The Rake's Inherited Courtesan (22 page)

He shrugged and gestured that they should continue walking. He matched his steps to hers.

Fear sharpened her tone. ‘Would you?’

‘Lady Sylvia, I am sure you have realised by now that you are far above my touch. You are moving in circles to which I could never aspire.’ He paused as if he were searching for words.

She glanced up at him from beneath the brim of her hat. His gaze was fixed on the distance, his mouth a thin straight line. ‘I think it would be better if you do not contact me again.’

Her breath caught in her throat. It was as if someone had placed something heavy on her chest, a rock, or a mountain. Hot tears choked her throat. No wonder he hadn’t been to see her. Here she was, assuming she was respectable enough for him at last, when all the time he wanted nothing to do with her.

Fool. He had never spoken of love. He had wanted her and she had given herself to him with all the abandon of a whore. He was telling her he had had his fill. And now, just like her mother, she would humble herself before him because she couldn’t help it. Because she loved him. ‘Why?’

At the centre of the park, four wrought-iron benches sat in military square formation. In front of them, an ornamental fountain played gentle water-tunes to a pool of reeds and water lilies.

‘Please be seated, Lady Sylvia,’ he said.

Boiling temper erupted from deep inside her. Rage at her own foolish heart. Anger at her belief in him and at his
coldness when she needed his warmth. She plumped down on to the seat and glared up at him. ‘Lady Sylvia this and Lady Sylvia that. Are you so impressed with titles then, Mr Evernden? And is it still not good enough for you? Or is it because you know the truth about my mother?’

A flash of pain glittered like splintered glass in his eyes. He glanced away. ‘You are talking nonsense.’ His tone was harsh. ‘My business demands a great deal of my time. In fact, I do not know how much longer I will be in England, since I have business interests abroad.’

A muscle flickered in his jaw, then he lowered himself to sit beside her. He flicked at a speck of dust on his boot with his glove. ‘Your father has great plans for you, Lady Sylvia. He has an opportunity to make up for all the years he lost because of Rafter and his schemes. You should be happy.’ His words were rational, his tone gentle, persuasive and patently false.

Aware of the rapid beating of her heart, Sylvia took slow, deep breaths. She’d controlled this pain before, this urge to cry hot tears. She’d been hurt many times by careless cruelty. But not like this, her heart cried.

He didn’t love her.

It wasn’t a mountain on her chest, squeezing out every bit of hope and joy she’d ever known, it was a whole continent.

She kept her gaze fixed on the footman, who gazed with blank concentration at a nearby rhododendron bush. Hands behind his back, he rocked on his heels and kept a wary eye on them. But for his presence, Sylvia might have thrown herself at Christopher, kissed him and taunted him to tell her that he didn’t want her. It had worked last time.

She felt her need for him with every fibre of her being each time he glanced her way. Like the yearning note of a violin, it thrummed sensuously in the air between them, calling. Sickened by her weakness, she turned her face away.

‘And what about you, Mr Evernden? Are you happy?’

‘Of course.’

Two of the smallest words in the world, they were rapier-sharp and accurate in the precision with which he used them.

Anger, fear and pain all disappeared at their cruel incision.

An icy calm filled her. A cold emptiness chilled her blood, her limbs and her sliced-to-ribbons heart. She had too much pride to let him see the effect of his carefully delivered
coup de grâce
.

She schooled her face into calm indifference. ‘Thank you for coming to visit me today, Mr Evernden.’ She rose to her feet. ‘I appreciate you taking the time, since you obviously have so many more important matters demanding your attention. Now, if you will excuse me, I believe I have an imminent appointment with the
modiste
.’

Careful to avoid allowing her skirts to brush against any part of him and with a bare nod in his direction, she swept past him and strolled home, a home as meaningless as a prison.

Sylvia craned her neck to see around the gentlemen who hemmed her into the corner of Lady Dunfield’s glittering ballroom. She had hoped Christopher would attend this last major ball of London’s Season before everyone departed for the summer. It was two in the morning and no sign of him yet. Why would tonight be any different? She hadn’t seen him once in all these weeks since he’d called on her.

She had no pride left, she realised sadly. Each morning she got up, hoping that today she would see him, and that his eyes would reveal his feelings and prove her heart wasn’t broken, even if his lips would not speak the words. That, in spite of what he had said, in his heart he loved her.

