . . was the manifestation of countless fantasies, now spectacularly come to life. She might not have protested when he’d kissed her before, but she needed to now. Eliza knew what would happen if she did not.
“Thomas . . . you shouldn’t. We’re only meant to be friends—”
“And could we not be something more?” His eyes closed as the sculpted softness of his mouth brushed against her skin. In a barely perceptible voice he added, “Are we not already?”
Rotating her hand, he guided it to rest lightly against the square line of his jaw. Although he had clearly shaven before the ball, she could feel the new, rough growth of his beard beneath her fingertips. He turned his face to bury it into her palm and Eliza remained frozen, driven to exquisite madness by his lips. Many, many times she had imagined such a scenario. His mouth . . . her skin . . .
Eliza watched in both fear and excitement while his kisses coasted steadily farther up the length of her arm. A surge of adrenaline brought her back to reality, and she pulled away just enough to break the contact between her skin and his mouth.
“We can’t—”
Evanston allowed her to retreat, then countered by leaning over her to place both hands on the settee, bringing himself even closer until their faces nearly touched. His gaze snared hers, then dropped to her lips, causing her heart to stutter. He bent forwards and lightly, so lightly, brushed his lips against the corner of her mouth.
“Can’t we?”
As her years of celibacy could attest, she was not a widow given to casual lovemaking. But the question, posed by this particular man in a voice unsteady with longing, was nearly impossible to resist. Her earlier wish to have him ravish her in his bedchamber was rapidly replaced by the very real possibility of being taken right here in the drawing room instead. Loneliness had been a wretched companion in the years since her husband’s death . . . She knew that losing herself in Evanston’s arms would be infinitely more pleasing . . .
Thomas hesitated at her silence, then kissed the delicate outer shell of her ear, the whispered current of his breath laying waste to her plans of resistance. A soft groan escaped him, and his hands wound around her bodice. She felt his long fingers curling into her waist as the force of his desire increased, and the possessive clasp unleashed a wave of lust that sent an accompanying jolt of pleasure racing between her thighs. Grasping for anything to pull her out of the sensual fog that was rapidly clouding her judgment, she thought of her family.
Reginald. Father. Lucas. William. Men, both departed and alive, who had held Lord Evanston in high esteem but still would have taken great issue with Evanston for presuming to approach her. William could still thrash him, and probably would, should he ever discover the truth.
His kisses strayed dangerously to her collarbone and her head fell back, mind whirling at all the things Thomas could accomplish with her lying on his settee. She felt the scrape of his cheek, and then he turned to blaze openmouthed kisses over her chest, down to the swells of her breasts, displayed as they were by the restraining fit of her satin bodice. Eliza let out a shaky moan, her traitorous body quivering in anticipation while her mind was still feebly attempting to remind her of why this was a dangerous endeavor. She was drunk off the feel of him, the heat, the smell. Starched linen, soap, brandy, mingled with his own powerful, aroused scent. In a daze, Eliza wondered how he would taste.
Rosa. Her daughter, who cared for Thomas, but would never understand when he would probably disappear for days at a time, or why he’d perhaps become bored with her mother. If not for herself, she owed it to both Reginald and Rosa to choose a husband with an established history of managed appetites, not one of indulged vices.
She wanted him, yes. He knew it, and here they were. But she could not allow herself to be seduced by him now.
Thomas leaned over her, his eyes kindling with desire. “Kiss me, Eliza.”
It was impossible to tell if he was making a plea or a demand, but regardless, she found herself wanting to submit. To this and any other request he might make of her.
“I can’t,” she said desperately, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to steel herself against his scorching advances.
He came closer, the tip of his nose softly brushing hers. “Kiss me now.”
Eliza could imagine William’s fury at discovering them like this. But here in Lord Evanston’s drawing room, she found herself contemplating the extent of the fallout that would occur if she permitted this one night’s indulgence . . .
Her eyes flew open and she brought her hands up against his shoulders to give him a shove.
“I can’t!”
Evanston finally recognized her urgency and jerked back to gaze at her, hurt evident within the shadowed planes of his handsome face. She guessed it could have been the only time he’d ever encountered such a reaction from a woman. The emotion vanished and he stood quickly, the angled planes of his face shadowed in the flickering light. Eliza watched in trepidation as he worked to master himself before speaking to her, his broad chest heaving. Finally, he turned to face her.
“You don’t trust me,” he rasped.
“No, Thomas. I don’t. And I can’t believe I have to remind you of this, but I came to London in search of a husband—”
“—not a man like me,” he muttered under his breath.
“Yes!” she exclaimed. “I cannot be just another one of your widows, and it’s selfish of you to expect it.”
He shook his head in bitter acceptance. “So you wish to save yourself for Landry.”
“The notion of marriage has never been approached by Sir James,” she said, blinking. “But if I did accept his proposal, then yes. I feel I would owe that to him.”
The muscles of his jaw flexed as he retrieved the candlestick from the table and strode to the doorway. “I understand. This was a mistake—” His teeth squeezed shut at the end of his sentence, and he cleared his throat to speak once more. “You are injured. Pray, don’t trouble yourself. I will fetch my infernally lazy butler and he will escort you to your carriage, since any contact with me is so apparently odious to you.”
Her mouth fell open to make a reply in her defense, but he had already ventured down the hallway, taking the light with him and plunging her into darkness.
Chapter Seven
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 Carolin
e’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.”
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