What A Lord Wants

by Anna Harrington

No. Apparently, he’d understood nothing about her. “When did you plan on telling me the truth?”

  The words were barely out before a cold realization sank through him, like ice water in his veins.

  She hadn’t planned to tell him at all.

  He turned to fully face her, no longer caring who might see them arguing. “You were going to just disappear, weren’t you?” Not a question. After all, he knew her nearly as well as he knew himself. “Leave the studio one afternoon and never come back.”

  Her shoulders sagged, almost imperceptibly, but that faint movement proved him correct. And added a bitter sense of betrayal to the emotions already roiling inside him.

  “And kissing me?” The ache inside his chest made him ask, “Was that all an act, as well?”

  A faint pinking of her cheeks gave away her emotions. She admitted in a whisper, “Nothing about that was a lie. I thought you understood that as well, but it seems I was wrong.” Her eyes glistened in the candlelight. “About a great many things.”

  She moved away before he could stop her, walking back toward to the party and oblivious to the curious stares that the other guests sent her way.

  He stared after her, his chest twisting more tightly with each step she took. To drop that confession as she did, that explanation for why she’d misled him—then to admit that she’d planned to abandon him without a word—

  When her hand snaked up to swipe at her eyes, something inside him snapped.

  It would be a cold day in hell before he let her simply walk away.

  When he caught up with her, she stood just inside the upstairs drawing room, unnoticed by the other guests. Her face had paled, her arms hanging limp at her sides. But her gaze was pinned to what was happening at the front of the room near the fireplace, where a group of young dandies and misses had gathered.

  “Eve?” he murmured quietly as he came up behind her and touched her elbow. She didn’t move, not even to yank her arm away.

  Concerned, Dom followed her gaze to Burton Williams, Viscount Houghton’s son. He stood at the fireplace, his arm stretched lazily across the marble mantel and holding a glass of cognac in his hand, while in the other he held a letter. He was laughing, along with the crowd gathered around him.

  “‘When I think of my Prince Charming, I think of you, my dearest love,’” Williams read, pressing the glass of cognac to his chest in a show of mocking emotion. Roars of laughter went up through the room. “I dream every night about your smile, your laugh, how deep your voice, how strong your arms…’”

  More laughter. Some of the people nearly doubled over in their glee. A few of the ladies at least had the decency to attempt to hide their tittering behind their fans, but one buck repeated back the last words in a falsetto that drew even more laughs.

  Eve began to tremble.

  “‘Tell me that you love me, that you share the same feelings I do.’” Williams now made grand sweeps of his arms to punctuate the letter. “‘If my heart means anything to you—’” He stopped reading and glanced around the room in an aside. “It did not.” When the laughter that comment brought died down, he continued, “‘—you’ll come to me and bring heaven along in your wake. Your smile is like sunshine on a gray day, warming and bright, all goodness and light.’”

  Howls of laughter went up throughout the room, none louder or harder than Williams’s own. So hard that he was gasping to recover his breath before he read on.

  Beside them at the back of the room, a young woman noticed Eve. She choked on her laughter, her eyes instantly widening, and a heated flush of guilt reddened her cheeks. Her hand went to her throat as she tugged at the sleeve of the laughing woman beside her. When the woman glanced over at her, she saw Eve, and the laughter awkwardly died on her lips. Both women looked away quickly and stepped back to distance themselves from the rest of the group.

  Dom grew cold as he realized what was happening. The bastard was reading Eve’s letters and letting all of society laugh at her for daring to love him.

  He lowered his mouth to her ear and cajoled gently, “Let’s leave.”

  “We haven’t reached the best part yet,” Williams announced as he shuffled through several pages of letters. “Wait until you hear how she compared me to Adonis in his—”

  Williams glanced up and saw her.

  Startled at being caught, he froze for only a moment before he grinned wide in amusement. Glee shined in his eyes. The arrogant dandy was thrilled to know that Eve was there, taking joy in her pain and mortification.

