The possibilities began to have merit. He didn’t have to care about her. He wouldn’t care about her.
But he could damn well make use of her.
Chapter 3
Evelyn had never been quick to temper. But Geoffrey was testing her patience beyond all measure. In spite of her protests, he’d dragged her up the stairs and locked her in her bedchamber again. She’d wanted to tell that Rafe fellow that he was impossibly rude. Why would he say such a horrid thing? Why would he deliberately attempt to make her feel as though she was nothing?
Sitting at the window, she gazed out on the garden and wondered if the gentlemen were still at the residence. She contemplated tearing off strips of her sheets and fashioning a rope so she could climb out the window. She would march into the library, confront Rafe, and … say what exactly?
That he was the most refreshingly honest man there?
That was the thing of it. The other gents had been so … oddly behaving. Of course, having never attended any sort of formal—or informal for that matter—affair where lords were attempting to impress a lady, she wasn’t quite certain how they should behave, but she’d thought they’d be more complimentary, more flirtatious, would seek to engage her mind. Instead, it seemed as though they expected her to compliment them, to shower them with praises, to make them feel good about themselves.
All except Rafe. It was as though he couldn’t be bothered with her at all. Perhaps he wasn’t there looking for a wife. He’d certainly made no effort to approach her. Maybe he was simply Geoffrey’s friend, and he’d been in attendance for some other reason.
But if that were the case, why had she felt his gaze on her from the moment she’d walked into the room? It had unsettled her, knowing he was watching as she introduced herself to one man and then another. Was he judging her, considering her, intrigued by her?
She couldn’t tell. What she did know was that he was the handsomest devil she’d ever clapped eyes on. His hair, black as midnight, was unfashionably long, but it framed his face and made his pale blue eyes more noticeable. They reminded her of a frozen lake she’d once walked across as a child. The water that had appeared so blue in summer had seemed faded when peered through a shield of ice. Standing on the frigid banks, she’d shivered, just as she shivered standing before Rafe tonight.
She saw no softness in his features, no gentleness in his manners. She was rather glad she’d not appealed to him. She didn’t want him sending her flowers or reading her poetry or taking her on walks through the park.
Although if she was quite honest with herself, she wasn’t certain that she wanted those considerations from any of the gentlemen she’d met tonight. They’d made her feel as though she were a prized mare they were contemplating purchasing rather than a woman that they wished to woo to the altar.
Perhaps that was how courtship began. She felt so uneducated in that regard. She had not attended a girls’ preparatory school, but had been tutored. Her only friends had been her father and a few of the younger maids. She was familiar with so little of the world beyond the walls of the residence. She knew only that her father had taken great pains to protect her from it, even as he’d sought to prepare her for it with various lessons in etiquette and proper comportment. She understood everything in theory, and so little in practice. She didn’t want to find fault with him, but she did wish he’d seen her settled before he died.
She suspected Geoffrey would see her married to the first man who offered for her hand, rather than determining if he was the man who would make her the most happy.
But then happiness was relative. Being released from this room would bring a great deal of happiness, even if it involved marriage to a man she barely knew.
With a sigh she set her elbow on the windowsill, her chin on her palm, and tried to run through her mind the faces of all the other gentlemen, but each one morphed into someone with coal black hair and ice-blue eyes.
Late the following afternoon, freed from her lovely prison, Evelyn couldn’t recall a single time when she’d ridden in a carriage with Geoffrey. It was odd to have him sitting across from her, staring out the window at the darkening skies. It would no doubt be raining by nightfall. The air felt heavy and damp, as though it were simply waiting to unburden itself. She didn’t even know where they were going, although she recognized the area as they’d not yet traveled far from their residence.
