by Sari Robins
Her childhood hero watched her out of the corner of his eye as he swept the muck from a stall in the nearby stables. With his cap pulled low over his face and the hunch he assumed, she did not even notice him. How could she, when her eyes were glued to the handsome marquis? Sully pushed down the temptation to pull his darling away from the rogue and throttle the man in the manure.
“Hey, you, boy,” called the stable master. “Bring out the lady’s mare.”
He slapped the foot of a lad sitting nearby. “Ya ’eard da master. Get on it.”
The boy jumped from his perch atop a stack of hay and scurried to obey.
Sully slipped into the shadows of the stable. It was too dangerous to be seen near Evelyn. Too dangerous for them both. But it was becoming more and more difficult to stay away from her when she was behaving so perilously. He had warned her, but she had not heeded him. Perhaps she did not understand that the marquis who seemed to have swept her off her feet was somehow involved in her father’s murder. But all of the pieces were not yet in place, and to move now, although tempting, might prove catastrophic.
The scoundrel smiled down into Evelyn’s upturned face and brushed a hair off her rosy cheek. Sully’s stewing blood began to boil. That his little girl would fall for such a treacherous rascal…he had taught her better than that. Perhaps it was time for some paternal interference. And silencing the marquis seemed the best way to safeguard his Evelyn. Forever.
Chapter 12
Evelyn tossed another log onto the fire and inhaled the smoky scent of cloves. Justin had had the most pleasant mix of aromas added to the hearth. She pulled off her black shawl, for the vigorous fire warmed her face and hands in the small house that had become her sanctuary. It had been Justin’s brother’s haven, and now it was hers; she just prayed that she would meet a better end.
She dragged the wastebasket close and threw each ball of crumpled paper into the flames, one by one, and watched them burn. She sighed. The blaze crackled as if laughing at her ineptitude. She could find nothing in her father’s writings, no indication of some unknown treacherous mission he had worked on near his death. Still, it was a joy to read his poetic prose. She had not truly appreciated what a gifted writer he had been. Always a great orator, he’d had a knack for gathering crowds around him and working them as a master craftsman builds his tour de force. He could bring them to laughter with an anecdote or have them charging off to glory with his rousing rhetoric. But his writing, it was like a gentle song. Reflective, haunting in its imagery. He had worried over her. He had consoled himself about the day he would be gone, would be a father to her no more, by making a legacy for her that was “fashioned from the teardrops of the gods.” An odd description for English coin, but who was she to question his poetic license?
If only he had known that her fortune was to be incarcerated by the ever-inefficient and apparently unjust legal system. He would likely have placed it in a more secure location. Like under a mattress or beneath a rock.
She tossed another ball of paper into the flames. It ignited and shriveled into ashes in mere seconds. But she had to remember he had left her with so much more than mere money. He had always known what to say to encourage her, to make her work harder, to be the best person she could be. It was he who had taught her never to settle. Not to accept the limited role that society had carved out for women. “This is the nineteenth century, for heaven’s sake,” he would proclaim. “We no longer live in caves, and woman need not cater to man as if he created fire for her to cook and serve.”
He’d had such fervor, such energy, but it had always been based in sound principles. God, country, and family. In that order. And yes, it had hurt that she had come last. That his duty to his king and his nation had held precedence. That was why it was ludicrous for anyone to consider that the man might have been a traitor. Which meant that someone else was. Someone who had been threatened enough by Father to have murdered him or have had him killed.
She rubbed her hands over her eyes. Her head ached from all of the twisted reasoning. Thank heavens or, she smiled, Justin, that she had a place for her distrustful musings. A place where she need not worry over being disturbed. The Fontaines thought her at the library, and she let them think this. How could it be a haven if everyone knew of it?
She scanned the small parlor, feeling an overwhelming sense of appreciation for Justin and his thoughtfulness. The glorious man was turning out to be the one saving grace to this horrid mess. And it did not hurt that the devastatingly attractive marquis had magical fingers. Her face heated and she giggled, just recalling his searing touch. But she could not dwell on that or she would not get anything accomplished.
As a diversion, she looked around the chamber. The wooden door of the storage room stared at her enticingly. She stood, curious to see what Justin’s brother George had kept inside. She shook off the temptation, acknowledging that she had no right to trespass. She would not repay hospitality with nosiness. Still, a little peek couldn’t hurt anything, could it?
Two knocks banged on the door.
Her heart jumped. She pressed her hand to her chest, trying to calm the pounding against her rib cage. She let out a long breath, pushing away the feelings of guilt. She had done nothing wrong.
It was likely a friend, to have been able to get past Ismet. Justin. A small thrill raced up her middle. She pat her hair and brushed her skirts. She hastily squatted down and tossed the final pages into the fire. Remembering her father’s journal lying open on the desk, she quickly slammed it closed. Instead of putting it back into her reticule in the corner, however, she shoved it into one of the tall bookshelves as she strode to the door. She would easily retrieve it after Justin’s visit. She just had to remember that she had promised to return to Belfont House in time for tea.
“Who calls?”
“Justin.”