  As the guests turned to see what had captured his attention, the loud guffaws dulled into nervous twitters.

  Williams hadn’t dared to utter her name as the lady who wrote those letters, but everyone knew. Whispers went up around the room as women gossiped about her behind their fans and the men tapped each other on the shoulder, then nodded toward her. Some had the gall to point openly.

  Dom reluctantly released her elbow and stalked across the room toward Williams. The crowd parted wide to let him pass, as if they could sense the fury boiling inside him. Stopping in front of Williams, he glared disdainfully at him and realized again why he hated so many of England’s so-called finest.

  “Enough.” He held out his hand. “Those letters are private. I’ll do you the favor of returning them to the lady who wrote them.”

  Williams glared at Dom for stealing away his fun. His gaze darted to Eve as he considered what to do. But no one interceded on his behalf, whispering about him as much as they had about Eve.

  Not one laugh sounded from anywhere in the room now. They might laugh at Eve right to her face, a merchant’s daughter who existed on the fringes of society, but they’d never dare laugh at Dom, a marquess and the most respected peer in the Lords.

  With a murderous expression, Williams slapped the letters into Dom’s hand.

  “Thank you.” Clenching the letters tightly to keep from drawing his hands into fists and bloodying the man right there, Dom lowered his voice so only Williams could hear. “Do not ever embarrass her in public like this again.”

  “Or what?” He sneered with a laugh, “You’ll call me out for a duel at dawn?”

  “Nothing like that,” he answered with deadly calm. “I’ll simply kill you where you stand.”

  Williams blanched.

  “Glad we’ve come to this understanding.” With a forced smile, Dom slapped Williams on the shoulder. Hard. The arse staggered forward a step to keep his balance.

  When Dom turned around, Eve was gone.

  Chapter 11

  “I am not accepting visitors today,” Eve informed Bentley, wringing her hands. Dom was downstairs and had asked to see her. The very last thing she wanted! Last night had been too humiliating to ever face him again. “Would you tell the marquess that I am indisposed?”

  The butler nodded and turned to leave—

  “Bentley, please wait a moment.”

  Mariah lowered the ladies’ journal she’d been avidly reading—being enceinte had suddenly made her oddly domestic—and peered over the cover from across the upstairs sitting room.

  Then her eyes narrowed suspiciously. That was the Mariah she knew.

  When Bentley retreated into the hall to give them privacy, she asked pointedly, “Since when does the Marquess of Ellsworth call on you?”

  Her shoulders sagged, and she partially dissembled, “Since he rescued me from Burton Williams’s poetry reading.”

  Mariah’s expression softened. “I see.”

  Eve turned toward the window, unable to bear any pity she might see on her sister’s face. Even if it accompanied concern.

  After she’d fled the drawing room last night, she’d somehow convinced Mariah and Robert that they needed to leave the ball. Immediately. She was pale and shaking enough that Mariah believed that she’d truly fallen ill, so they’d taken her home before either of them learned of what happened. Thank God. Because the last thing Eve wanted to do was ruin the evening for them, not when they’d planned to
share news of the baby with Papa. So she’d choked back her humiliation until she was safely at home in bed, where she could finally let the tears come.

  But when Mariah learned this morning what had happened, she’d immediately come over to the townhouse to find out if Eve was all right and to hear the full story.

  Well, Eve certainly wasn’t going to tell her that! But she’d admitted that she’d come upon Burton reading her love letters as last evening’s entertainment and that he was the reason she’d suddenly felt ill and needed to leave.

  She’d conveniently forgotten to mention the Marquess of Ellsworth.

  “When His Lordship walked into the room and saw what Burton was doing, he asked him to stop.” She shrugged to sugarcoat the truth, that she’d half expected the two men to come to blows.

  “But why would he do that?”

  “Because Ellsworth is a nice man. He must be here now simply out of concern.” Or because he wanted to admonish her some more for ruining his painting. Given everything that happened last night, either was a toss-up.

