“I don’t care. He can’t be cruel enough to cast me out like this.” Why was she even talking to this callous man? He didn’t care about her. He only wanted use of her person. Her stomach roiled. She thought she might be ill. Shudders wracked her body. She didn’t know if it was the cold or the sobbing that almost had her convulsing. She’d never felt more dejected in her life.
A fog of grief snaked through her, settled around her. She was shaking so badly, her teeth chattering, that she could barely think. Where could she go? She had no friends, no one who would offer her sanctuary until she could determine how to resolve this dilemma. She had no funds. Everything was in her bedchamber. What had he said when he’d come for her? “We’re going for a ride.” And she’d been so grateful that she’d not questioned him further. Now she had nothing, no one. She wrapped her arms around her middle, trying to contain the pain.
“Damnation,” Rafe Easton growled.
There it was: more proof that he thought so little of her that he would use profanity in her presence. He considered her a guttersnipe. A wanton. Someone unloved. And now she was. She wanted to curl into a ball—
His arms came around her. She was vaguely aware of his holding her against his broad chest, lifting her as though she were little more than a sodden pillow.
She had a strong urge to protest, to let loose a scream that would wake the dead, but all she seemed capable of doing was sagging against him. She wished he were kind. She wished he had spoken for her, that he sought marriage, that his intentions toward her were not so wicked.
He wanted to ruin her, to take away her chance at happiness, a proper husband, and children. He wanted to dally with her, soil her reputation, then toss her aside. Wasn’t that what men did with mistresses? Her father might have even done that with her mother had she not died so young.
Her entire life she’d known exactly what her mother was: good enough to bed, but not to wed. Her father had always made her feel as though she were somehow better than that. Her brother made her realize that she wasn’t.
Beneath the roar of the pounding rain, she became aware of Rafe Easton’s muttering, “One more step, one more step. Almost there.”
She didn’t know why he was urging her on like that. She wasn’t the one taking the steps. Perhaps he thought his words would be reassuring, but she knew what would happen when they were finally there.
He would take the one thing left to her that mattered, that was of any value. She couldn’t allow that to happen, yet neither could she simply wander the streets. She would find the strength to fight him. She would find a way to barter, to bargain, to regain some pride and dignity.
She was vaguely aware of his climbing steps, of a door opening, of light washing over her.
“Good God,” a voice she recognized as belonging to Laurence said.
“I want a hot bath prepared for her. Rouse the maids to see to her care. She’s like ice. Hasn’t moved a muscle since I picked her up.”
Hadn’t she? She’d thought she’d been protesting, but perhaps it was all in her mind. She was conscious of him going up stairs. The wide sweeping ones that had so impressed her when she’d first stepped into the residence, before she’d known exactly why she was here.
She could hear other footsteps rushing by them, those of a servant perhaps. They reached the landing. The click of a door opening. He swept through the entry, his progress muffled by thick carpets before he set her on the bed. He grabbed her wrists, unlocking her arms from about his neck. When had she clutched him so? Why had she?
He stepped away without a tender touch, a word of kindness, a whisper of reassurance.
“Get her warm,” he barked. “Find her something dry to wear.”
Then she became aware of gentle hands urging her to care, to ignore the fact that the remainder of her life would be spent within the bowels of hell.
Hell and damnation!
As soon as Rafe was in his bedchamber with the door slammed behind him, he began tearing at his sopping clothes before they suffocated him. Buttons went flying, brocade and linen ripped. He was fighting to draw in breath, had been ever since he’d made the ghastly decision to cart the woman back to his residence. He knew it was a mistake the moment she wound her arms about his neck and clung tenaciously to him.
He couldn’t very well drop her at that point, no matter how desperately he’d wanted to be rid of her cloying hold. So he’d urged himself on with a mantra: One more step, one more step. Almost there.
Knowing all the while that he was lying to himself, that he had a good distance to travel. Why the devil hadn’t he taken the time to have his carriage brought round? He’d been almost certain where she was going. Instead, like a blundering idiot, he rushed out into the rain after her to ensure that she reached her destination without being accosted.
