Delectably Undone! (4 page)

He strode over and picked it up:

Evelyn came by to collect the paintings. I have gone out for a meal with him. I won’t be late. L.

Brief. To the point. And so unlike the way she would have once written to Lionel. Lionel, who had once savagely demanded to know what Evelyn’s intentions were toward Loveday. He remembered with shame his wordless reaction, his shock at the thought of marrying so far beneath him, his horror at the thought of his family’s likely response…. Lionel had read his answer in his face, dropped him with one swift blow and left.

Evelyn picked up the pencil and scribbled a note at the bottom.

He was waiting by the outer door when she emerged, and his breath hitched. It wasn’t the gown. That was gray, ill-fitting and buttoned to the throat.

It was her hair. Released from the imprisoning knot, it was pinned up more loosely, curling around her face as it always had, so that his fingers itched to slide in and tumble the fiery mass around her shoulders, spread it over crisp white linen as he—

He clamped down on his unruly thoughts, glancing at the note to remind himself of the promise he had written there. To himself as much as Lionel. His word, irrevocably given.

“You’ll need a cloak,” he said, picking up his own evening cloak and moving to the door to open it for her.

She shook her head. “No need.”

“Don’t be an idiot. It’s cold out. Fetch your cloak,” he said, swinging his to his shoulders and feeling for the clasp.

She swallowed. “I don’t have one.”

His fingers stilled on the fastening. Her cheeks were fiery.

“Why not?”

Her jaw tightened. “Because I sold it, if you must know!”

His stomach clenched. Things had been that bad? He held back the words that leaped to his tongue. He had bought the paintings. The money was in the bank, albeit Lionel’s account. They would be all right now.

“No matter,” he said. “Use mine.” Swinging the cloak from his shoulders again, he went to her and settled it around her, drawing it close. A mistake. The fragrance of cinnamon and apple curled through him again. Sweet. Spicy. Intoxicating.

With a mental curse he stepped back from her quickened breathing and the temptation of the drifting curls.

“Come. You must be hungry.” God knew
he
was. He held the door for her and tried not to breathe as she passed.

Halfway down the creaky stairs she stopped.

“Oh!” Her hand went to her mouth. “I might have left a candle burning. In…in the back room. Wait here. I’d better check.” And she hurried back up the stairs.

He waited at the bottom. Moments later she reappeared.

“Had you?” he asked.

She looked blank. “Had I what?”

“Left a candle burning.”

In the gloom of the yard he could have sworn she was blushing.

“No, I hadn’t.” Then, her voice a little high, she said, “We will not be very late, will we?”

“No. Not late,” he replied. And wished it were otherwise—that he could keep her out shockingly late, scandalously late. That he could take her home to his bed and spend the whole night ravishing her and being ravished in return….

She forgot all her worries. Forgot everything except that she was with him again, and that they were Loveday and Evelyn, not the aristocrat and the painter’s sister. She remembered things, too. Such as his undignified enjoyment of hot, roasted nuts bought straight from the vendor’s brazier.

And if her heart skipped a beat to find that he remembered things, what did it matter? Did it matter that he bought her eels down by Westminster Bridge, and stole several bites as he had always done? Or that he wiped her fingers afterward with his handkerchief, as he had done long ago, laughing at her protests?

She floated through the evening enfolded in his cloak and scent, a fragile bubble of joy surrounding her. She knew it could not last, that when he took her home she must let the evening’s delight pass from her, and not try to cling. That would extinguish even the memory of joy. But she would not think of it now.

She had relaxed. And he had never enjoyed an evening more. The ball he had planned to attend later was far from his mind. And as for the dinner he was supposed to be enjoying right now at his aunt’s house, while meeting the lovely and wealthy Miss Angaston…well, Aunt Caroline was going to tear strips off him, but the bites of jellied eel Evelyn stole from Loveday were far more to his taste. He shared the roasted nuts with her, too, popping them into her mouth one by one, holding back the rising tide of desire when her lips closed on his fingers.

The evening wore on. Nine o’clock came. And went. Ten o’clock. He should be at the Hardress ball by now. Aunt Caroline, already furious at his non-attendance at her dinner, would be fuming. Every polite smile and charming excuse she made for him would only add to the reckoning. But what if he took Loveday home and Lionel wasn’t there?