  “Apparently so.” She heard suspicion when Mariah repeated, “Why would he do that, Eve? You two don’t even know each other.”

  Oh, so very well! “We shared an interesting conversation in front of a painting in Lord Hawthorne’s gallery.” Her fingers trembled as she drew back the gauzy curtain to peer down at the street. Her heart skipped at the sight of the grand Ellsworth town coach, with its gold monogram on the door, four black matching horses, and livered tigers. Completely unlike anything Vincenzo would ever have traveled in. Or at least she’d thought so. Now, she wasn’t certain that she knew the man at all. “The marquess is an art connoisseur.”

  “You’re lying,” Mariah accused. “Like a rug.”

  “It isn’t what you—”

  “Like a lying rug.”

  Eve rolled her eyes. Her sister was becoming more and more like the Carlisle brothers with each passing day.

  Already feeling guilty over hiding the truth about the studio, she inhaled a deep breath and faced her. But she couldn’t bring herself to lift her gaze from the floor. “We do know each other, actually.”

  “I see.” She set the magazine down.

  “Through the work I’ve been doing.” Not technically a lie. She had been working with Dom, just not the kind of charity work she’d led her family to believe.

  “So all that time you’ve been spending in Chelsea—it’s been because of Ellsworth?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, her eyes still fixed on the rug.

  “I didn’t realize that the marquess was a hospital patron.”

  “He’s not.” My! That was a lovely pattern on the carpet. How had she never noticed that before? “There was a mix-up with the painting that the marquess gave to you and Robert for your wedding.” Vagaries we not technically lies. “When I went to collect it. And then…”

  “And then?”

  Factual omissions weren’t lies either so much as, well, omissions. “We met. And started talking. About art.”

  “But you don’t know anything about art.” Confusion colored her sister’s voice. “You failed all your art lessons at Miss Pettigrew’s.”

  No, Miss Pettigrew’s School had failed her. While it might have educated her on how to be a fine lady, it had taught her nothing truly important about the world. Like what to do with a man like Dom. “I didn’t know anything, until he taught me.”

  From across the room, she felt Mariah freeze. Her sister’s silence was worse than her suspicions.

  Eve slowly raised her gaze from the carpet.

  “He’s…” Mariah’s brow furrowed as understanding came over her. “He’s the teacher, isn’t he? The one who hasn’t noticed you as a woman.”

  Her eyes dropped back to the carpet.

  “The one who said you were beautiful.”

  Heavens, what quality weaving! Papa had certainly gotten his money’s worth in this Aubusson.

  “Evie?”

  With a heavy sigh and sagging shoulders, she looked up at Mariah and admitted, “Yes. But he didn’t mean it at all like you think.”

  “Oh? And how exactly does a bachelor peer not mean it to an unmarried miss?”

  “Art.”

  Mariah blinked. “Art?”

  She blew out an exasperated sigh. “He meant that I would make a wonderful model for an artist to paint. That my eyes and face were expressive. That my hair is some special shade called Titian red.” She dismissingly waved her hand in the air in the general direction of her head, but the aggravation behind it was real. Because that was the only way Dom had noticed her. Even when he’d kissed her, he’d been kissing his model. “Beautiful for art’s sake. That’s all.”

  “Good.”

  The intensity of that single word surprised her. So did the cut of Mariah’s quick judgment that she agreed with Dom about Eve’s limited allure. “Good?”

  “Because a man like Ellsworth will hurt you if you’re not careful.” Mariah stood and approached her, taking her shoulders in her hands. Most likely in case she needed to shake sense into her. “I’m certain he would never do so on purpose, that his intentions for you are completely honorable. But in the end, when he rejects you, the pain will be the same.”

  “He’s a respectable man, Mariah.” Or at least this half of him was. She wasn’t so certain about Vincenzo.

  “I know. And I wish he were a rake, because if you knew he was a rake, your heart would know well enough to leave the man alone.”