Each night, she went to bed and cried into her pillow. Before she had met Christopher Evernden, she had never cried. She dragged her mind from the memory of his beloved face to the eager young fop murmuring in her ear.

‘Allow me to fetch you some lemonade, Lady Sylvia,’ Colonel Nettle said.

Sylvia nodded, squinting against the dazzle of diamonds and staring past the flurry of pinks and lemons and whites of the débutantes swirling on the arms of their black-coated escorts in the last waltz of the night.

Lord Banbury on her left said something and Sylvia nodded absently as Lord Stanford, a full head taller than most of the men around him, threaded his way around the room. It wasn’t so much that others blocked his path, he just seemed to be taking a highly circuitous route. The reason became clear as he hauled on the shoulder of a footman carrying a tray of drinks and nearly pulled the man over. Stanford was a positive drunkard and nothing like his brother.

She wanted to go home.

‘Will you, Lady Sylvia?’ Lord Banbury sounded insistent.

‘Yes,’ she said to be rid of him.

‘Wonderful. I will call for you tomorrow at half-past four.’

Sylvia turned her full attention to the pimply Viscount. He was at least twenty-five, but from her observation of him at the dizzying number of balls and routs she had attended these past few weeks, he behaved more like an emerging adolescent. ‘What?’

He pouted. ‘You weren’t listening. But you said you’d come. I’m driving you to the park tomorrow. You said yes.’

Sylvia took pity on him. It wasn’t his fault he wasn’t Christopher, that he didn’t have hazel eyes with emerald fire in their depths or an intellect like a steel trap. ‘Of course. But you will have to excuse me, I need to speak to my mother.’

‘You lucky dog, Banbury,’ Marchant said, a wisp of man who had stepped on her toes twice during the cotillion. ‘The Snow Queen never drives with anyone. She won’t even waltz. We should try to distract her more often.’

A ripple of male ridicule lapped against her back at
Banbury’s discomfort. God, they were such a shallow lot. Sylvia walked towards her stepmother as swiftly as she could in her slender-fitting blue silk ballgown and matching slippers.

Broad shoulders collided with her and their owner turned to apologise.

‘Good evening, my lady.’

Garth.
Merde.
She didn’t want to speak to him. ‘Excuse me, Lord Stanford,’ she said and glided away.

He kept pace with her. ‘Still the same cold-hearted bitch, I see,’ he said low in her ear. ‘I would have thought driving my brother out of England would have been enough to warm even your chilly little heart.’

The words penetrated her haze of misery. ‘He’s leaving the country soon?’

Garth’s smile was a sardonic sneer. ‘People in your exalted world don’t hear much about the damage they do to the little people, do they?’

He referred to Rafter, no doubt. ‘What about Christopher?’

He raised a slashing dark brow.

Heat climbed into her face. ‘Mr Evernden, I mean.’

‘He’s taken your father at his word. He’s leaving for America. You’ll never have to suffer the embarrassment of his presence again.’

She recoiled at his venomous tone. ‘My father?’

‘Just so. At the request of the Duke and to avoid you further distress at the sight of lowly, unwanted Christopher, he sets sail on the
Free Spirit
out of Dover. She casts off at noon on Saturday. I can’t imagine what he ever saw in a hardened cow like you, for all your beauty.’

With a flourish, he executed an unsteady bow. ‘You, dear lady, will be happy to know you got your way. He’s leaving England.’

As he strode away, several female heads turned to watch the dark and dangerous rake’s progress. His imperceptible roll spoke volumes about his state of inebriation.

Christopher was leaving.

For a moment, Sylvia felt strangely dizzy. A hollow sinking sensation swirled in her stomach. It clawed its way into her chest and filled her mind with darkness. A rushing sound filled her ears.
Oh, God. Don’t let me faint. Not here.

‘Are you all right, Lady Sylvia?’ Nettle, with her lemonade, hovered at her elbow.

She took slow deep breaths. Christopher had never spoken of love. Never had he indicated anything beyond passion during their brief time together. She had convinced herself his omission was unintentional. Now she had her answer. She must have been mad to think anything else.

The wall of ice that had protected her all her life did nothing to shield her from the ache where her heart had once resided. Carelessly ripped out and discarded by a man who cared nothing for her, it lay crushed at her feet. She was just like her mother, waiting for a lover who would never return.

Incroyable
. She was not her mother. She knew better.

