He tried to remember a woman he desired with the intensity he felt for Evelyn, but it simply hadn’t happened. The idea did nothing to soothe his rage. There had to be a reason why he wanted her so badly. He leaned against an iron railing and considered.
Perhaps it was the mystery that surrounded Evelyn, and his own disguise, that added spice to the situation.
Or was it the lady herself? She had made it clear enough that she wanted him as well, but Evelyn Renshaw would never act on her desire for a mere footman.
That was a good thing—if he was her lover, he’d want to protect her from Westlake, not entrap her for the wily earl. It wouldn’t matter if she was guilty or not, and that was treason of the most foolish kind.
“You there!” someone called, and Sinjon turned to find a sour-faced butler glaring at him from the doorway of the house he was standing in front of. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Is this no longer a free country?” Sinjon demanded. If the man wanted to fight, then he would happily oblige. It would feel good to punch someone.
“Are you here to see Countess Lucy or Lord Frayne?” the man demanded, and Sinjon looked up and realized he was loitering in front of Frayne House. “If you have a note, I’ll take it now, but next time use the back door.”
Sinjon could imagine the kind of a billet doux Lucy received—invitations to secret assignations filled with saucy innuendos and wicked suggestions.
The kind of letters Evelyn would soon be receiving from her own lover.
He gritted his teeth and cursed Evelyn’s sisters again. He felt helpless, and that was a feeling he’d endured long enough.
“No, there’s no note, just a message. Tell Countess Lucy that the gentleman in possession of her locket wishes to return it at her earliest convenience.”
There. That should give Lewd Lucy something to worry about other than Evelyn’s love life. Let her look over her shoulder, and wonder if Philip was coming for her.
The butler frowned. “But what does it mean? Who is the message from?”
“She’ll know,” Sinjon said, and walked on.
De Courcey House was only a few blocks farther on. He wondered exactly what he was going to say when he confronted Westlake.
He could hardly tell him he was giving up his post because he desired Evelyn Renshaw.
Nor could he punch that superior expression off the earl’s face and tell him he did not appreciate Marianne playing procurer for his older brother.
Westlake would laugh, if he was capable of such a thing, and then he’d snap his fingers and the burly sailors would drag him to the closest gallows.
He stared up at the magnificent facade of the earl’s London home. It glared back, warning him away.
He wished his jealousy and resentment were enough to topple the elegant granite columns that flanked the front door. As a servant, he wasn’t worthy to walk through that door. But bloody William could, as an earl’s son.
The thought struck him like a body blow. If he was standing here as Sinjon instead of Sam, as a nobleman’s son, a gentleman with an army commission, a hero instead of an outlaw, then it would be his name, not William’s, that topped the damned lover’s list. Under his false footman’s livery, his pedigree was as good as Evelyn’s, his blood every bit as blue.
And he knew Evelyn would choose him over William, heir to an earldom, or even above Lord Downing and his eastern techniques. It put a smile on his face.
Then he remembered how she’d turned to flame in his arms, and groaned, wishing he hadn’t thought of it at all.
There was no place to hide, not from Westlake, and not from his own desires.
An hour later he was back at Renshaw House, and this time he entered through the front door.
Chapter 21
“Would you send Sam to me?” Evelyn asked Starling. He looked at her sharply, and she felt herself blush. Did he know?
“Is it about his absence yesterday afternoon, my lady? I hope you won’t be too harsh with him. He was only gone for a few hours, and he did explain that it was just to return a glove that Countess Westlake had dropped as she got into her coach,” he said.
Of course Sam had walked all the way to De Courcey House to return a lost glove. It was chivalrous, and one of the qualities she liked best about him. He’d probably taken a few moments to slay a dragon threatening a damsel in Grosvenor Square on his way back.
“I simply wished to thank him on the countess’s behalf,” she lied, and to her relief, Starling beamed.
“I’m sure he’ll be delighted.”