Even here, out in the street, he was aware of her every breath, the fragrance of her hair, every eyelash. In the confines of her lodgings his control would be stretched to breaking point.

He shouldn’t have brought her out like this, though. She was far from the only woman being escorted by a man. He knew what many of them were. Once, he would have been looking at them. As the other men looked at Loveday. Even men with other women. Snared by the flaming hair and pausing to look further, hot speculation in their eyes.

Evelyn thanked God for the enveloping cloak, but nothing could veil the sparkle in her eyes or hide the sweet fullness of her mouth. Fortunately, a threatening glare from him was enough to keep the others at bay.

Until they ran into Huntercombe.

“Hi—St. Austell!”

He would have kept going except that Loveday, hearing him hailed, had stopped.

“Evening, St. Austell.” Huntercombe’s gaze flickered to Loveday, slid over her in speculation.

A slow burn ignited in Evelyn’s gut. Huntercombe was the sort of pond scum that gave ponds a bad name.

“Huntercombe. You’ll excuse us.”

Lord Huntercombe grinned. “Oh, of course.” He cast another appraising look at Loveday and Evelyn felt her shrink closer, felt as though a bucket of slops had been tipped over them both.

“Huntercombe at your service, my dear,” the man murmured.

Loveday said nothing, but Huntercombe didn’t seem to care. He addressed Evelyn again. “Very nice, St. Austell.” He leered at Loveday. “As tasty a morsel as ever I saw. Let me know when you’re done plowing her, and I’ll—”

Huntercombe crashed into the gutter, doubled over, clutching at his midriff, blood pouring from his nose. And Evelyn found himself standing over him with clenched fists, his knuckles bruised, rage burning unfettered, and Loveday clinging to his arm.

Slowly her voice penetrated the red mist. “…No, Evelyn, please. You mustn’t. Please, come away.”

Huntercombe sat up, wiping away blood. “Good God, St. Austell!” He staggered to his feet with the help of one of his friends. “Are you mad? What’s the—”

“Apologize.” It was all Evelyn could get out from between gritted teeth.

“What?”
Huntercombe’s eyes goggled. “Damned if I will! Apologize? To some doxy you’re— All right! All right!” He backed away, stumbling over the gutter.

“Beg pardon, ma’am. Didn’t see how it was.” He shot Evelyn a confused glance that suggested he still didn’t see how it was. Shaking off his friends’ hands, he pushed his way through the gathering crowd, a handkerchief held to his nose, and was gone.

“Evelyn!” Loveday was tugging at his arm. “You shouldn’t have done that. Please—can we go?”

He looked down at the huge golden eyes raised to his face. Her distress scored to the bone. What had he been thinking, to bring her out like this and expose her to—

To what? Insult? Men who would look on her as a tasty dish to be sampled and shared with a friend? Men who would look at her as selfishly as he had once done? With shaking hands he drew her closer, tucking her against him with an arm over her shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Come. I’ll take you home.”

They walked. He suggested a hackney, but she refused. Part of him exulted secretly, because she would be with him that little bit longer. Nor had she pulled away, but stayed close, nestled against him. And part of him burned with shame that she considered
him
, of all men, a refuge, when all he wanted was to take her back to his own lodgings and make love to her. While he was supposed to be courting Miss Angaston.

What was he to do if Lionel had not returned? Was she safer with him or without him?

Joy had drained from the evening, leaving a sour taste, and when they reached Little Frenchman’s Yard mist slithered from the dark passage to coil about their feet. Involuntarily, Evelyn’s arm tightened around her.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“No.” But he held her closer, as if the pale streamers could slide between them and steal her away. He stepped into the shadows with her, savagely aware of the softness of her body against his, the weight of her head on his shoulder, her sweet fragrance all about him. His body had hardened, blood beating in a heavy, urgent rhythm.

She stopped. Turned to him, her face a pale blur in the enveloping darkness…

She deserves better
.
You hurt her once. You swore you wouldn’t do it again!

“We shouldn’t stop here,” Evelyn said. Not just because he didn’t think he could withstand much more, but because the darkness was alive, might swallow her…take her away again.

