“Geoffrey!” Oh, God, surely he wasn’t out of sorts aboutthat. “Wortham! Wortham! My lord!”
She heard a click, the door opened slightly, and the butler peered out, barring her entrance.
“Manson, thank God. Let me in.”
“I’m sorry, miss. His lordship has forbidden me to allow you entry into the residence.”
“What? No, you’re mistaken. He wouldn’t—”
“I’m sorry, miss. But we have our orders.”
His expression as bland as unseasoned food, he closed the door. When she tried to open it, she found it once again locked.
She banged, kicked, screamed until she was hoarse. Her knuckles were bruised, her toes ached. Dejected, horrified, terrified, she unceremoniously crumpled onto the landing, all her strength zapped from her. The rain pelted her unmercifully, but surely he would eventually open the door if she just stayed here long enough. He had misunderstood his orders. Surely.
She became vaguely aware of someone crouching before her. She lifted her face. Through the haze of her hot tears, she saw Rafe Easton. His black hair was plastered to his head. He appeared to be as wet as she.
“Come with me, Evelyn,” he said, his voice calm, even.
She shook her head. “They won’t let me in. There’s been a mistake. He wouldn’t do this to me. He promised Father. He promised.”
“You’re soaked through. You’re going to catch your death.”
“I don’t care. He can’t be cruel enough to cast me out like this.” Why was she even talking to this callous man? He didn’t care about her. He only wanted use of her person. Her stomach roiled. She thought she might be ill. Shudders wracked her body. She didn’t know if it was the cold or the sobbing that almost had her convulsing. She’d never felt more dejected in her life.
A fog of grief snaked through her, settled around her. She was shaking so badly, her teeth chattering, that she could barely think. Where could she go? She had no friends, no one who would offer her sanctuary until she could determine how to resolve this dilemma. She had no funds. Everything was in her bedchamber. What had he said when he’d come for her? “We’re going for a ride.” And she’d been so grateful that she’d not questioned him further. Now she had nothing, no one. She wrapped her arms around her middle, trying to contain the pain.
“Damnation,” Rafe Easton growled.
There it was: more proof that he thought so little of her that he would use profanity in her presence. He considered her a guttersnipe. A wanton. Someone unloved. And now she was. She wanted to curl into a ball—
His arms came around her. She was vaguely aware of his holding her against his broad chest, lifting her as though she were little more than a sodden pillow.
She had a strong urge to protest, to let loose a scream that would wake the dead, but all she seemed capable of doing was sagging against him. She wished he were kind. She wished he had spoken for her, that he sought marriage, that his intentions toward her were not so wicked.
He wanted to ruin her, to take away her chance at happiness, a proper husband, and children. He wanted to dally with her, soil her reputation, then toss her aside. Wasn’t that what men did with mistresses? Her father might have even done that with her mother had she not died so young.
Her entire life she’d known exactly what her mother was: good enough to bed, but not to wed. Her father had always made her feel as though she were somehow better than that. Her brother made her realize that she wasn’t.
Beneath the roar of the pounding rain, she became aware of Rafe Easton’s muttering, “One more step, one more step. Almost there.”
She didn’t know why he was urging her on like that. She wasn’t the one taking the steps. Perhaps he thought his words would be reassuring, but she knew what would happen when they were finallythere.
He would take the one thing left to her that mattered, that was of any value. She couldn’t allow that to happen, yet neither could she simply wander the streets. She would find the strength to fight him. She would find a way to barter, to bargain, to regain some pride and dignity.
She was vaguely aware of his climbing steps, of a door opening, of light washing over her.
“Good God,” a voice she recognized as belonging to Laurence said.
“I want a hot bath prepared for her. Rouse the maids to see to her care. She’s like ice. Hasn’t moved a muscle since I picked her up.”
Hadn’t she? She’d thought she’d been protesting, but perhaps it was all in her mind. She was conscious of him going up stairs. The wide sweeping ones that had so impressed her when she’d first stepped into the residence, before she’d known exactly why she was here.
She could hear other footsteps rushing by them, those of a servant perhaps. They reached the landing. The click of a door opening. He swept through the entry, his progress muffled by thick carpets before he set her on the bed. He grabbed her wrists, unlocking her arms from about his neck. When had she clutched him so? Why had she?
He stepped away without a tender touch, a word of kindness, a whisper of reassurance.
“Get her warm,” he barked. “Find her something dry to wear.”