She smiled and opened the door wide. He was so handsome that it nearly took her breath away. From the top of his dark blue hat to the tips of his shiny black Hessians he was the epitome of the elegant English gentleman.
He hesitated in the threshold. “I do not wish to intrude…”
“Don’t be foolish. This is your place, Justin, not mine.” She stepped aside and waved him in. “I am merely a guest. You are the landlord and I had best be nice to you or you might just kick me out.”
He stepped inside, and that musky, woodsy scent wafted around him. She nodded to Ismet, who was standing sulkily across the alley, and closed the door. Lord only knew what Ismet thought of her burgeoning friendship with the marquis. She brushed aside the worry. She was her own woman now, in charge of her own destiny.
He removed his hat, and this time Evelyn reached up and did ruffle his hair. He brushed his gloved hand across his forehead self-consciously. “That bad, eh?”
“No, I just couldn’t resist.”
They stepped into the parlor and he looked around the room.
“Are you burning something?”
She shrugged. “Was nothing. I just love the spices you added to the fire. What are they?”
“I don’t know,” he stated distantly. “They were a gift from a friend.”
“The portly, old kind of friend?” she asked only half-jokingly.
“I would not say either of those things to his face, but yes.”
She released the little tension in her shoulders. “Let me take your cape.”
“Thank you.” He turned. “Are you enjoying your solitude?”
She hung the soft black woolen cloak on the rack and smiled. “Immensely, Justin. It is such a pleasure not to have anyone underfoot or interrupting me.”
“But I am interrupting you.”
Her cheeks warmed. “I welcome the distraction, if it is you.”
A small smile lifted the corners of his lips. “I brought you something.”
“Really? You have given me so much already.”
“It’s nothing extravagant. Please sit.”
Evelyn sat down on the couch
with her hands folded in her lap to keep them from clapping with excitement. She’d always loved presents. Even the smallest things were a cherished surprise. Every time her father had had to journey abroad, he had brought back some memento of his travels for his little girl, and, although seeing her father had been an unmatchable treat, the little gifts had been an anticipated boon.
Justin grabbed the poker and stirred it in the grate distractedly.
Evelyn bit her cheek not to ask about the gift as she waited with feigned patience.
He put the poker back with the other fireplace tools and sat down.
At the look on her face, he stated quickly, “It really is nothing particularly remarkable. My grandmother gave it to me and I never understood why.” He adjusted the tails of his coat. “Although it may be somewhat inappropriate for me to give you such a token—”
“What about our relationship has been proper, Justin?” she interrupted.
“Rightly stated. I, well, you said that you intend to leave England.” It was a question, awaiting a rebuttal.
She opened her mouth but then closed it. She was beginning to have reservations about departing, but she knew that she had to follow her father’s instructions. England was not safe for her, and she had no future here. She slowly nodded.
“I, well, I am duty bound to stay. So it seems that our acquaintance is destined to be short-lived.” He clasped her hand in his. “But I hope that when you think back on our time together you will not hate me terribly.”
She frowned. “What an odd thing to say. I cannot imagine hating you at all, Justin. I think you are one of the most wonderful people I have had the pleasure of meeting. You are honest, and considerate, and valiant, and—”
“Stop, Evelyn.” He squeezed her hand, hard. “I told you, I am no hero, and it makes me uncomfortable when you set me up as such.”
She searched his grayish-green gaze, seeing his discomfort. “As you wish.”
He blew out a long breath of air. “Some would argue, and I cannot help but agree, that I am taking advantage of you….”
“My time with you is freely spent, and anything I give is freely given, Justin. It is the nineteenth century, for heaven’s sake. I can take care of myself and make decisions on my own.”
“Whatever the future holds for us,” he urged quietly, “well, I do want you to think well of me.” He sounded so dire and uncertain. He was feeling guilty about yesterday. Well, she would not. Her future was unsure, her legacy in jeopardy, she’d be truly damned if she did not enjoy some small pleasures in her inordinately chaotic life. Moreover, her friendship with Justin was turning out to be a blessing in her life; one she was going to relish now and cherish forever.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small folded cloth. He unwound the fabric and exposed a shiny gold ring with two clasped hands carved around the band.
“It was my great-grandmother’s. As my grandmother tells it, she loved a man deeply, but her parents disapproved of her choice. He was a poor merchant and deemed unsuited to her station. He left England to seek his fortune and to prove himself to my great-great-grandparents.” He lifted up the band and held it lightly between his fingers. The fire’s radiance danced across the gleaming gold. “The man gave this to my great-grandmother before he left, a token of his love and esteem. He wanted her to think fondly of him while they were apart.”
“Please tell me he returned as wealthy as Croesus and they married and he was your great-grandfather.”
“He was killed when his ship sank in a fierce hurricane in the Indies.”
She sighed. “It was too much to hope.”
He handed the ring to her. The hard metal was tiny in her hand, and she wondered if it would fit. “Your great-grandmother must have been petite.”
He nodded. “Like you.”
She hid her smile. She was not nearly as tiny as he assumed, but she was not about to correct his misimpression. She tried her middle finger first but could not get it past the knuckle. The pointer finger was just a smidgen too tight. It slid over her ring finger, and although it was a bit snug over the knuckle, it fit perfectly once on.