  Eve wasn’t so sure about that. She’d thought him a scandalous Italian painter, and her heart had leapt itself right into his arms.

  “Don’t you see?” Her sister’s expression melted into one of motherly concern. “He’s certainly flattered by the attention you pay him, perhaps even engaging in harmless flirtation.”

  She bit her bottom lip. That kiss they’d shared was more than flirtation. And certainly not harmless.

  “But he’s a marquess, Evie, and a highly regarded one at that.”

  “Yes! So why are you—”

  “Because he will never marry you.” With a worried frown, she slipped her hands up to cup Eve’s face. “Not a wealthy marquess to the daughter of a trade merchant, no matter how beautiful he thinks you.”

  Her head knew that, but her foolish heart yearned for more. “You married the son of a duke,” Eve reminded her.

  “The second son. And the current duke’s reputation isn’t exactly sterling, which was why Trent was able to marry the niece of one of his tenants for love. But Ellsworth…” Her shoulders sagged in sympathy as she said quietly, “He might enjoy talking you and spending time with you, but in the end, he’ll marry the daughter of a peer because of the respect her position in society will bring him. In your heart, you know that.”

  Her chest panged with a hollow ache. “I know,” she breathed out, unable to find her voice beneath that harsh truth. Whatever special relationship she and Dom had shared was now over. For many, many reasons. “But I wish…” She didn’t have the heart to finish the sentence.

  A flash of grief passed over Mariah’s face before she could hide it by placing a kiss to Eve’s forehead.

  “You will find your prince, I promise you,” Mariah assured her. “Don’t give up just yet.”

  “Just don’t expect him to be Dominick Mercer?” Somehow she managed to choke out a small laugh at the same time she fought back tears.

  Mariah gave Eve’s shoulder a parting squeeze before crossing to the door. “Bentley,” she called out, “would you please tell the marquess that Miss Winslow is indisposed today and not accepting callers?”

  He nodded, thankfully not glancing in Eve’s direction, and left to convey her message.

  Eve stared after him, fighting down the urge to run downstairs to see Dom. One last time.

  “I know this is painful, but this is the right decision,” Mariah assured her.

  Eve gave a jerking nod. The right decision to prevent a broken heart.


  So why did it feel as if her heart had just shattered into a million pieces?

  Chapter 12

  Dom paced the length of the Winslow drawing room.

  Well, this was a new experience. He’d seldom been forced to call on unmarried ladies, and never before had he been made to wait this long.

  But then, when had Evelyn Winslow ever been an ordinary miss?

  No other woman had given him a sleepless night before, but that was exactly what she’d done. After he’d walked away from Williams with her letters safely in his possession, he’d scoured the ball for her, only to discover that she’d already left. And so had Sabrina, with Viscount Northland. So he’d spent the rest of the night alone at the studio, unable to focus on anything except Eve.

  Dear God, her face—he’d never seen a woman look so wounded as when she stood in that drawing room last night and listened as everyone laughed at her. Which was why he was here. To make certain she was all right.

  All he had were questions without answers and a half-finished painting that now could never be completed. She’d stared at him all night from that canvas, yet instead of infuriating him for snatching his dream away, what he felt every time he looked at it was loss. It was the same grief he’d felt when he’d inherited and had to leave Venice.

  He’d been prepared for the painting to be finished and to never see her again. That was often the way with models. One and done, and he’d expected no less from her.

  But he’d never suspected that her leaving would cause such physical pain and confusion. And worry.

  “Your Lordship?”

  He spun around, expecting the butler, but instead coming face to face with—

  “Henry Winslow.”

  Eve’s father stuck out his hand as he came forward into the room with all the confidence of a man who owned the world. Which was almost true, apparently. From what information Dom had managed to glean from Davies while the man dressed him that morning, Winslow might not own all the world, but he certainly possessed a great chunk of it.

  “Welcome.” Winslow frowned. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”