by Louise Allen
She searched again, this time for Allington. The current duke was Charles, definitely too old to be Jack, and his mother was not Lady Amelia and had died years ago. Ah, there it was, married the second time to Lady Amelia, the previous duke had fathered two more children. Sebastian John Ryder Ravenhurst and Belinda Ravenhurst, now Lady Cambourn.
Jack, she seemed to recall from her days in England, was a familiar form of John. So, Jack was, in fact, Lord…Eva frowned in concentration as she worked out the proper form of address for the younger son of an English duke. Ah, yes, first names. Lord Sebastian, and his wife, rather strangely she had always thought, would be Lady Sebastian.
Only of course he did not have a wife. And he was, by all accounts, at odds with his family. No, that was not quite right. He had spoken with somewhat wry affection of his numerous relatives. It was his father he appeared to have had the strained relationship with. That, and his own position as an English aristocrat.
He was not living this adventurer’s life for lack of money, nor, from the way Wellington had spoken to him, because of any disgrace. He just seemed to enjoy it.
Her lover, she mused, was a lord. A duke’s son. A very respectable position for a lover, in fact. Only she did not care tuppence whether he was a lord or a labourer, she just loved him. And he was no longer her lover. He might come to her tonight, if it could be done without risk of scandal, but it would not be the same. Out there, anonymous fugitives, they had been free, simply Eva and Jack, with only Henry’s sniff of disapproval to remind them of what the real world would say.
Now, when she thought of him, looked at him, she had to guard her expression every second. When she was close to him she must be constantly vigilant in case she reached to touch him. When they were alone they were in peril every moment of being spied upon or overheard. In constant danger of having something that was heartfelt and honest and beautiful turned in to a squalid scandal for the gossip columns to hint and snigger at.
Eva closed the heavy volume and stood up, weighing it in her hands. Then she took it over to the bookcase it belonged in, pulling over the library steps so she could reach the shelf. It slid back easily into its rightful place, but she stayed where she was, seized with inertia.
They had been travelling to such purpose; now they had stopped, if only for a while, and it all seemed strange and purposeless. She had no control, she was simply the queen on the chessboard being moved about by invisible players. Should she even be here now—or should she be in Maubourg? What if Philippe had succumbed to his illness, or Antoine had made his way back? Or perhaps there was no one there in control. She wanted to be with Freddie so much it hurt, but the anxiety over what was the right thing to do nagged painfully.
‘What are you dreaming about?’ Jack was so close beside her that she jumped and almost overbalanced on the steps. He reached up his hands, and, heedless of all her mental warnings to herself, she let him lift her down, sliding down the length of his body, aware that he was finding that contact as instantly arousing as she was.
‘Those trousers are too snug for this sort of thing,’ she remarked, letting her eyes linger on the very visible evidence as she stepped away. ‘I was thinking about chess,’ she added.
‘Indeed. And you are quite right, I had best stay in here studying something dull while you remove yourself.’ He seemed serious under the flash of humour, turning to study the rows of books.
‘No…actually I was thinking that perhaps I should go back to Maubourg, now. What if Philippe has died? Or Antoine has got back there? What if King Louis discovers our troops came across the frontier and invades? The French would love an excuse.’
Jack turned slowly on his heel and regarded her. ‘Are you saying you want to turn round now and go all that way back, into God knows what and with Bonaparte still on the loose?’
‘I think perhaps I should.’ Eva found she was twisting her hands together in her skirt and made herself stop.
‘And your son?’
She shook her head, helplessly. ‘I know what I want, to be with him, but is it right? How can I tell what my duty is?’
‘To hell with your duty,’ Jack said explosively. ‘I do not know, and I do not care, about the Grand Duchy of Maubourg, but I do know what my duty is—and that is to get you back to England and reunite you with a small boy who needs his mother.’
‘Do you think that isn’t what I want?’ she demanded. ‘Do you think I want to meddle in politics rather than be with Freddie?’
‘I don’t know—do you?’
‘No! Oh, for goodness’ sake, can’t you see I love my son more than anything? But Maubourg is his inheritance.’
