He gave her but one brisk nod. He was certainly not one to let moss grow beneath his feet. Compared to him, Geoffrey went through life much like a sloth.
“In my bedchamber, I suppose.”
“Do you truly want to see his face when you and I are … intimately engaged?”
Her heart nearly dropped to her toes. “Ah, no, you’re quite right. The front parlor? No, wait. That little sitting room that looks out over the garden. I should like it there.”
He studied her as though he could envision her in that small room. “I shall see that it’s done while we’re gone. By the by, bring your jewelry.”
“Why?”
“Because it would please me for you to do so. Now hurry along. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
With that, he spun on his heel and headed down the stairs. She was tempted to open the door to his bedchamber, simply because he’d said she couldn’t. What was he hiding? It was only a room.
She also considered making him wait, but she had yet to discern how volatile his temper might be. For now she hurried into her bedchamber, gathered her jewelry, slipped it into a skirt pocket, and snatched up her wrap. Back in the hallway, she considered escaping down the servants’ stairs. Instead, she squared her shoulders and marched to meet the devil.
The skies were overcast. As the carriage rumbled along, Rafe watched the shadows weave in and out, dance over and around her as she gazed out the window. And blast it all if he didn’t envy their ability to touch her so lightly. She’d rubbed her wrist—the one he’d held with his powerful grip—a couple of times now, and it was all he could do not to take her hand, peel off her glove, and press a kiss to where he’d felt her pulse thrumming earlier.
He didn’t know why he’d reacted as he had. The door to his bedchamber was locked. She’d have not been able to enter anyway. His hold had tightened with the talk about beds and her in them. He imagined her there, sprawled over the sheets, her loosened hair spread out around her. How long was it? The braid she’d worn last night only hinted at its length.
He’d almost laughed when she’d given him the daring look and said that it was to her advantage to displease him. When was the last time he’d laughed? He couldn’t recall. He didn’t want to be intrigued by her. One moment she seemed vulnerable, and the next she was standing up to him. Displease him, would she? He doubted it very much.
“You don’t really intend to give me the residence, do you?” she asked in that raspy voice that seemed a bit rougher since last night.
“I said I would.”
She peered over at him. “But it and everything in it must be worth a fortune.”
He shrugged as though it hardly mattered, because in truth it didn’t. He purchased items because he could, but he took no pleasure in them or the act of obtaining them.
“How can you value it so little?”
“Perhaps the better question is how can I value you so much?” As soon as he heard the words, he wanted to suck them back in. He didn’t value her, not at all, but he knew what awaited her with him. Guilt prodded him to give her what he could so she would forgive him for the things he couldn’t.
She opened her mouth slightly, pinched her bottom lip between her teeth. “That is a good question. I’ve not given you any reason to place such a high value on me. So why are you?”
“Mistresses are supposed to take what they’re given and not question it.”
“Is that the law? Is there a law of mistresses somewhere, a book that solicitors study?”
It seemed the farther they traveled from a bed, the bolder she became. He wondered how she might react if he informed her that he could bed her without a bed, that the plush cushions of his carriage would do just as nicely. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to silence her. She made him want to smile, a real smile, not the wolfish one practiced over the years to imply victory before a battle was even fought.
“Yes, I believe there is.”
She angled her chin haughtily, her pert little nose going up ever so slightly. “I should like to see it. I suppose you know all the laws where mistresses are concerned.”
“The important ones.”
“How many have you had?” she asked.
“Laws?”
She scowled. He suspected she imagined that she looked quite ferocious. Instead, she looked kissable. Utterly and fascinatingly kissable. “Mistresses.”
He considered lying. But what would he gain? Nothing. He reserved falsehoods for when they were useful to obtain what he sought. “You shall be my first.”
Her eyes widened. “Why me?”
Why her? That was the question, wasn’t it? The one he’d asked himself a thousand times since that night in Wortham’s study.
“Ekroth wanted you. I don’t much care for Ekroth.”