Would he? Evelyn had no intention of thanking Sam. She wanted to see him for another reason entirely.
Her sisters were right. She needed a lover.
But not Lord Downing, or Elkins, or Creighton.
She wanted Sam.
Gentlemen took mistresses all time, women from outside their own class. Why couldn’t she?
She’d spent the night pacing, thinking her decision through, considering how to word her unusual request.
It was past midnight when she gathered the courage to creep downstairs to his room. She thought it might be easier in the dark, when he couldn’t see her face. But Starling slept in the room next to Sam’s, and Mrs. Cooper was nearby as well. She lost her nerve at the top of the kitchen steps and retreated back upstairs, unsure all over again.
It should have ended there, but she wanted this man.
She’d spent her life as a moral, dignified, socially upstanding lady, an earl’s daughter, a baron’s wife. She’d avoided untidy emotions, sidestepped pain and longing and loneliness. She’d refused to be tempted by desires of any kind. And what had proper behavior gained her? A husband who detested her, and the scorn of society.
In the dark, her feelings for Sam had rushed in on her, left her breathless with longing. It was becoming impossible to hide her desires.
Now, in the soft light of day, primly dressed as usual, sipping tea, she was a bundle of nerves. Any moment Sam would answer her summons. She was eager to see him, and dreading the encounter.
She had decided to meet with him in the library, a formal, dignified room, though her request was born of unruly, desperate passion. It was the kind of interview that should take place in the dark, a whispered request in his ear, just before— She swallowed.
She’d practiced what she would say. “I want you to be my lover” made her blush when she said it aloud. “I would like you to take on a new duty” was too cold.
Perhaps she’d look him straight in the eye and inform him, “Lords take mistresses all the time. Why shouldn’t a lady have her pleasures?” She bit her lip. Too forward.
What if he laughed, or refused, or both? She didn’t think she could stand the humiliation of that. She crumbled a shortbread biscuit between nervous fingers.
She had to try. Sam had awakened a hunger in her that she’d not even known she was capable of. Not just a hunger—a realization that she was starving.
Should she offer him extra pay? She squirmed. That was the most mortifying thought of all. Still, there had to be rules.
She would insist he keep their liaison secret. Wagging tongues all over London were still speculating about the identity of the lady in the footman’s arms. If the ton’s gossips saw Sam, there wasn’t a woman among them who wouldn’t understand her infatuation.
She sighed, and absently poured more tea. The amber liquid flowed over the rim and swam across the desk. Evelyn leapt to her feet and dabbed at the mess with a napkin.
She had already decided where they would meet for their trysts. Charlotte’s maid had moved into the attic bedroom above her rooms, serving as chaperone and guard dog, and she snored like one. With such a dreadful noise coming through the ceiling, who’d blame her for taking refuge in the spare bedroom at the opposite end of the hall? It would explain the rumpled sheets when Sal discovered the bed had been slept in.
That bedroom was the most private room in the house. Sam could slip up the back stai
rs and— Evelyn drew a shaky breath as a cascade of shivers raced through her. Distracted, she wrung the sodden napkin back into the cup and took a sip.
How would it feel to lie in the dark and wait for him, anticipating his arrival, yearning for his hands on her body?
She’d dreaded Philip’s footsteps outside her door. She had learned to shut her mind, to think of other things until he finished. She bit her lip. What if it was like that with Sam, a cold, unfeeling duty?
She raised her chin and smiled. If he wasn’t to her liking she would simply end the affair and send him away.
The knock on the door made her jump.
Should she be sitting or standing when he entered?
She sat.
Then she got to her feet.
She moved to stand behind the settee, facing the door.
“Come,” she croaked, and cleared the frog from her throat.
Her breath caught as he entered the room. He filled the space, just like he had that first day. He looked solemn now, not roguish or teasing. His expression was closed, unreadable.
