He tilted his head and several strands of silver at his temples caught the light. ‘Give me a chance. Allow me the opportunity to get to know who you are now.’
He reached out with his large hands and folded them over hers. His palms were warm, his fingers strong.
She longed to close her eyes and bask in the familiarity of his touch. Even after all these years, he felt like the closest thing to home that was left.
‘You hurt me,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘I don’t know that I can allow my heart to open to you as it did once before.’
His face collapsed, and she knew he was well aware of what she spoke of. The true issue that lay before them. The impenetrable wall that had formed the toughest callus around her heart. One she was not yet ready to slough off—not when it would leave her too pink and tender, raw enough to flinch at even the slightest of touches.
She pulled her hand from his grip and pushed to her feet, fully prepared to ask him to leave. He rose alongside her and closed the distance between them, filling her space with his familiar scent, triggering memories that made her heart ache.
Tears blurred her vision unexpectedly. This was why she so often tried to put off seeing him. Her heart could not bear the closeness of him any more than she could stand the futility of their meetings.
‘Why will you not leave me alone?’ she asked, transferring her hurt into anger. ‘It’s been two years and I’ve repeatedly rebuffed your attentions.’
Those green eyes searched hers with gentle affection. She did not look away, yielding to the part of her that wished it was possible to peer down deep into his soul, to know the truth of his words, to glean more of his character. Time and circumstance had shaped them both, and she did not know him now any more than he knew her.
The skin around Evander’s eyes tightened in a way that suggested he was doing the same as she: trying desperately to see what was inside.
‘You love me.’
‘I don’t love you,’ she protested weakly.
‘You’re lying.’
He lifted a brow and eased even closer, near enough to kiss.
Her pulse tapped an erratic rhythm. How she wished she could close her eyes and wait for the softness of his mouth on hers once more. Could give in to the desire burning in her veins and the yawning, aching need in her empty chest.
‘Why would you think such a thing?’ Her voice was far too breathless, but she could no sooner control it than she could her rapid pulse.
‘I saw how your hands trembled when you poured the tea, how your cheeks reddened when I entered the room.’
He spoke low, but his mouth was near enough to her ear that she heard every word, felt every one of them with the brush of his warm breath against her neck.
‘Even now you are still flushed, as if you know how tempted I am to kiss you.’
She drew in a soft breath.
He was not wrong. And they both knew it.
Some day he might stop sending flowers. Or worse... He might send them to someone else.
He hovered near her for a long moment, her pulse frozen in a maelstrom of wanting him to kiss her and wishing he would leave.
At last, he straightened. ‘My mother has insisted on having a ball for my thirtieth birthday. I think she feels she must show her gratitude for my staying with her through her illness, though I’ve told her it’s entirely unnecessary.’
‘How wonderful,’ she replied, sensing immediately why he had mentioned his birthday ball.
‘I want you there.’
He lightly touched her face, a mere brush of his fingertips over her jaw. Her breath locked in her chest, unwilling to budge in or out.
Give him a chance.
Attending his birthday ball was no more prudent than hoping he would kiss her. Yet as she became lost once more in his handsome green eyes she could not bring herself to say no.
Blast Sarah for planting such foolish notions inside her head.
‘Send the details.’ Lottie stepped back, giving herself room to breathe. To think. ‘I may be there, but that is not a yes.’
‘Nor is it a no.’
He broke out a smile that took six years off his face and twisted at a tender place she wished would remain buried.
‘You’ll have what you need in the morning,’ he said. ‘Please truly consider it.’
As he left the drawing room to exit the townhouse she found herself warring with the idea of attending the ball. She was grateful she had not said yes. Yet also grateful she had not said no.
She wasn’t certain if she could ever allow herself to open herself to him again as she’d done before, but perhaps it was time to at least become acquainted with Evander once more, to give them both a second chance.
* * *
The birthday celebration was larger than anticipated, with Evander’s guests pouring into Westix Place. It was good to see some familiar faces in the crowd: the Marquess of Kentworth, Viscount Rawley, the Earl of Dalton and his lovely new Countess.
Eleanor had been the first to arrive with Charles—a match that filled Evander’s chest with pride. To see his sister a duchess, and more than that happy, was all he wanted for her.
There was one guest, however, who had not yet arrived. The most important one of all.
Lottie.
Evander checked his pocket watch. She was only a few minutes late, and dancing had not yet started. He considered the chalked dancefloor, the pine boards artfully covered in a whirling design of brilliant colours. The art had been costly, and would be ruined once the dancing began, but Lottie would love it.
Except if she did not arrive soon she would never have the opportunity to see the colourful work before its destruction.
‘Miss Charlotte Rossington,’ the caller bellowed from the entrance of the ballroom.
Evander’s attention snapped to the open doorway as Lottie entered.
Her sapphire-blue velvet gown had a white silk sash just beneath her bosom, where the fabric flared out over her waist, and white silk gloves ran up her slender arms, stopping an inch above her elbows. What appeared to be diamonds sparkled and winked in her dark hair as she moved through the room.