“I seem to recall he has jowls and pudgy fingers.”
“Quite.”
She glanced out the window. “I didn’t like the way he looked at me. I didn’t like the way any of them looked at me. As though I was beneath them. But you didn’t.” She looked over at him, gave him a sad smile. “I thought you were incapable of caring any less about me. Yet, here I am with you. What if Lord Berm had spoken up for me?”
“He has rancid breath.”
She gnawed on her lower lip, and he thought she did it to stop herself from smiling. It irritated him that she might laugh at him. “Lord Pennleigh?”
“He has too many years on him. He’s bound to be wrinkled in places where he shouldn’t be wrinkled.”
She studied him intently, and he fought not to squirm. Why weren’t they at the blasted dressmaker’s yet?
“Who would have been acceptable, do you think?” she asked.
Any of the other lords, sweetheart. Even Ekroth, Berm, and Pennleigh, truth be told.
“It hardly matters,” he said. “You’re with me now.”
The carriage came to a stop. Thank God.
“And we’re at the dressmaker’s. Let’s see about getting you some proper clothing.”
Proper clothing? As though what she was wearing wasn’t proper.
But when she stepped into the shop, her irritation with him dimmed. She’d been in shops before, but never a dressmaker’s. Two well-dressed ladies were at the counter, obviously making their purchases. Another elegant woman was sitting in a plush chair in a corner studying what appeared to be drawings of patterns.
A large woman bustled toward them. “Sir, how might I be of service?”
Rafe tugged on his waistcoat. “I wish to be attended to by the proprietor.”
“I am she. Madame Charmaine.”
“I expected a French accent.”
She smiled, her teeth straight and white, her lips as red as cherries. “I excel in providing my customers with the unexpected.”
Rafe seemed to be taking measure of her. She remembered that he said he was a good judge of character. She wondered what he thought of so bold a creature. “Miss Chambers is in need of a wardrobe. Everything.”
Madame Charmaine arched a brow, and Evelyn imagined she was creating a mental list of what everything might include, and how profitable this endeavor might be.
“She will require only the finest of materials,” Rafe said before walking over to a table burdened with bolts of brightly colored cloth.
Evelyn traipsed after him and whispered, “I’m in mourning. I should wear black.”
“You may when I’m not about, but when you are in my presence it will please me to see you in colors.”
He selected them: rich blues, purples, crimson. Bold strong colors. She’d always worn pale shades, pastels, so that she blended in, wasn’t truly visible. Except for the one purple gown Geoffrey had selected for her to wear. She’d had it made as a dream, something to be worn if she ever attended a ball.
All the while Madame Charmaine slowly raked her gaze over Evelyn, and she knew the moment that the woman deduced exactly what she was to Rafe—or what she would become to him. She thought she mi
ght die, that her heart would cease beating, her blood flowing, her lungs drawing in air.
“I want a dozen dresses for her within the week,” Rafe said, distracted by his perusal of the fabrics.
“I fear, sir, that my schedule is quite full. You might have better success at another shop.”
Rafe stopped riffling through the fabrics and faced her. “My sister by marriage, the Duchess of Keswick, assures me you are the best.”
“I am, sir, but—”
“My lord.”
“Pardon?”
“Apologies for not introducing myself earlier. Lord Rafe Easton. I don’t imagine the Duchess would continue to shop here if I informed her I was turned away.”
“It is only that to meet your deadline with my current workload—”
“Yes, I quite understand, but here’s the thing: Miss Chambers requires clothing due to an unfortunate circumstance that left her with nothing save the dress she is now wearing.” His voice grew lower with each word spoken until Madame Charmaine was leaning toward him in an attempt to properly hear. “A sad state of affairs indeed for a lady to have to go about with only one dress to see her through, wouldn’t you agree? What will it cost me to have you open up your schedule for her?”
“My lord, it’s quite impossible. I have an incredible number of orders to fulfill—”
“Shall we say double the outrageous amount you were going to charge me anyway?”