He’d wanted Wortham, the worthless blackguard, to tell her exactly what his plans for her had entailed, that he had purposely set out to ruin her, to turn her into what her mother had been. Rafe had intended to lead her back to his residence with the assurance that he would forgive her unconscionable behavior, but he would not tolerate it in the future.
Instead, he had watched as she’d banged on the locked door, had heard her exchange words with the butler when he finally appeared to her summoning, had seen her crumple into a shattered heap.
Damn Wortham for being the coward he was!
With his clothes finally strewn about his bedchamber, Rafe marched to the fireplace, set match to kindling. When the fire was finally going properly, he stood. The flames licked at the air, but the warmth barely reached him as, legs spread, head bowed, he grabbed the mantel and stared into the writhing precipice. Finally able to breathe again, he gasped in great draughts of air.
Anger swirled through him. Anger at Wortham for his insipid handling of the situation; anger at the woman for looking at him in abject despair. Images of his own caterwauling at the age of ten had rushed through his mind. It was disconcerting to feel completely helpless, to not know how to right things for her. He’d wanted to shout at her to stop blubbering, buck up, be strong, stop being a baby—
He pressed his head to the hard edge of the marble mantel, welcomed it digging into his brow. Was that the reason that Tristan had lashed out at him, called him a baby all those years ago? Because he’d felt helpless, maybe even terrified himself, had feared that he was on the verge of tears as well?
It had unnerved Rafe to see her reduced to a lifeless heap, especially when the evening before she’d been daring enough to inform him that they didn’t suit. As though he wanted them to be well matched, as though it mattered to him.
He should have left her on her brother’s front stoop, but by God, she was his now. He had claimed her, whether she liked it or not. Whether he liked it or not. He had put a great deal of effort into building a reputation as being someone who was dangerous, who got his way at all costs, who was not to be trifled with. What would happen to his reputation if word got out that he’d allowed her to escape him?
The aristocracy’s fondness for gossip was astounding. That he and his brothers were often the center of the gossip was beyond the pale. Why anyone cared what they did was outside his comprehension, but care they apparently did. Ever since the brothers disappeared on a cold wintry night in the year of our Lord, 1844. Rumors abounded regarding what had truly happened to them. When they returned to Society, the gossip worsened. They were viewed as barbaric, just because Rafe had held a pistol on a servant who had refused to announce their arrival at their uncle’s ball, and Sebastian had very nearly choked their uncle to death when he’d first clapped eyes on him. It had not helped matters that several months later their uncle died mysteriously.
So it was with certainty that Rafe knew a good many people were well aware he had taken on a mistress. Which meant, by God, that she would serve as his mistress. Whether she wanted to or not. Whether he wanted her to or not.
He was not a man known to waver when it came to decisio
n making. He set his course, traveled it, and Lord have mercy on anyone who sought to block his path or prevent him from reaching his destination.
He didn’t know how long he stared into the fire arguing with himself, convincing himself that the arrangement regarding Evelyn—a name that didn’t roll easily off his tongue—had been made, and that he would follow it through, regardless of cost, when the rap on the door brought his scathing diatribe up short.
“Yes?”
“The lady has finished her bath, sir. She is presently drinking tea.” Laurence spoke through the door. Every servant knew that no one was admitted into Rafe’s chamber. No one. They thought him eccentric. If they knew the truth, they would believe him mad.
“Very well, that’s all,” he replied before shoving himself away from the mantel. He had a blinding headache. He combed his fingers through his unruly hair. It was dry, so he must have been waiting for her to be ready to receive him for some time now. When he was lost in thought, minutes could slip away without him realizing it. He didn’t allow clocks to govern his life. He did what he needed to do when he needed to do it.
Now he needed to speak with her, make sure they came to an understanding regarding this situation.