Towards him.
His breath caught and the entire world faded away as she strode towards him with the grace of a queen. She was dressed more grandly than the finest duchess, and her modest neckline, he noted, was at least an inch or two above that of most women in the room.
Her gaze was fixed on him, and it did not waver as she approached.
‘Lottie,’ he whispered.
‘Happy Birthday, Lord Westix,’ she said formally, her chin elevated to an almost haughty angle.
It was a reminder of their need for refrain from familiarity with one another. While he didn’t relish the idea of once more having to revert to titles and all that, he understood the need. He would take Lottie any way he could get her—even if it was as Miss Rossington, beneath the ever-present judgment of the watching ton.
Though he suspected the formality was also for her. Another layer of protection. He had hurt her—he knew that. God, how he knew that.
But now he might finally have a chance to prove to her he was a trustworthy man. One worthy of her heart.
He tried to dim his smile, but doubted his success. In truth, it was most likely impossible, when he was filled with such elation at knowing she’d accepted his invitation. And at what it might mean.
‘I didn’t think you’d come,’ he said.
She discreetly glanced around the room. ‘Everyone is staring.’
‘Of course they are.’ He lifted her hand and kissed the smooth white silk of her glove. ‘You’re the most beautiful woman in the room.’
‘Flatterer,’ she accused, with a pleased smile.
He straightened and gave her a coy look. ‘Whatever is necessary to e
nsure I see more of you.’
She lifted a brow.
‘And you’ve arrived just in time,’ he said quickly, before he could chase her off. ‘The dancing is about to begin. Will you do me the honour?’
She hesitated.
‘It is my birthday,’ he reminded her with a grin. ‘And I have a surprise I want to show you.’
Before she could protest, he indicated the dance floor. Her attention wandered to the chalked artwork and her eyes widened.
‘Do you like it?’ he asked, already knowing her answer and glad of having gone to the expense and effort.
‘It’s a marvel.’ She turned from him and walked towards the whorls of blue and green set over the yellow background of the polished pine. ‘Oh, but it will be ruined once the dancing begins.’
‘As it is supposed to be.’ He held out his hand to her. ‘Dance with me.’
Her lips parted in protest as she looked once more to the chalked art.
‘We’ll be very careful,’ he promised.
Not that it mattered, of course. Once everyone joined them the colours would be smeared together. But he would not lose this opportunity to dance with Lottie before the ton and make it known how he felt about her.
They took their positions for the cotillion and, as anticipated, all eyes were fixed on Evander and Lottie.
‘It’s been half an age since I’ve danced,’ she admitted, when the music brought them together.
‘Yet you are still as graceful now as you were the first time I danced with you,’ Evander replied.
And she was, her steps light, intentionally delicate over the artwork, so only her toes moved across the chalk and left the smallest of scuffs in the design.
As other couples moved around them the chalk smeared, as expected. No one took the care that Lottie did.
‘The first time we danced,’ she said wistfully. ‘That was a lifetime ago, wasn’t it?’
Evander took her hands in the dance and led her to the left. ‘That was when I was my happiest.’
He hadn’t acknowledged such a truth until that very moment. But it was true, when he was with Lottie, he was happier than he’d ever been. Nothing else had brought him similar joy since. Not travelling, nor food, nor even wealth.
She skipped away from him, as per the steps of the cotillion, her feet moving lightly enough that they almost did not mar the chalk, and he found himself grinning. While she claimed to be a different woman now, there were still traces of the girl she once was, even if she didn’t see it.
But he did.
‘Do you still enjoy painting watercolours?’ he asked, when the music brought them together again, recalling how spots of paint had always found their way to her gowns, especially her long sleeves. He ran his thumb over her wrist in memory.
She chuckled, obviously understanding. ‘I do, but I’ve become much more careful in what I wear when I paint now.’
All too soon the music drew to a close and they were forced to bow and curtsey to one another. Formality would draw them apart for the better part of the night now, but Evander was loath to leave her side. Not when he had waited so long for this moment.
‘Thank you for the dance,’ Lottie said. ‘And the memories.’
‘Miss Rossington.’ Kentworth appeared beside them and offered a bow. ‘May I have this dance?’
Evander gritted his teeth and only partially masked his irritation at the Marquess’s interruption. It would not be the last, Evander knew. Lottie had always attracted attention. But when she was younger she hadn’t noticed.
She was well aware of her ability now.
Without any right to lay claim to her, as he would like, Evander relinquished Lottie into the waiting hand of Kentworth and departed the dance floor.
Charles found Evander in the crowd not long after. The Duke’s eyes followed Lottie as she moved across the dance floor, her steps still as careful as they were graceful, despite the chalk having been already scuffed beyond repair by others.
‘You look well,’ Evander said, complimenting his brother-in-law.
‘You’re going to hurt her,’ Charles said. ‘You do realise that.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Evander turned to his sister’s husband.
The Duke frowned at him. ‘Society will never accept her, no matter how much you wish they would. You know the people of our set. They are as unforgiving as they are cruel.’