The woman glanced at the fabrics, the ceiling, the floor, and Evelyn could see her calculating. “I suppose I could see my way clear to complete an item or two within the week.”
“Splendid. I so admire the rare woman who exhibits good sense. I’ve no doubt that we shall get along famously. I shall want to approve all designs and fabrics.”
“An unusual request. Most gentlemen don’t care, but I’m sure I can accommodate. I shall need to get some measurements.”
“Excellent.”
Evelyn had watched the entire encounter with a measure of horror. Did he think the moon and stars revolved around him? That only his wants and needs mattered? What of her other customers?
He turned to her. “I have some things to see to. I’ll return for you within the hour. Enjoy your time with Madame Charmaine.”
The bell above the door tinkled when he went out. How could it sound so innocent when someone so determined passed beneath it?
“The elusive Rafe Easton. I daresay I’d never expected to cross paths with him,” Madame muttered. “However did you manage to find yourself tangled up with one of the lost lords of Pembrook?”
Evelyn turned to her. “The lost lords?”
“Do you live beneath a rock?”
Evelyn fought not to start laughing maniacally. “No, just in a residence, protected by my father, the Earl of Wortham.”
“Ahhh.” Madame looked at her with sympathy. “I’ve heard a bit about that. The good news I suppose is that you’ve landed with a man who will do everything to protect you.”
“But he was so insistent that you put everyone else’s needs aside and see to mine.”
She scoffed. “Negotiations, my dear. I’ll charge him triple. He won’t know the difference. And you shan’t tell him.”
“I’m not certain I would try to cheat him.”
“Oh, he may bark very loudly, but I don’t think he bites women. Not if the way he looked at you is any indication. Now come along to the back room. You’ll need to remove your clothing so I can get proper measurements.”
“Why did you call them the lost lords?” Evelyn asked as she followed Madame into a small room.
As Madame helped Evelyn out of her clothing, she said, “Now that’s a story. When they were lads, they disappeared after their father died. Rumors abounded. Some said they’d fallen ill. Some that they were murdered by gypsies. Some that they were eaten by wolves. Then I suppose it was … what, three years ago? Something like that. I remember because Lady Mary—who is now the Duchess of Keswick—had just come to London, and I’d made her a ball gown. Anyway, the lords appeared at the ball. Caused quite the stir.”
“Where were they all those years?”
“Keswick was in the army, fought in the Crimea. Ghastly business that. Lord Tristan returned as captain of a ship, so I assume he was on the sea. Lord Rafe was about here somewhere. Not much is known of him. He shuns Society, or perhaps it shuns him.”
Evelyn thought of the empty feeling of his residence, the way he had sat alone during her coming out, his gruff manner, his rule that she could never hold him. She wondered if his claiming her for a mistress had nothing at all to do with Ekroth, but with his own loneliness.
Leaving his carriage near the dressmaker’s, Rafe strode with purpose down the street. He needed a sweet, a nice, hard, sugary sweet. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had such a craving. He wanted something to make him feel good instead of like a rotten bastard.
Whatever had overcome him to press the dressmaker as he had? It was Eve, dammit all. The look of mortification and a wish for death that had crossed her face when she realized that an inconsequential shop owner had determined her purpose in Rafe’s life—and disapproved of it. Who was this woman to disapprove of anything he did?
He was providing Eve with a sanctuary. Yes, she had to pay a price for it, but then nothing in life came free. Not even freedom. It was the highest price of all.
To make matters worse, he’d fallen back on his heritage to get the respect he wanted for Eve. Lord Rafe Easton. He’d not referred to himself as lord since Sebastian’s place was secure. He couldn’t be more disappointed in himself. He was his own man. He didn’t need to tie himself in with his brothers to gain what he desired.
But he had been angry, so very angry that Eve was feeling as though she was less than she was, that she appeared to be on the verge of tears. But she had been strong enough not to shed them, and that had made him want to take a lash to himself.