She swallowed. Perhaps he was indeed expecting a reprimand for his absence. She stifled a hysterical giggle. He was in for a shock, then, wasn’t he? She clasped her hands together in front of her. He put his behind his back and stood at attention, like a soldier.
Her soldier. Her lover.
The frog leapt back into her gullet.
“You wished to see me, my lady?” he asked as the silence stretched, and his deep voice rumbled over every nerve in her body. Oh, where was her legendary calm now?
“Yes,” she said, and hesitated. Should she invite him to sit? It wasn’t usual, but given the nature of this conversation, perhaps she should.
She decided against it, afraid he would refuse, and it would lead him to refuse everything she asked. What if he did say no? Or was angry at her audacity?
“I trust you are well?’ she said, stalling.
“Of course,” he said.
She ran her eyes over him. Surely no other soldier, no footman, no gentleman, was as handsome as Sam Carr. He was tall, his legs so long, so deliciously lean in the tight breeches of his livery. Those powerful legs would be wrapped around her as he made love to her, his fingers exploring and caressing every inch of her. She drew a ragged breath, tried to concentrate. He was watching her soberly, with no idea what wicked thoughts were rushing through her mind.
Everything about him exuded confidence. He made her feel safe, sure he could handle any problem, overcome any setback, rescue her from any peril, and make her tingle as she thanked him.
Would she thank him, after? Should she, given the nature of the arrangement?
She realized he was still waiting for her to speak, to say something sensible and succinct, to tell him what she wanted.
Her throat closed again. She put a hand to her collar, as if she could squeeze the words out.
“I wished to ask, that is, I hoped you would consider—” She took a deep breath and let it out along with the words, “There’s an extra service I wish you to perform.”
Something sparked in those clear gray eyes of his. Interest, perhaps, or humor. “Would this be on top of my usual duties?” he asked.
The way he said “on top” made her quiver.
“Um, yes. It is a service of a personal nature, but it’s not necessarily a duty, or a dull job,” she babbled, and stopped. What if it was dull to him?
She watched his eyebrows rise at her hesitation. The faint shadow of the dimple on his cheek appeared, as if he was suppressing a smile. Did he know what she meant, what she wanted?
It would make it so much easier if she didn’t have to say the words.
Be my lover, my bedmate. Take me!
She waited for him to give a clearer indication that he understood, but he remained silent, his expression enigmatic, smug. She felt a rush of frustration. How on earth did men like Frayne or Somerson arrange amours with the females they seduced?
Did they simply pounce on them? She came out from behind the settee and took a step toward Sam, hoping he would make the first pounce, but he stayed where he was, still standing at attention. At least he was looking at her, his eyes fixed on hers. She couldn’t look away.
“I want, that is, I—” Again she hesitated, and fought with the frog. Sam was watching her expectantly. “I want to thank you for returning Countess Westlake’s glove to her,” the frog croaked, obviously realizing she had lost her nerve.
He smiled, and tilted his head in disbelief. “Truly? Is that what you wished to see me about? Returning a glove hardly qualifies as a service of a personal nature.”
She felt her skin heat. “No, perhaps not, but you were kind to do so, and—” She sighed, and looked away. She could not look at him without wanting to kiss him. “About the night of the ball . . .” she started again.
“Are you worried I won’t be discreet about what happened between us?” he asked, and her eyes shot to his, read the knowing look, the memory of the intimacy they’d shared in the coach.
“I wasn’t thinking that at all!” she protested, then hesitated. “You are discreet, aren’t you? I mean you will be discreet about . . . ?” She let her voice trail off, and realized she was making a mess of everything.
“A footman could dine out for a month on a tale like that,” he drawled. “If, of course, anyone cared to invite a mere servant to dinner.”
“Dinner?” she parroted.
“Yes,” he said, taking a step toward her. “Footmen eat.” He took another step. “We sleep. We even—” He was toe-to-toe with her now, and she had to tip her head back to hold his gaze. She felt dizzy, and her body burned. She clenched her hands against her skirts to keep from touching him.