‘Bollocks,’ Evander said under his breath. ‘You know as well as I do that most of these people can be bought.’
‘Not all.’ Charles pulled his attention from Lottie and settled his bright blue eyes pointedly on Evander. ‘And the ones who cannot are the most brutal, the ones with the most influence.’
He was right, of course—damn him. Evander didn’t want to admit it, but his statement was undeniable.
‘She’s fragile.’ The Duke returned his focus to the dancefloor, where Lottie danced with her undeserving partner. ‘She may not seem it, but it’s a hard exterior built over a woman who is tender beneath.’
This claim Evander did not protest, though he wished he could, for it was the truest of all.
‘I suggest you consider the consequences before acting on your own whims.’
Charles turned from Evander then, and walked away. Had the man not made his sister so blissfully content, Evander would have had the sod removed from his party. And as for the warning...
Evander pushed it aside, certain that everything would be set to rights.
Indeed, he found himself to be far more hopeful than he had been in the past six years.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It had been far too long since Lottie had enjoyed herself as much as she did at Evander’s birthday ball. He was exactly the way she remembered him: charming, handsome, aristocratic. And his eyes remained fixed on her whenever she was near, a besotted grin pulling at his lips.
Being in close proximity to him once more recalled a plethora of feelings she’d worked hard to push away. Warmth filled her chest, and a nervous energy radiated from within: unmistakably love.
It was too alluring to imagine how it could be between them, easy and intoxicating, the way it had been when they were young. Except even the idea of letting her barriers unfurl had her muscles tensing with wounded fear. It was too soon. Even after all these years, it was far too soon to consider allowing herself to be that vulnerable.
‘Lottie,’ a familiar voice called.
She turned to find Eleanor waving towards her.
‘Lottie.’ Eleanor took her hand and squeezed it. ‘It is good to see you. I trust you are well?’
‘Better than I’ve been in a long time,’ Lottie answered earnestly. ‘I’m so grateful to you and your mother for the opportunity you’ve allowed me to pursue.’
‘And I assumed that glow on your face had something to do with my brother.’ Eleanor winked at Lottie.
Heat washed over her cheeks in a blush. An actual blush. Goodness! How long had it been since her blushes had been genuine? Not since she was a young woman in the company of Evander, before he’d left. When it was just the two of them in the country and a whole future stretched before them like a sunlit field.
‘Have you been finding your travels pleasant?’ Lottie asked, referencing the many trips the Duke and Duchess took together through the foreign locations written about in the journals of the adventure club.
Eleanor clasped her hands over heart and sighed with elation. ‘I never knew life could be like this. That love could be like this. I cannot imagine the world I would have lived in had I never had our meetings.’ She inclined her head. ‘Thank you. Truly.’
‘You needn’t—’
‘But I must.’ Eleanor’s green eyes glinted. ‘And I have someone to introduce you to. Shall I have her come tomorrow evening?’
Ah... A new student. ‘By a
ll means,’ Lottie replied gratefully. ‘Thank you.’
‘I assure you it is the least I could do.’
And while they were on the topic of students, Lottie noted that Lord Rawley was on one side of the room and Lady Caroline, rather unfortunately, was on the other.
‘Do excuse me,’ Lottie said to Eleanor, who waved off the request and made her way towards Lady Westix.
Lottie approached Lord Rawley, who regarded her the way a child might a snarling beast creeping out from under the bed.
‘Good evening, Lord Rawley.’
Though she tried to say it as kindly as possible, his eyes grew large in his face. She almost felt bad for him. Almost.
‘Lady Caroline doesn’t appear to have any dance partners.’ Lottie looked to where the young lady lingered, near the wallflowers.
‘Yes, but...’ Rawley looked at his palm, frowned, and then opened it to her. A smear of ink was visible at the centre of his white glove.
Not understanding, Lottie gave him a quizzical look.
‘My steps,’ he whispered. ‘For the dance.’
‘Oh, come, now. You can’t be that bad.’ She held out her hand to him. ‘Practise on me.’
The offer was made in earnest, and hesitantly accepted. But it proved to be to Lottie’s detriment, in the end, for she was incorrect: Lord Rawley truly could be that bad.
They ran into several dancers, he stepped on her toes half a dozen times, and once managed to crack his forehead against hers. Whatever hopes Lady Caroline had harboured for a dance appeared to have dissolved into horror as she watched Lottie return from the dance floor with Lord Rawley.
Not that it mattered. The poor Viscount was so thoroughly humiliated by his performance that he scuttled away, dragging Lottie with him. If nothing else, he hadn’t forgotten his manners in never leaving a woman unattended after a dance.
However, a fine idea lodged in Lottie’s mind, on how to help him overcome his fear of dancing. She glanced down at her blue silk slippers. The tops were now muddied with a blend of blue, green and yellow-brown from the chalk. Though she’d squelched her discomfort at the time of impact, her toes ached from the abuse Lord Rawley had unintentionally administered.
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