When he’d come to her room and commanded she ready herself for a ride, she’d almost told him to go to the devil. He’d left her to languish all night, wondering if any of the gentlemen had hinted at an interest in her. But she’d been too desperate to leave the residence to chance upsetting him by revealing that she was out of sorts with his behavior and lack of regard for her feelings. So she’d simply donned a black walking dress, matching pelisse, and hat. She hated appearing so docile as to give the impression that she was someone upon whom he could wipe his muddy boots, but the truth was she had so few options.
She had no money to speak of. She supposed she could sell the jewelry her father had given her, but she didn’t know its value or how far it might take her. She was beginning to realize that her father, bless his soul, had done her a disservice in not preparing her adequately for his departure, in making her dependent upon Geoffrey’s kindnesses—of which he appeared to possess so very few.
Wondering how to properly broach the subject of last night’s endeavors, she quietly cleared her throat before taking a stab at it. “Were your friends adequately amused last night?”
Geoffrey’s jaw tightened, his gray eyes narrowed, and she suspected he looked frightening to anyone who caught sight of his features as the carriage rolled along. “Yes.”
Yes? That was it? She wanted to reach across, pinch his nose, and order him to expand on his answer. She squeezed her hands together. “Did anyone in particular express any sort of interest in me?”
“Rafe Easton. We’re off to his residence now.”
So his last name was Easton, was it? Not that it meant anything to her. Why had he been so mysterious about it? “Oh?”
Geoffrey looked at her then. Did she actually see regret in his eyes?
“Is he a good friend then?” she asked.
“He’s not a friend at all. He owns a gambling establishment. I am in his debt.”
“I see.” Only she didn’t. Marrying a gambling den owner would be far worse than marrying a merchant. As a matter of fact, it would be quite scandalous. She was surprised he was allowed entry into polite circles. “He mentioned that he wasn’t titled.”
“He’s the third son of a duke, although he rarely acknowledges it.”
“So he’s a lord,” she murmured. She supposed that explained his presence the night before.
“He doesn’t fancy being addressed as such. You should probably simply call him ‘Mr. Easton.’ At least until he informs you differently.”
It still made no sense. If the man had been resting in a casket, he couldn’t have expressed less interest in her than he did last night. So why would he wish to spend more time with her? “It’s a bit early to be dining. Will we be going for a walk about the park? Will this be the start of his official wooing of me?”
Geoffrey squinted, blinked, squinted again as though his mind were stuttering along, unable to process the words she’d spoken. He returned his gaze to window. “I doubt he has plans to woo you.”
“Then I don’t understand why we’re going to pay him a call.”
“You’ll … see after things for him.”
What a strange turn in the conversation. And then it dawned on her—
“You mean I have been employed to manage his household?”
“I am not certain exactly what your duties will entail, but you will see to his needs.”
Why didn’t he look at her? Why didn’t he meet her gaze? Why was he being so blasted mysterious regarding her purpose? Was he embarrassed that he had found her employment rather than a husband—that his own place in Society had not a
llowed him to do more for her? She didn’t wish him to feel as though he had failed in his promise to her father, but still this was rather odd going.
The carriage turned onto a cobblestone drive. In spite of her best intentions, she leaned over and peered out the window. A grand residence, larger than Geoffrey’s, loomed before them. She could not help but be impressed. “He must be incredibly wealthy to live in a place such as this.”
“Embarrassingly so.”
She heard the resentment then, the anger. Geoffrey had said he owed him. Was she to work for Rafe Easton as a way to pay off her brother’s debts? Surely this arrangement would be only temporary, until someone spoke for her. “How long will I work here?”
“As long as he wants you.”
The carriage rattled to a stop. A footman opened the door. Geoffrey leapt out as though his seat had suddenly caught fire. The servant handed her down.
“Geoffrey, I’m not quite sure I understand.”
“It’ll all be explained. Come along.” He dashed up the wide sweeping steps.