“Vein amoris,” she stated quietly.
“What?”
“The ancient Egyptians believed that the ring finger has the ‘vein amoris,’ the vein of love, which runs straight to the heart.” She looked up and smiled. “Are you certain you wish to part with this?”
“Most ladies of my acquaintance would not necessarily appreciate the significance of the thing. I thought, well, maybe you would.”
She traced her fingertip across the carving of the two clasped hands. “This pattern is what the ancient Romans used for wedding rings. For them the gold band symbolized everlasting love and commitment.” She covered it with her other hand and held it to her breast. “It means a lot to me, and I will cherish it always.”
He leaned forward and kissed her with such tenderness that her heart melted. He wrapped his arms around her as if she were a delicate flower. He loved her mouth with his tongue, sensually drawing out the pleasure of hundreds of kisses until they blended in one glorious asylum of pleasure.
For a fleeting moment she thought she ought to pull away, she ought not to be engaging in such wanton pleasure, but it quickly passed from her mind as he ran his hands down her chest and teased her breasts, raising the buds of her nipples until they were hard with wanting. All thoughts fled under the insistent devilment of his beguiling fingers.
She rocked her hips, pressing herself against the hard bulge of his manhood, telling him with her body what she was not quite ready to put into words. His kisses became less tender, more demanding. Suddenly he stood and wrenched off his coat and waistcoat. He leaned forward and kissed her hard, leaving her wanting more as he tugged off his cravat and shirt. She watched him with wide, hungry eyes. She had never seen a naked man before. Just like everything else about him, his body was beautiful. She reached up and skimmed her fingertips across his smooth abdomen. He sucked in his breath.
Reaching down, he slowly unfastened the many buttons of her dress. She had worn the front-clasping gown in the hopes that this very circumstance might happen here today. She was ready. Two and twenty, more than ready.
He parted the soft muslin and sat on his haunches. His eyes roved over her body hungrily, as her sheer shift left nothing to the imagination. He ran his hands over the soft silk and unclasped the stays. She sat up and pulled her arms free from the gown, and the shift fell in folds around her waist.
“You are so blessedly beautiful,” he breathed.
She smiled, feeling magnificent in his eyes. “You are like the statues in Italy, but not cold to the touch.” She ran her hands down his broad, muscled chest, and fine hairs tickled under her palms.
“Hotter than Hades, at the moment,” he breathed through his smile.
The hairs on his chest were sparse and brown and crept down his middle, ending abruptly at his breeches. Her curiosity overcame her trepidation, and this time she reached down and did touch the bulge that she understood was his swollen manhood. He groaned and closed his eyes as her fingertips traced his smooth, hot member.
It was fascinating. It was exciting.
It jumped under her touch.
She ripped her hand away. “It moved!”
He chuckled. “I would hope so.”
He lay down on top of her, and she sucked in her breath. The touch of his smooth, warm chest on her bare nipples made her tingle all over. His open lips pressed against hers, his tongue plunging in and out of her mouth playfully, enticingly. Her stomach fluttered with excitement as their skin rubbed erotically with every light movement. She was panting, her heart was racing, and she felt as if she were on fire. As he flicked hot, wet kisses on her neck she looked over at the hearth and noted that the wood had burned down to embers. It was not the fire creating this wondrous heat. It was Justin.
He kissed and lathed her nipples, kneading them gently, tracing his bewitching fingers all ove
r her stomach and chest. She arched her back and moaned with the sheer pleasure of it, but she wanted him down there, where he had been before. She spread her legs as demanding heat thrilled between her thighs, needing him. Wanting to know him as a woman knows a man.
As if heeding her wishes, he rained kisses down the curve of her belly. He sat on his haunches and lifted her petticoat. He traced his palms up her calves and undid her garters, slowly peeling off her stockings. Watching him undress her was so erotically tantalizing that it made her knees turn to jelly. Thank heavens she was already lying down.
He licked his lips and dove on her, trailing playfully ticklish kisses up her legs and settling himself quite comfortably between her thighs. Her face heated as she realized his focus. Well, it was what she wanted, but why did it suddenly feel so personal? He parted the rough hair between her thighs, and she tried to slam her legs closed. She was an enlightened woman and all, but having his face so close to there, well, that was just too much.
He shook his head, smiling. “I want to look at you.”
“Wh…what’s there to see?”
“You. You have no idea how beautiful you are to me.” He settled between her legs once more and spread the lips of her most private place. He stared down at her a moment, his eyes ablaze with burning passion. How fascinating; his desire apparently was heightened by what he saw. She tried to relax while adjusting to the odd sensation of cool air gracing across her hot flesh. He leaned forward and blew delicately.
Hot and cold shivers raced up her body from between her legs. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before. And it was not unpleasant at all. She let out a long breath, savoring the pleasure.
He pressed his lips to the hard nub between her legs and kissed her reverently. Her jaw dropped open; she was shocked to her toes. He set his open mouth against her hot, wet place and slowly began licking her in small, tight circles. She threw her head back and clutched at the edge of the sofa, hanging on for dear life.