She heard the tread of footsteps pounded in anger. Surprised by the calm that settled over her, she faced the door. Geoffrey barged through, his face a mottled red.
“Now, see here—”
He’d taken but two steps when two of the footmen grabbed him. He tried to shake them off but they held firm. Finally he stopped struggling and glared at her. “You have no right to be here.”
“You packed up all my things. Where are they?”
“I sold them.”
The words slammed into her like a hard fist to her stomach, but she refused to show any reaction. She could be as stoic, as unrevealing as Rafe. “I see.”
“Everything in this residence belongs to me now. I shall do with it as I please.”
Did she hear guilt, remorse? She couldn’t be sure but she was done with giving him the benefit of the doubt. His gray eyes were shooting daggers at her. His behavior saddened her for so many reasons. “I always admired you so much. My older brother, the future earl. But at this moment I don’t like you very much. Father asked you to see to my care, and you did a rather poor job of it. You led me to believe you were seeking to find me a husband.”
“I never said that. I told you that I was going to introduce you to some gentlemen.”
“But you knew what I thought.”
He sneered. “You were always a little fool.”
“I find you remarkably sad.”
“Don’t you dare pity me.”
“Oh, I don’t pity you. You told Father that I would have had all I deserve. Eventually, Geoffrey, I shall be a very wealthy woman. You, on the other hand, will be insignificant.”
“I’m a lord and you’re a bastard.”
How could he be so hateful? How could he despise her so much? She was wasting her time. He would never listen, never truly understand what a wretched creature he was.
“We’re going to leave now and if you make a fuss, my footmen are going to pummel you. So please don’t make a fuss.”
With her head held high, she strode from the bedchamber that had once been hers, where she had once been happy. She supposed she would soon discover if happiness was to be found in another bedchamber.
In the late afternoon Rafe stood at the window of his office, looking out on the street, watching as people bustled by.
He didn’t know why he’d not returned to his residence with Eve. He’d wanted her, God how he’d wanted her. Standing there in his apartments with the lights from outside, and the dim glow inside casting her in shadows that ebbed and flowed with her movements, she’d been a seductress. Her smoky voice and her throaty laughter had added to the allure.
His eyes slid closed as he remembered the kiss. She was becoming quite masterful at parrying. He’d almost given her rein to wrap her arms around him, almost. He’d felt the brush of her hands, craved the touch as much as it repelled him. His chest had tightened, sweat had popped out on his forehead, and he’d known that he’d shove her aside, possibly hurt her, so he’d snatched her wrists before any damage was done.
He didn’t want her first time to be in his den of iniquity, or in his carriage, or in the streets. He wanted her in a bed, properly—or as properly as it could be with a man who had an aversion to being held.
He wondered how Sebastian would feel if he knew the truth of workhouses. He hadn’t then, of that Rafe was certain, but perhaps he did now. Articles had been written about the deplorable conditions, the brutality and cruelty of the owners. Mr. and Mrs. Finch had been particularly ruthless. Their workhouse had been overflowing. Boys slept on pallets on the floor in a locked room. No candles, no light save for what the moon and stars provided.
Sebastian had told him to tell no one who he was, but he was a lord and lords did not sleep on the floor. So the second night he’d demanded a bed.
Mrs. Finch had dragged him to a tiny room. It contained a bed. A hard wooden bed with no mattress, no ticking. And they’d tied him down to it.
Rafe pressed a balled fist to the glass, fighting back the memories, the sense of hopelessness, the fear that he would be left there to die. It was only one of their punishment rooms, but it did its job. The next night, he didn’t ask for a bed.
He slept wedged between two other boys.
A sound at the doorway had him glancing over his shoulder. Mick strutted in, his swollen and bruised jaw stirring guilt within Rafe, but then considering how swollen and tender his eye was, the guilt quickly diminished.
“A message was just delivered for you,” Mick said, holding out an envelope.
Rafe took it. He didn’t recognize the handwriting of flowing script that was his name. It wasn’t from anyone who’d written him before.