‘If he loses his mother, that is irretrievable. If something happens to the Duchy, then the Allies will sort it out.’
‘Possibly they will—some time, when all the big, important things have been done. Or they’ll find a good use for it and we’ll be helpless.’ Eva found she had marched down the room in a swirl of skirts and swung round, infuriated by Jack’s lack of understanding. ‘Jack, I think I should go back. I’ll write to Freddie, let him know I will join him as soon as I can.’
She paused, catching her breath on a sob as she thought of Freddie reading such a note, expecting Jack to answer with a solution that would make it all right, but he was silent, watching her. As she glared he folded his arms, casually, as though waiting for her tantrum to blow itself out.
‘Do not stand there like that!’ Goaded, Eva jabbed one long finger at him. ‘Say you’ll take me back’
‘And do not do that,’ Jack retorted, unmoving. ‘I am not your footman to be hectored. I will not take you back, and if you try to arrange it yourself I will take you back to England by force.’ For the first time she saw the full power of his anger turned on her. It was not in his voice, or his tone—both were calm and polite—but it was in his eyes, hard flint that were sparking fire.
‘Oh!’ Exasperated, frightened by what she read in those eyes, Eva acted without conscious intent. The flat of her hand swung for his right cheek, even as she realised what she was doing and that Jack had not even troubled to move to avoid the blow. His hand came up with almost insulting ease and caught her wrist and they stared at each other, so close that the angry rise and fall of her breasts almost touched his shirt front.
Then both her wrists were held tight, she was pulled against his chest, and, as he had in that field above Hougoumont, he punished her with a kiss. But then, as she had known full well at the time, it was a reaction to his fear for her safety, a plea to her to obey and stay safe. This, she realised with the part of her mind that was still capable of rational thought, was pure temper and her own rose to meet it.
Her fingers flexed into claws in his grip, her body arched against his, struggling to be free, yet wantonly provoking his reaction. Her lips opened under the assault of his and his tongue claimed her, thrusting arrogantly in a quite blatant demonstration of intent. Everything in her responded, love and fury and anxiety mingling into molten heat that pooled in her belly, driving her almost wild with desire.
Eva jerked both wrists down, surprising Jack just enough to free herself, then she had fastened her arms around his neck and was kissing him back with all the passion she was capable of, her body burning against his, her hips urging her tight into the hard, aroused masculinity she craved. She rocked, rubbing herself against him in blatant invitation until she was rewarded by the sound of his growl, low in his throat.
Somehow he had pushed her against the bookshelves; hard leather spines pressed into her shoulders and buttocks as his knee worked between her thighs, opening her as flagrantly as if she was wearing not a stitch. And still, neither could break the kiss, the furious, all-devouring, heated exchange that threatened to topple her into utter abandon.
What would have happened if there had not been the knock on the door Eva had no idea. Possibly they would have stripped each other naked and made angry, brazen, heated love on the library’s rich Turkey carpet.
/> She wrenched herself away, her hands flying to her hair, her décolletage, her skirts. ‘Get out,’ she hissed. ‘Just get out!’ Without a second glance at Jack she ran across to the pair of globes which stood by the desk, turned her back on the door and called, ‘Come in!’
‘Ma’am, Mr Catterick wondered if you would care to join him for tea?’ It was the butler. Eva looked back over her shoulder. Jack was apparently engrossed in a vast folio of maps on a stand that effectively hid whatever state of dishevelment he was in.
‘Certainly. Please tell Mr Catterick I will join him in a few moments.’
‘Ma’am. And Mr Ryder?’
‘I am going out, I have arrangements to make,’ Jack said curtly. ‘I will be back for dinner.’ He looked directly at Eva. ‘Henry will remain here.’ It was a warning not to try to leave.
‘Certainly, sir.’ The butler bowed himself out. Eva stepped across to the over-mantel mirror and surveyed her flushed face and wide eyes. At least the day was becoming uncomfortably hot, that at least might be taken as some excuse.