She glanced at Nettle’s anxious expression and gave a shaky laugh ‘Yes. Thank you. I just…’ Her eyes burned and she choked on her words. ‘Excuse me,’ she murmured and followed Garth into the card room.

‘Goodbye, Kit.’

Dover’s white cliffs towered above Christopher’s head and seagulls screamed abuse at the stiff breeze supporting them aloft. He hunched into the collar of his thick woollen coat.

Dover. It seemed as if some of the most portentous moments in his life were somehow connected to this dirty port. He released his grip on the rail and turned to grasp Garth’s outstretched hand.

‘Look after yourself, brother.’ Garth’s voice hoarsened with unspoken emotion.

It wasn’t like Garth to be so serious, so grave, almost lost.
Christopher blinked away the mist blurring his brother and the clean lines of the
Free Spirit
. ‘I’ll miss you too. Take care of Mother. I know she acts as if she favours me over you, but if you’d be a little kinder to her, Garth, you and she might rub along better. I talked to her about it too. Yesterday.’

Garth took a step back, his mouth open. ‘You did what?’

Christopher shrugged. ‘I told her she could be a little less hard on you.’

‘And what did she say to that, pray?’

She’d closed up like an oyster protecting a sharp grain of irritation. ‘She changed the subject.’

Garth blinked. ‘Kit…’ His gaze dropped to the deck. He cleared his throat, tugged at his cravat. ‘Kit, there’s something you need to know.’

‘What?’

‘The devil. It’s not really my secret to reveal, but, damn it it all, you are the only one who doesn’t seem to realise…’

Never had Christopher seen Garth speechless. ‘Spit it out, before you choke, or the ship sets sail.’

‘I’m not an Evernden.’

Garth had something loose in his attic. The drink was finally ruining his mind. Christopher put a hand on his shoulder, prepared to suggest he visit a doctor.

‘I’m not Father’s seed,’ Garth bit out. ‘Mother…made a mistake. I’m sorry.’

The deck pitched beneath Christopher’s feet, yet the sea remained calm. ‘My God. That’s why you acted so oddly at the Duke’s. But why apologise to me?’

‘You’re not thinking, Kit. You should have been the heir. You are Father’s first-born.’

‘Bloody hell.’ The realisation hit him like a hammer between the eyes.

Garth stared over the rail. ‘I hope you aren’t going to hate me, the way Father did. The way Mother does.’

‘You numbskull. Is that why you’ve been such an idiot all these years? Look around you. I have everything I could possibly want.’ Everything except Sylvia, and a minor title wouldn’t have helped him in that quarter.

‘Thank you, Kit. You don’t know how much that means.’ Garth’s voice sounded hoarse.

‘Please,’ Christopher said, ‘do something for me. Try to get along with Mother until I return?’

‘God,’ Garth drawled, suddenly his old insouciant self, ‘Mother’s hooks are so deep into Angleforth, she wouldn’t notice if I dropped dead tomorrow.’

Christopher laughed just as Garth had wanted. He shook his head. ‘She’d notice.’

‘I wish you weren’t going.’

‘I’ll be back before you know it. Five years is not so long.’

‘Yes,’ Garth choked out. ‘It bloody well is.’

Christopher found himself crushed in Garth’s bear-like hug, his nose pressed into the rough wool of his brother’s coat. He squeezed back and patted Garth’s shoulder. They parted and gazed past each other with embarrassed grins and watery eyes.

A bell rang. Whistles sounded. The ship strained against its creaking ropes as if anxious to be underway.

Christopher rubbed his chilled hands together and nodded to the waiting tender. ‘If you don’t go soon, you’ll be on your way to America.’

‘I wish.’

‘Come with me.’

A cynical smile twisted Garth’s mouth. ‘Sounds too much like hard work.’

They walked together to the gangway where a boat waited to row Garth to shore. One last link, a flimsy wooden boat soon to sever the tie with England. Tarry-pigtailed sailors shouted back and forth at the capstan and released the hawsers holding the ship at anchor.

‘I saw her,’ Garth said, stepping through the gap in the rail.

His breath caught. He didn’t have to ask who Garth meant. ‘Don’t,’ he managed.

A strange rueful grin on his lips, Garth hesitated a moment before he plunged down the ladder, nodding at the sailor waiting, oars at the ready. A few strong pulls took him to shore, where his long stride carried him swiftly along the dock, past the sailors and fishermen and past the blowsy fishwives who followed his broad-shouldered figure with longing glances.