He didn’t bother to ring for his valet. No need to dress formally. Trousers, loose shirt was about all he’d need.
He glanced at the door that separated his room from hers. He wouldn’t use it tonight. For her sake he would enter through the hallway, but after their discussion, she would understand that no barrier had the power to keep him from her.
The room was warm, the fire crackling, and yet sitting in front of the fireplace, Evelyn felt as though she were carved from ice. Her own clothes a sodden mess, she wore one of the maids’ nightdress and dressing gown. She had soaked in a tub of hot water for what had seemed like hours. Her hair was washed and braided. She curled one bare foot over the other. She should strive to determine what she was to do about this unfortunate circumstance, but she seemed incapable of managing little more than staring at the yellow and orange flames.
Geoffrey’s strange behavior in the carriage, his cryptic words—she was quite amazed that he had been able to meet and hold her gaze at least once. If she sought to destroy the very fabric of his being, she’d not be able to face him.
A mistress, not a wife. That was what she was to become, what he expected for her future, what he sought to give her. Not love, not a family, not a place in Society. It was not to be tolerated.
What were her options? Literally, all she possessed were the clothes on her back. Well, the clothes she’d been wearing on her back earlier. The clothes she now wore were not hers. She wore them only because of the kindness of servants.
She heard the door click open, without a knock, without warning. She might have assumed it was a servant, but the very air in the room seemed to shift and change as though a mighty gale had suddenly swept through it. The fine hairs on the nape of her neck and arms rose. The footsteps were almost silent, and yet she knew to whom they belonged. Breathing became a chore, but she forced herself to do it because she refused to swoon. It was bad enough that he had witnessed her unconscionably weak and falling apart.
She concentrated on the fire. But even it seemed to have grown smaller in submission.
“Here, you’ll find this will warm you more efficiently than tea.”
A large hand holding a thick tumbler came into her field of vision, very nearly kissing her nose. Long, thick, powerful fingers. She imagined they could wrap easily around her neck and choke the life from her body. Inhaling, she recognized the scent.
“Do you think Scotch is the remedy for all ills?”
“You’d be surprised by the answers you can find in the bottom of a bottle. Take it.”
It was not an invitation, so much as a command. As much as she didn’t want to obey, she knew she needed to pick her battles. Keeping her hands steady, she set the teacup and saucer on the small table beside the chair, then took the offered glass.
She’d ignored the contents earlier in the evening when he’d given her a tumbler. This time she took a small sip. It burned, but he was right. It also warmed as it went down, the heat spreading out to her fingertips.
He moved away, placed himself by the fireplace, rested his forearm on the mantel. She wondered if he was as cold as she after their journey in the rain. His hair was much curlier now, as though he’d not bothered to tame it. His white shirt was loosely fitting, buttoned only to midchest. Black trousers fit snuggly over his legs. His boots were polished to a shine, and she thought he would see his reflection in them if he glanced down.
Instead, his gaze was focused intently on her. He, too, was holding a tumbler, and when she lifted hers to take another sip, he did the same, his eyes never straying from her. He was a large man. She had felt his corded muscles beneath her fingers, pressed against her body, as he’d carried her here. He’d never paused his rapid steps. He’d never struggled for breath. He’d seemed unbothered by the pelting rain.
She suspected he was a man very much accustomed to having his way. And he wanted his way with her.
“I’ll fight you, you know,” she said. “I shall kick and scream and claw out your eyes.”
She thought she saw a twinkle of humor light those very eyes that would feel the scrape of her fingernails, but it happened so quickly she couldn’t be sure. His throat worked as he took another long slow swallow of his Scotch. She couldn’t recall ever seeing so much of a man exposed: his neck, the narrowing V of skin down his chest. She saw strength there, potency that Geoffrey didn’t possess. Neither had her father. Before his illness, his form had been robust but it had not exuded power. Food, rather than anything of an exertive nature, had shaped him. Rafe Easton obviously did not lie around all day doing nothing more than ordering servants about.