Finally, to his immense relief, he caught sight of a sweet shop. He opened the door as two ladies were coming out. He tipped his hat and as soon as they were through, he charged inside. Some little imp of a girl was standing beside an older scruffy-looking lad, holding his hand, trying to decide what she wanted. He could see a penny clutched in the boy’s grip. A penny’s worth of candy. How long was this going to take?
Children. He would never have any. Didn’t want them, wouldn’t know what to do with them. Still, this girl drew his attention, a blue ribbon holding her blond tangled hair from her face while it flowed down her back. He imagined Eve at that age. Had she ever held her brother’s hand, had he ever looked out for her? Why had her father not arranged to see that Eve was properly taken care of after his death? Surely he was not blind to the fact that his son was lacking in character.
Perhaps he thought leaving her to her brother’s care would force the man to grow up, to assume responsibility, to learn to put someone before himself. Instead, he’d followed his nature and selfishly rid himself of her as soon as possible in a way that profited him, selling off her things. He wished she’d asked for more than a portrait and a horse, because he’d have acquired the whole blasted house if she’d wanted it. Not because he cared for her, but because it would have been the right thing to do. It had been a long time since he’d wanted to do anything simply because it was the right thing to do.
Last year sometime. When Tristan had needed his help to locate the man everyone thought should marry Anne. And two years before that when he’d attended balls that he didn’t want to attend, in order to ensure Sebastian’s rightful place in Society. And since then he’d cared only about what he wanted. Maybe he wasn’t that different from Wortham. The thought sickened him—that he might have anything in common with that scapegrace.
The child was sucking on her finger now and dancing on the tips of her toes. The clerk behind the counter gave him an I’ll-be-with-you-in-a-moment look that truly meant I may never be with you.
“Come on, Lizzie. Pick sumfink,” the lad sa
id.
Yes, Lizzie, Rafe thought. Pick something.
“Dunno. They’re all so pretty.”
The clerk sighed, pursed his lips. “May I help you, sir?”
“A dozen peppermint humbugs.”
As the clerk scooped the light and dark brown striped hard candies into a sack, Rafe’s mouth began to water. He’d gone too long without the indulgence. As soon as the clerk handed over the sack, Rafe dug out one of the hard nuggets, popped it into his mouth, and savored the sweetness.
The girl looked up at him with wide blue eyes, not the shade of Eve’s, but still a color that would draw men to her as she got older. He extended the bag toward her. “Here, you may have the rest.”
The boy pulled her nearer to his side, and put his arm protectively around her narrow shoulders. “We dun know ye. Wot ye be wantin’?”
Street children then, old enough to already have learned not to trust. It was a hard lesson, one Rafe had not excelled at quite quickly enough. He’d innocently taken food offered by a fellow named Dimmick, and before he knew it he became one of Dimmick’s lackeys, doing what he was ordered to do because the man’s punishments generally involved mutilation of some sort.
“Nothing, lad. I simply misjudged how hungry I was. The clerk can’t take them back once he’s handed them over. I’m not of a mood to toss them in the garbage bin. Do you want them or not?”
He could see the boy struggling, the fingers of the hand not holding the coin twitching. He wanted to reach for the offering, but he feared the price.
“I loike Wellington sticks,” the lass said. “They’re pretty.”
Their red, blue, and yellow stripes were colorful, but then most hard candy was brightly colored. Rafe had been intrigued by it all as a lad. He would sit for hours sucking on one after another.
“A dozen Wellington sticks,” Rafe told the clerk.
“Very good, sir.” He pulled the lid off a jar. With each stick he removed, the girl’s eyes brightened further.
When the sack was full, the clerk held it out. Rafe took it and offered it to the girl. She lacked her brother’s reserve. She snatched it with tiny hands. With an arched brow, Rafe again offered the humbugs to lad.
Lorraine Heath - [Lost Lords of Pembrook 03] Page 8