She might be safer if it did…

Her hands were spread against his chest and, helplessly, one of his came up to cover them, press them against his heart. And she leaned into him, stretching up, and her mouth was close. Too close, so that her soft breath sighed over his lips. With a groan of despair he bent his head and surrendered.

She kissed him. All soft, warm lips. Hesitant. Shy, yet eager as he returned her kisses, fighting for control of the storm surge that rode him. He fought to feather gentle kisses over her mouth, fought the urge to ravish as her lips parted and she invited him in. He gave her what she asked for, feeling her tremble as he licked into the honeyed warmth. Her tongue met his in a wondering, perilous dance as he gathered her against him, brutally aware of his aching length pressed into her belly…of her sweet, spicy fragrance, warm with her arousal. His mind reeled as her hips moved against him. Tempting. Inviting.

He broke the kiss and drew back from her, feeling as though he had been ripped apart. Breathing hard, he shook his head to clear it.

“I’ll—” His voice was hoarse. Dragging in a breath, he tried again. “I’ll see you to the door.”

God help him if Lionel hadn’t returned. Evelyn wasn’t sure he’d have the strength to stop if she kissed him again.

Trembling fingers traced his lips. He jerked away and her hand fell.

“No more,” he said, more harshly than he intended. “I swore this would not happen.” He dragged in a breath to strike the blow that would cut them apart. “I’m leaving town tomorrow. The likelihood is that I’ll be betrothed by the time I return.”

Loveday became very still.

“It’s better if we don’t see each other again,” he said quietly. “Tell Lionel I was sorry to miss him. My people will let me know when the paintings are complete.”

Not daring to meet her gaze, Evelyn turned away. Without another word he crossed the yard, aware of her behind him as they trod up the steps. Once on the landing, she slipped around him and unlocked the door.

Lamplight spilled out and a queer stab of emotion went through him. Relief? Disappointment? A shabby old cloak was cast over a chair by the table, the note they had left lying beside the lamp, rather than under the candlestick. Lionel was home. She was safe.

“Wait, you mustn’t forget your cloak,” said Loveday. Her voice sounded constricted, and her fingers fumbled with the clasp. She was shivering, and his gut clenched.

He reached out and stilled her hands. They were cold. “Keep it.” He couldn’t bear to think of the cold eating at her. If he couldn’t remain to keep her warm, then his cloak could do it.

“Keep it?” She stared at him. “I can’t do that. It’s far too expensive!”

“The money doesn’t matter,” he said. He just wanted to know that she was warm. One way or another.

“But—”

“Keep it. For me. Please.” He managed a smile, gathering every remaining vestige of willpower. “Good night.”

Loveday stood, bereft, huddled in the warmth and musky male scent of Evelyn’s cloak. It was just a cloak. An elegantly cut piece of cloth that didn’t fit her. She had no business feeling cherished in it.

Any more than she ought to feel cherished in Evelyn’s arms. She didn’t fit there, either. Not really. The leering gentleman he had knocked down, and the news that he was intending to marry, had only reminded her of what she already knew—that if she had any part in Evelyn’s life it could only be as his mistress. She couldn’t find it in her to condemn him for that. It was the way of the world.

He was a viscount. Marriage for him was a matter of wealth and lineage. It wasn’t his fault she wanted more than he would ever be able to offer. He was wiser than she. Kind, too, because instead of staying and taking his pleasure, he had left.

She belonged in one frame, he in another. And although he might briefly step beyond his boundaries to enter her world, she could never follow him back to his. She could have asked him to stay, but if she had she would have had to confess the truth. All of it. That he had been deceived in every possible way.

Blinking hard, she stepped over to the table and picked up Lionel’s shabby old cloak. Her gaze fell on the note she had left. Something extra was written at the bottom. She picked it up.

Lionel—don’t worry. I swear she will be safe with me this time.

Evelyn.

A tear splashed onto the paper. And another. Angrily, she dashed them away, hanging Lionel’s old cloak behind the door. Tears wouldn’t help. Anyway, things were better now. The money Evelyn had paid for the paintings was a godsend. It meant safer lodgings, fuel for a fire, painting supplies, food. Another week or so and it would have been the streets.