Then she became aware of gentle hands urging her to care, to ignore the fact that the remainder of her life would be spent within the bowels of hell.
Hell and damnation!
As soon as Rafe was in his bedchamber with the door slammed behind him, he began tearing at his sopping clothes before they suffocated him. Buttons went flying, brocade and linen ripped. He was fighting to draw in breath, had been ever since he’d made the ghastly decision to cart the woman back to his residence. He knew it was a mistake the moment she wound her arms about his neck and clung tenaciously to him.
He couldn’t very well drop her at that point, no matter how desperately he’d wanted to be rid of her cloying hold. So he’d urged himself on with a mantra:One more step, one more step. Almost there.
Knowing all the while that he was lying to himself, that he had a good distance to travel. Why the devil hadn’t he taken the time to have his carriage brought round? He’d been almost certain where she was going. Instead, like a blundering idiot, he rushed out into the rain after her to ensure that she reached her destination without being accosted.
He’d wanted Wortham, the worthless blackguard, to tell her exactly what his plans for her had entailed, that he had purposely set out to ruin her, to turn her into what her mother had been. Rafe had intended to lead her back to his residence with the assurance that he would forgive her unconscionable behavior, but he would not tolerate it in the future.
Instead, he had watched as she’d banged on the locked door, had heard her exchange words with the butler when he finally appeared to her summoning, had seen her crumple into a shattered heap.
Damn Wortham for being the coward he was!
With his clothes finally strewn about his bedchamber, Rafe marched to the fireplace, set match to kindling. When the fire was finally going properly, he stood. The flames licked at the air, but the warmth barely reached him as, legs spread, head bowed, he grabbed the mantel and stared into the writhing precipice. Finally able to breathe again, he gasped in great draughts of air.
Anger swirled through him. Anger at Wortham for his insipid handling of the situation; anger at the woman for looking at him in abject despair. Images of his own caterwauling at the age of ten had rushed through his mind. It was disconcerting to feel completely helpless, to not know how to right things for her. He’d wanted to shout at her to stop blubbering, buck up, be strong, stop being ababy—
He pressed his head to the hard edge of the marble mantel, welcomed it digging into his brow. Was that the reason that Tristan had lashed out at him, called him a baby all those years ago? Because he’d felt helpless, maybe even terrified himself, had feared that he was on the verge of tears as well?
It had unnerved Rafe to see her reduced to a lifeless heap, especially when the evening before she’d been daring enough to inform him that they didn’t suit. As though he wanted them to be well matched, as though it mattered to him.
He should have left her on her brother’s front stoop, but by God, she was his now. He had claimed her, whether she liked it or not. Whetherheliked it or not. He had put a great deal of effort into building a reputation as being someone who was dangerous, who got his way at all costs, who was not to be trifled with. What would happen to his reputation if word got out that he’d allowed her to escape him?
The aristocracy’s fondness for gossip was astounding. That he and his brothers were often the center of the gossip was beyond the pale. Why anyone cared what they did was outside his comprehension, but care they apparently did. Ever since the brothers disappeared on a cold wintry night in the year of our Lord, 1844. Rumors abounded regarding what had truly happened to them. When they returned to Society, the gossip worsened. They were viewed as barbaric, just because Rafe had held a pistol on a servant who had refused to announce their arrival at their uncle’s ball, and Sebastian had very nearly choked their uncle to death when he’d first clapped eyes on him. It had not helped matters that several months later their uncle died mysteriously.
So it was with certainty that Rafe knew a good many people were well aware he had taken on a mistress. Which meant, by God, that she would serve as his mistress. Whether she wanted to or not. Whetherhewanted her to or not.
He was not a man known to waver when it came to decision making. He set his course, traveled it, and Lord have mercy on anyone who sought to block his path or prevent him from reaching his destination.
He didn’t know how long he stared into the fire arguing with himself, convincing himself that the arrangement regarding Evelyn—a name that didn’t roll easily off his tongue—had been made, and that he would follow it through, regardless of cost, when the rap on the door brought his scathing diatribe up short.
“Yes?”
“The lady has finished her bath, sir. She is presently drinking tea.” Laurence spoke through the door. Every servant knew that no one was admitted into Rafe’s chamber. No one. They thought him eccentric. If they knew the truth, they would believe him mad.
“Very well, that’s all,” he replied before shoving himself away from the mantel. He had a blinding headache. He combed his fingers through his unruly hair. It was dry, so he must have been waiting for her to be ready to receive him for some time now. When he was lost in thought, minutes could slip away without him realizing it. He didn’t allow clocks to govern his life. He did what he needed to do when he needed to do it.
Now he needed to speak with her, make sure they came to an understanding regarding this situation.
He didn’t bother to ring for his valet. No need to dress formally. Trousers, loose shirt was about all he’d need.
He glanced at the door that separated his room from hers. He wouldn’t use it tonight. For her sake he would enter through the hallway, but after their discussion, she would understand that no barrier had the power to keep him from her.
The room was warm, the fire crackling, and yet sitting in front of the fireplace, Evelyn felt as though she were carved from ice. Her own clothes a sodden mess, she wore one of the maids’ nightdress and dressing gown. She had soaked in a tub of hot water for what had seemed like hours. Her hair was washed and braided. She curled one bare foot over the other. She should strive to determine what she was to do about this unfortunate circumstance, but she seemed incapable of managing little more than staring at the yellow and orange flames.
Geoffrey’s strange behavior in the carriage, his cryptic words—she was quite amazed that he had been able to meet and hold her gaze at least once. If she sought to destroy the very fabric of his being, she’d not be able to face him.
A mistress, not a wife. That was what she was to become, what he expected for her future, what he sought to give her. Not love, not a family, not a place in Society. It was not to be tolerated.
What were her options? Literally, all she possessed were the clothes on her back. Well, the clothes she’d been wearing on her back earlier. The clothes she now wore were not hers. She wore them only because of the kindness of servants.
She heard the door click open, without a knock, without warning. She might have assumed it was a servant, but the very air in the room seemed to shift and change as though a mighty gale had suddenly swept through it. The fine hairs on the nape of her neck and arms rose. The footsteps were almost silent, and yet she knew to whom they belonged. Breathing became a chore, but she forced herself to do it because she refused to swoon. It was bad enough that he had witnessed her unconscionably weak and falling apart.
She concentrated on the fire. But even it seemed to have grown smaller in submission.
“Here, you’ll find this will warm you more efficiently than tea.”