“I’m not in the habit of forcing women, Evelyn,” he finally said. “But I am pragmatic. If you do not become my mistress, what recourse is open to you?”
Ah, there was the rub and well he knew it. She fought not to let her shoulders slump with her despair. “He didn’t let me take anything, not even the jewelry my father gave me. I could have sold it—”
“And how far do you think you would have gotten with it?”
She shook her head, hating to admit, “I don’t even know where I would have sold it.”
“With me,” he said, “you will have a roof over your head, food in your belly, a clothing allowance to rival the queen’s, as well as jewelry, trinkets, baubles. You will never want for anything that is within my power to purchase.”
“But I must give you my body.”
Another long swallow of Scotch, a slow nod, a half closing of his eyes in acknowledgment.
She was suddenly unbearably cold again. She took a big gulp of her drink, but it failed to warm her. “I want a husband, a family.”
“How do you expect to acquire that? By sitting out on the street in your hideous black gown until someone walks by and thinks, ‘By jove, I’d like that lovely for a wife.’ How will you eat? Where will you find shelter? Be realistic, Evelyn. You have nothing. You have no one. You have no options.”
“I could work for you. Oversee your household as I thought—”
“I have someone who sees to my household. Shall I dismiss her, toss her out on the streets because you don’t want to warm my bed?”
She shook her head, wishing she was of a selfish bent, content to think only of herself. “No, you’re right. That’s not fair either. Perhaps you would be kind enough to allow me to stay here for a few days until I find employment—”
“What skills have you?”
She wanted to blurt out something, anything, but the truth was that she wasn’t certain she could even manage a household. She’d never helped with the servants. She knew only that tables were never dusty, fires were always ready to be set, floors were always polished, her clothes were always pressed. She was horrendous at stitchery, her penmanship was not precise,
and numbers were not her friend. They never added up the way they should. She could read, very well in fact, but who would hire her to read?
It also seemed she was very good at drinking Scotch. She downed the last of the liquid in the glass and set it aside. With smooth unthreatening movements, he exchanged his glass for hers. Did he have to be so graceful, so masculine, so utterly gorgeous?
“Geoffrey informed me that you own a gambling establishment. Perhaps I could work there.”
“The women who do wear very little clothing and spend a good bit of their time sitting on gentlemen’s laps. Do you prefer to spread your thighs for many men rather than only one?”
Her mouth opened, her eyes widened. If she were a true lady, he wouldn’t speak to her of such raw, carnal things. But then if she were a true lady, she wouldn’t be in this predicament.
Crouching, he added a log to the fire and stirred it. His trousers outlined his muscular thighs and firm buttocks. She imagined guiding her hands over them. Was that what she would do if she was his mistress? Touch him, caress him, tell him how marvelous he was even though at this precise moment she hated him with every breath she took?
She reached for the almost half-full glass of Scotch and tossed back nearly half of it. It fairly scalded her as it traveled through her. But it made her limbs feel as though they were no longer part of her. If she drank enough could she lie beneath him and pretend she wasn’t truly there?
“I know what it is, Evelyn, to have no options.” He was still stirring the fire, not looking at her. “To think: this cannot be my life. It is not where I was headed, and yet … it is where I have arrived. To survive, you learn to make the best of it. It’s not easy. It’s not what you want, but you can still own it, make it yours.”
He unfolded his magnificent form, placed his arm back on the mantel, and studied her with those icy blue eyes. “Your brother sought to humiliate you, to degrade you, to give you a place in Society that is no place at all, where you would not be seen or acknowledged. What better revenge than to become the most infamous courtesan in all of London? I won’t hide you away. I’ll flaunt you. I’ll teach you to manage your money. When our time together comes to an end, as long as the ending is of my choosing, you may have the residence and everything within it. You won’t be forced into becoming any other man’s mistress. You can select your paramours, be choosy if you wish. Seems a rather fair trade to me.”
Lorraine Heath - [Lost Lords of Pembrook 03] Page 5