She contemplated climbing back into the carriage, but if she were being paid for her services, she might have the means to see after herself until she could find a proper husband. She supposed the least she could do was listen to the terms of the arrangement. Lifting her skirts, she walked up the stairs. At the beginning and end of them sat the most hideous stone gargoyles. They seemed to fit their owner. Based upon her limited interaction with him, she couldn’t imagine him suffering through cherubs dancing about.
As soon as she reached the top, where Geoffrey waited, a butler opened the door and she glided through, aware of Geoffrey following in her wake. The inside was even more impressive, with frescoed ceilings, exquisite artwork, and statuary standing about. But she saw nothing personal. No portraits. All the paintings were landscapes: stormy seas and dark forests. Everything was arranged perfectly, too perfectly, as though it was all for show.
“Miss Evelyn Chambers to see Mr. Rafe Easton,” Geoffrey said. “She’s expected.”
“Yes, my lord, as I am well aware, but regretfully the master is not yet home. However, I have been instructed to see to Miss Chambers’s comforts until he arrives. Miss, if you’ll follow me to the parlor?”
She’d taken a mere half-dozen steps when she realized that Geoffrey was not accompanying her. Turning to face him, she asked, “Geoffrey, are you not coming?”
“No.”
“You’re leaving me here?”
“Yes.”
“But you’ll be returning for me?”
“Easton will explain everything.” With that, he placed his hat on his head, spun on his heel, and walked out the front door.
When she took a step forward to follow and question his odd behavior further, the butler gently touched her arm. “It’ll be all right, miss.”
He was not terribly old, somewhere in his thirties, she suspected. He had dark hair and kind brown eyes. His clothing, like everything that surrounded them, was immaculate.
“I fear Geoffrey has told me very little. I understand that I’m to manage the household.”
“I have no doubt that all the servants will heed your wishes.”
“What is your name?”
“I am known as Laurence.” He bowed slightly, extended his hand. “Please allow me to escort you to the parlor.”
She gave a brisk nod and followed a half step behind him. “How many servants are there?”
“Twenty-five.”
They walked into a room of burgundy and dark paneling. It seemed Rafe Easton was not one for cheery colors. A large globe rested on a pedestal in a far corner. A low fire burned in the hearth. Suddenly chilled, she went to it and extended her gloved palms toward the small dancing flames.
“May I take your cloak?” Laurence asked.
She rubbed her warmed hands up and down her arms. “No, not yet, thank you.”
“I shall have tea and biscuits brought.”
“Thank you.” She turned, wishing she didn’t feel so unsettled. “When will Mr. Easton return home?”
“I’m sorry, miss, but that I cannot say.”
He left her then, and for reasons she couldn’t explain, she wished she was still locked in her bedchamber. It suddenly seemed a far safer, more comforting alternative.
Lord Tristan Easton stood in the open doorway that led into his brother’s office at the gambling hell. He couldn’t recall ever seeing the door closed. At his desk, his brother poured diligently over his ledgers, his dark head bent in concentration, just as he’d been the first time that Tristan had seen him after twelve long years of separation. Rafe’s giant of a man had been waiting at the abbey ruins and he’d brought Tristan here, to this very doorway.
His grip tightening on the large package he held, Tristan shifted his gaze to the shelves on the far wall where Rafe kept his assemblage of assorted globes. He’d once told Tristan he collected them because they gave him hope of there being a place better than where he was. Tristan was saddened to see that his brother had acquired a new one. After Rafe had helped him right a wrong he’d done to Anne before she became his wife—when he had no expectation of her ever becoming his wife—he had thought they might be on their way to closing this rift between them. But it seemed his hope was as pointless as Rafe’s.
“I hear you’ve taken a mistress.”
Rafe jerked up his head, his eyes—the same crystal blue as Tristan’s—hard, his mouth set in a thin line. “I’ve not seen you in months and that’s how you greet me?”