Grand Duchesses, she reminded herself desperately, do not plump down in the middle of the floor in the library and burst into tears of frustration, they get themselves under control and make small talk over the teacups. She gathered her skirts and swept out without so much as glance towards the atlases. She had foreseen this affaire ending in heartbreak—she had not expected it to fizzle out amidst bad temper and macaroons in a Brussels merchant’s house.
Chapter Eighteen
Eva could not recall shedding a tear since the day Louis bore Freddie off to school in England, leaving her frantically weeping in the schoolroom, his slate clutched in her hands. Weeping was undisciplined, an unseemly weakness she had learned to do without.
Now, in her bed, the maids finally departed, a single candle on the nightstand, she leaned her head back on the pillows and let the tears trickle down her cheeks. From the street came the hubbub of laughter and shouts and cheering. The news had been coming in since about half past eight that the French were beaten. The early rumours became hard fact, as more and more messengers arrived. The Prussians were pressing hard from the east, the Foot Guards were advancing and then the French were in full retreat, the Old Guard alone standing firm to the last to allow the Emperor to escape the field.
Dinner had become a celebration of toasts, of speculation, of vast relief. She tried to tell herself Maubourg would be safe now, whatever fate had befallen her brothers-in-law. Someone was going to have to explain to King Louis XVIII why his neutral neighbour had invaded with a small troop of men, but at least the monarch had more pressing things on his mind just now.
And throughout the meal Jack had been distant, correct, formal. It was exactly how he should have been of course, and she thought her heart was breaking. Would he have been like this anyway, once they reached Brussels, or had her attack of nerves and indecision, her demands, alienated him?
She scrubbed at her cheeks, angry at herself for being so weak. There was so much to be happy about. Jack had at least taken the choice away from her, she must do what she wanted so passionately to do. In a few days she would see Freddie, hold her son in her arms. She could get news of the Duchy, hopefully of Philippe’s recovery, Europe was saved from more years of war…and all she could think about was Jack’s face, the feel of his mouth, hot and angry on hers, the knowledge that something magical had gone for ever.
The clocks began to strike, past one. The noise in the streets was dying down, or perhaps people were moving to the Grand Place to celebrate. Wearily Eva blew out the candle and closed her eyes. Tomorrow they would be travelling again; she had to get some sleep.
She opened her eyes on to pitch darkness, to chill, musty air, to a sense that the walls were closing in around her. Then she knew where she was: in the tomb, in the vaults. The terror coursed through her; she threw up her hands, desperately pushing against the unyielding stone. It did not move one inch.
Defeated, quivering with fear, she fell back, feeling the grave clothes shifting around her, her unbound hair slipping about her shoulders. Into the silence, broken only by her rasping breath, came the sound of the stone gritting above her. Louis. Louis had come for her. Somewhere, glinting in the black fog of panic, she glimpsed another thought and grasped it. Jack. Not Louis, Jack. He had said it would be him who would come, he had promised to rescue her. The stone lid slid further, she saw fingers gripping it as light flooded in.
‘Jack!’ He smiled down at her, reassurance, strength. ‘You came.’
Without speaking, he reached in and lifted her against his chest and she buried her face in his shoulder so as not to see as he carried her back through the vaults, past the tombs, out to the stairs and the air and freedom. With a sigh Eva closed her eyes against the white linen of his shirt and let herself drift into peace.
When she opened her eyes again there was a candle burning on the night stand, her cheek was pressed to damp white linen and she was held against a warm, male body. ‘Jack?’ Disorientated, Eva twisted so she could look up at him. ‘I was sleeping—dreaming. I had that nightmare, but you came into it, just as you promised. But that was a dream.’ What was he doing here? He was angry with her, yet here he was, cradling her in his arms.
Jack looked down into the sleep-soft eyes and felt a wave of tenderness swamp every other confused emotion he had brought with him into her bedchamber. When he had curled up on the bed next to her he had kissed her cheek and tasted salt. He had made her cry.
He loved her, nothing could change that; he feared nothing ever would. There was a puzzled furrow between her brows and he bent his head to kiss it away. ‘Don’t frown. I came to say sorry. You were asleep, so I stayed.’
