She fought not to regret that she would have no children running about these grounds. As she was only two and twenty, she supposed if Rafe releasedher while she was still young, with all she would obtain from him, that she could secure a husband and perhaps have children. But she couldn’t stay here.
She was surprised that Rafe would situate his mistress beside a noble family, but then he did not seem to follow convention. She had considered introducing herself to the neighbors, but how would she explain her position here? She suspected they wouldn’t be at all pleased to know a woman of such questionable moral character resided within easy reach.
So she stayed in her own garden, sipping on her tea, alone with not even porcelain dolls to keep her company.
She watched as Laurence strode toward her. He was incredibly kind. Perhaps she could convince him to join her for a bit of tea. If she was going to be an unconventional woman then she could treat the servants unconventionally.
“Hello, Laurence.”
Stopping before her, he bowed slightly. “Afternoon, miss. Several large boxes have arrived from a Madame Charmaine. I’ve placed them in the parlor to await your inspection.”
“Oh.” She popped up out of her chair. “My wardrobe.” Already? She could hardly believe it. Nor could she believe her excitement at the prospect of having something to wear other than her one black dress. If Laurence didn’t have such long legs, she doubted he’d be able to keep up with her. She was fairly skipping over the lawn.
“Is it usual for Mr. Easton to stay away so long?” she asked.
“Yes, miss. Sometimes I wonder why he even bothers to have a residence. I believe he prefers his club.”
She peered at him out of the corner of her eye. “Have you ever been there, to his club?”
“Once or twice.”
His answer seemed a bit evasive, and she couldn’t help but wonder why. It seemed everyone associated with this residence held secrets.
He opened the door to the small sitting room and she skirted past him into the hallway. “Send Lila to me.”
“Yes, miss.”
Laurence veered off, while Evelyn carried on until she reached the entryway. She swept into the parlor and stumbled to a stop.
Rafe lounged in a chair near the window, with sunlight pouring in to bask him in its golden warmth. One leg was outstretched, the other bent at the knee, one elbow resting on the arm of the chair, a tumbler of honeyed liquid near his lips. Lips that had taunted and teased her, warmed her, sent pleasure whirling through her.
Pleasure very similar to what was thrumming through her now at the sight of him. He was so large, so very masculine, so incredibly beautiful even though it was obvious that he’d not bothered to shave in some time. But the stubble only served to make him appear more sensual, more enticing.
She clasped her hands together to stop herself from reaching for him. She feared she’d find not being able to hold him torturous in the days and nights to follow. Because if she couldn’t hold him, he in all likelihood wouldn’t hold her. And that seemed almost a sin.
“You’ve returned.” Her voice was raspier, throatier, and sounded quite breathless. From the scurrying to get here, no doubt. Not as a result of any joy emanating from the fact that he was here, because his presence always brought with it the possibility of total ruination.
“It would seem so, yes,” he said, his gaze shuttering whatever he might be feeling upon seeing her again. Probably nothing at all. It saddened her to think that he might never view her as anything more than a tumble. He waved his glass toward the boxes. “Some of your clothing is completed. The remainder should be finished by the end of next week.”
She glanced over at the myriad of boxes before returning her attention to him. They seemed inconsequential now that he was here. She wanted to ask him where he’d been, what he’d been doing, why he had stayed away, if he was well, although she doubted he’d answer. “You went to the trouble to pick them up.”
He shrugged. “I was passing by. Take a peek, see if the items are to your liking.”
She desperately wanted to tell him that he couldn’t just leave her here, languishing, worrying over him—but she didn’t want him to know that she had been worried. Were men likely to become volatile when they lost a good deal of money? She had disquieting visions of him being accosted by someone who had lost at cards at his club. Someone like Geoffrey.
She wanted to inform him that she expected certain considerations, but an image stuttered through her mind—one she’d not thought of in a good long while. Her mother sitting by the window, dressed so beautifully, gazing out.
“What are you doing, Mama?” Evelyn had asked.
“Simply waiting for the earl, darling.”
In retrospect she realized that her mother had spent a good deal of her time simply waiting. Now it seemed living in expectation of Rafe’s arrival would become her lot in life. But waiting on him was preferable to waiting for Geoffrey to come unlock her bedchamber door.
She also remembered how her mother would rush out the door the moment she spotted the earl’s carriage. How she would be in his arms as soon as he alighted. How after he patted Evelyn’s head and gave her a doll, he would go up the stairs with her mother. She wondered if she’d ever experience such delight in Rafe’s arrival. Delight, not relief because she suddenly thought that she should do more than simply stand there like a ninny reveling in his physical perfection when it was obvious that seeing her stirred nothing at all in him.
Self-conscious of her role in his life, she turned to the first box, lifted the lid, and dug through the tissue until she found the dark blue riding skirt with its white shirt and its blue jacket trimmed in silver piping. It was elegant, yet sedate. She’d expected the clothing he purchased her to be risqué, to proclaim loudly and clearly what she was, but this was the sort of outfit that a highborn lady would wear. She peered over at him, certain he hadn’t moved a single muscle.
“Thank you. It’s lovely.”