Tristan almost blurted that turnabout was fair play. After not seeing Tristan in twelve years, Rafe had merely reached back, grabbed a tumbler, poured whiskey in it, and set it at the edge of the desk. His face had held no expression, his eyes had been as calm as the sea before a storm. There had been no surprise, no rising from his seat, no embrace. His first words? Sebastian has yet to show.
“I would have thought you’d learned by now that I believe in getting to the point,” Tristan said, giving his brother what he knew was a devilish smile that would only serve to irritate him. “So who is she?”
Rafe grabbed two tumblers and a bottle of whiskey. He began to pour as Tristan ambled over and took a chair, then pushed the full tumbler toward him. “I don’t see that it’s any of your concern.”
Tristan lifted the glass, inhaled the fumes, and took a small sip. His brother did have damned good taste in whiskey. “Is she pretty?”
Rafe narrowed his eyes. “Thinking of taking her when I’m done with her?”
Tristan belted out a laugh. “God, no. Anne damn near kills me with her desire for me. I could hardly keep another lady satisfied.” He relished another sip. “Besides Anne is everything to me. When you have everything, you neither need—nor want—anything more.”
“Spoken like a poor besotted fool.”
“You don’t believe in love?”
Leaning back in his chair, Rafe took a good long swallow.
Not going to answer, Tristan thought. But then he hadn’t really expected him to. He knew Rafe had yet to forgive him and Sebastian for leaving him behind. They’d had no choice. Separation had been the best chance of ensuring at least one of them survived to manhood in order to reclaim the dukedom.
“Don’t suppose I can blame you. I didn’t believe in it either, not until Anne graced my life.”
“Do take your leave before you begin spouting poetry. I have no stomach for it.”
Tristan disliked that Rafe was becoming more difficult and more of a recluse—at least where he and Sebastian were concerned. He accepted none of their invitations, but he wasn’t yet ready to give up on him.
“You know,” Tristan began, eager to change the subject, “most fellows would at least inquire as to what a man was holding if he walked into a room carrying a large box.”
Rafe shifted his gaze over. “I would have to care to ask. I don’t. It’s your box.”
“Actually, it’s not.” Tristan set it in the center of the des
k. “It’s yours. Well, not the box really. But what’s inside. Although you’re more than welcome to keep the box.”
He didn’t know why he was rambling on stupidly. He wasn’t anxious regarding what Rafe might think of his offering. He’d battled the sea, tempests, pirates, and sharks. He had no worries here. Still he watched as Rafe eyed the package as though he thought it might attack him.
“What do you mean it’s mine?”
Tristan wondered once again, as he often did, what sort of life his brother had led since the night they escaped Pembrook. None of them ever talked about their years apart. Sebastian had left half his face on some godforsaken battlefield in the Crimea. Tristan bore the scars of a lash that had flayed his back. He suspected, had always suspected, that Rafe bore scars as well, but that they ran much deeper than the skin, and he had little doubt that made them much harder to heal. “It’s a gift.”
“Why?”
“No reason in particular.” He knew he should have said because you’re my brother and I love you, but the words were as difficult for him to speak as he suspected they would be for Rafe to hear.
Rafe set his tumbler aside and pulled the present nearer. He removed the lid from the box, tipped it cautiously toward him—
Jerked his gaze up to Tristan, who squirmed, feeling a bit self-conscious. “I know it’s not perfect. I carved it during the two years I was at sea, after Sebastian again had his title.”
Slowly Rafe stood, reached in, and withdrew the wooden globe attached to a stand in such a way that his brother could spin the world as he pleased.
“Although I’m not so nimble with a brush, I thought about painting the land masses green and the ocean blue—”
“I like it plain.” Rafe was trailing his fingers over every indention and relief, studying them as though they were of great importance.
“Do you? Like it, I mean?” Tristan asked.
Rafe nodded. “I didn’t know you carved.”
There’s a lot you don’t about me, Brother, and I suspect even more that I don’t know about you.
Lorraine Heath - [Lost Lords of Pembrook 03] Page 3