‘But…’
‘Your reputation is quite safe. Everyone thinks we are being somewhat over-protective of you, given that the battle has been won, but Henry is asleep in an armchair on the landing and I, as you will have realised, am sitting in your dressing room with a shotgun.’
That made Eva laugh, as he hoped it would. ‘That was not what I meant.’ She wriggled out of his arms and sat up, half-turned so she could watch him. ‘I should apologise, not you; I was foolish to waver now, when I had agreed to go to England, and I did not mean to try to make you go against your orders. To hector you.’ Jack grimaced. Was that what he had said to her?
‘You weren’t. I was angry and I overreacted.’ How to explain, when he hardly understood the violence of his reaction himself? This was probably all to do with falling in love, against all sense and reason. No wonder he did not understand himself any more. Eva was waiting; that damned furrow was back again, making him feel guilty for upsetting her. Hell, he never felt guilty!
‘The thought of you in danger makes me afraid,’ he admitted at last. ‘I am not used to being afraid, it makes me irritable.’
She wrinkled her nose in what he could see was an effort not to laugh at him. ‘Irritable? Is that what you call it?’ Those frank brown eyes were looking so deep inside him he was afraid she could see his love for her written there. ‘Are you truly never afraid? Isn’t that rather dangerous?’
‘Yes. I am. Of course I am, often. I meant afraid for someone else, afraid and not able to do anything about it.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Her face lit up. ‘You mean, like I am afraid for Freddie? I try and be brave for myself, but even if it is irrational, I worry so about him. But…he is my son. I love him.’ That little furrow of puzzlement was back as she looked at him, her head tipped slightly to one side
It was almost a question. Almost the question. He could answer it truthfully, and have her turn away, embarrassed by such an inappropriate declaration, or he could think damn fast, and learn not to get into intimate conversations about feelings in the small hours.
‘I get like that about clients,’ Jack said lightly. ‘Very protective.’
‘Oh.’ The puzzlement had gone, replaced by a slight haughtiness. ‘And you become the lover of many of them?’
‘What?’ she demanded, bristling.
‘One or two,’ Jack admitted, knowing he was burning his boats. But this liaison, which was all it could ever be for her, had to end soon and it was best a line was drawn under it.
‘I see. You mean, I am the latest in a long line?’
‘Eva, I never pretended to be a virgin,’ Jack began, feeling the conversation slipping wildly out of control. Then she buried her face in her hands and her shoulders began to quiver and it was as though he could feel the salt of her tears in his mouth all over again. ‘Hell! Eva, sweet, don’t cry. I didn’t mean that. There isn’t a long line, just a…Damn it, I’m not a saint.’
The quivering got worse, then she looked up, her eyes brimming with tears. Of laughter. ‘Pretending to be a virgin?’ she gurgled. ‘You know, Jack, I don’t think you would have deceived me for a moment.’ She rubbed the sleeve of her nightgown over her eyes. ‘Don’t worry, I am not such a hypocrite that I expected you to have been saving yourself for me. In fact,’ she added, a decidedly wicked twinkle in her eyes, ‘I’m glad you didn’t.’
Jack reached for her. ‘Get back under the covers and go to sleep. It is late and tomorrow we are going to Ostend. I want you on a ship before half the English army decides to head home.’
‘Won’t you stay?’ Something of his feelings must have shown, for she added hastily, ‘I mean just sleep.’
‘While you drop off, then,’ he said, resigning himself to the bittersweet pain of having her so close, perhaps for the last time.
‘That’s what I used to say to Freddie,’ she murmured, wriggling down between the sheets, then turning on her side so she could wrap an arm across his chest.
‘I’m not singing you a lullaby.’
‘No?’ She sounded almost asleep already.
‘No.’ Jack settled her more comfortably against his chest and lay back. He had never understood the need women seemed to have for cuddling, until now. You made love and then you slept, he had thought. But now, as always with Eva relaxed in his embrace, he felt a calm soaking into his bones, despite the lurking knowledge that he might never experience this again. This was love, damn it. Love.