“Kiss?” she finished breathlessly, hopefully.
For a long moment he stood very still, staring down at her, his jaw tight, his own arms at his sides, a frown pleating the tanned skin between his brows, as if he were calculating a complex problem in his head.
She waited for his mouth to descend on hers. It seemed to take forever for him to decide.
Finally, he swore softly, and she was in his arms, with her own wrapped around his neck. She knocked off his wig as she stood on her toes, trying to get closer, to devour him. He’d taught her well in the coach, and she opened her mouth at once this time, wanting the taste of him, needing him to ease the hunger.
He broke the kiss far too soon. “Evelyn,” he murmured, nuzzling her ear, and she sighed with frustration, tried to capture his mouth again, but he reached up, gently unwound her arms from his neck and stepped back.
“Yes,” he growled.
“Yes?” she asked.
“I’ll be your lover.”
She stared at him in surprise, unable to reply. He looked amused as he reached out to brush a lock of her hair out of her eyes.
“You will?” she breathed.
“Isn’t that what you were going to ask?”
She felt her stomach clench. Her first instinct, the ladylike, dignified part of her, urged her to deny it. But every womanly, feminine fiber of her body refused to give him up. She managed to nod, not trusting her voice.
He gave her a wicked, seductive smile, the understanding clear in his eyes at last, along with the flattering gleam of desire for her.
Her heart flipped in her chest.
“You will,” she sighed, and reached for him, but he shook his head, stepped out of reach.
“Not here.”
“What?” she asked, not understanding. She was on fire, and wanted him to fuel the blaze, not put it out.
“You asked me to be discreet, didn’t you? It’s hardly discreet to make love on the settee in the middle of the day,” he said.
She shut her eyes. He was right, of course. She should have thought of that herself. Anyone might walk in. Starling, or Charlotte, or Eloisa.
She raised her chin, striving for a little of her usual dignity. “Tonight, then,” she said, giving it an edge of comm
and.
He folded his arms, leaned back against the table, completely at his ease. “If we do this, Evelyn, then I have some rules.”
Her stomach knotted. Now he would ask for money.
“In this room, in the dining room, in the coach, I am your servant.” His eyes heated, and she felt her own temperature rise in response. “In bed, we are equals. Do you agree?”
She hadn’t thought of that. Had she intended or expected anything else? She didn’t know. She had no idea what to expect. She had not been Philip’s equal in bed. “Yes,” she said.
“And I insist that our arrangement is exclusive for the duration of our time together.”
“Exclusive?” she asked.
He stepped toward her, grasped her shoulders, his eyes smoldering coals that burned into hers. “I don’t care about the list your sisters compiled, or whose name is on it. While we are together, until one of us decides that it’s over, I will be the only man sharing your bed, is that clear?”
A flare of anger filled her. “Do you honestly believe I do this often?”
He didn’t reply.
She felt her skin flush. He did not know her well enough to say, but surely his suspicion was more embarrassing than being asked for money, or being refused outright. A protest formed on her lips, denial that she would ever— She swallowed it. Her husband was still alive, and this was adultery, and a forbidden liaison between a lady and her servant.
“Exclusive,” she murmured in agreement.
He put a hand under her chin and kissed her forehead gently before he stepped away again. She felt the tingle between her eyes. It shot to her knees, stopping to torment every inch in between.
He bent and picked up his wig, replacing it on his head as he moved toward the door. She stood where she was, watching him, her legs shaking.
He turned and bowed.
“Until tonight, my lady,” he said formally, her footman again.
When he was gone, Evelyn sank onto the settee and brushed a hand over her mouth.
She’d done it. She’d gotten her heart’s desire for the first time in her life. It was an incredible feeling, a mixture of anticipation, power, and happiness. She bit her lip. And trepidation. And doubt.
The Price of Temptation Page 14