Reaching into his trousers pocket, he rubbed the coin. She would tell him to flip it, but he didn’t need to in order to know his own mind.
He’d never needed anyone or anything. Not since that night when their uncle had tried to kill them. He didn’tneedher, but it didn’t stop him from wanting her.
He didn’t know how long he stood there, rubbing the coin, recounting every moment he’d spent with her. He considered lying down on his bed, the one that now looked as though it belonged to a sane man, but he didn’t want to sleep alone.
Turning from the window, he strode back toward the door.
She was his mistress. He made the rules. He would sleep with her when he damned well wanted to, and he wanted to at that moment. He wouldn’t make love to her—
The thought staggered and stumbled through his mind. When had he begun to think of what happened between them as making love? When had it ceased to be merely bedding? When had it become more with her than it had ever been with any other woman?
He pressed his forehead to the door. All he could hear was the silence on the other side. Was she asleep by now? Had she wept? He hated the thought that he might have caused her to cry. She deserved so much better than him. He should walk away, leave, announce the terms met. The residence was already in her name. He’d seen to that before he’d left to retrieve the horse. In truth, she was within her right to toss him out on his ear.
She was a woman who wanted more than he could give her. He could purchase her anything she desired. The problem was what she truly yearned for could not be bought, and well he knew it. He also knew that he hadn’t the means to give it to her.
He wanted to crawl into the bed, have her scoot over, and scrunch up against him. He wanted to feel her pressed against his side, her head nestled on his shoulder, her hand curled on his chest. Once more, just once more, then perhaps he would set her free.
So as not to disturb her, he quietly opened the door and stepped into her bedchamber. Immediately he felt her absence. It was as though all the life, breath, joy had been sucked from the room. He didn’t have to look to know she wasn’t in the bed. He didn’t have to look to know she wasn’t in the residence.
But still he stormed across to the armoire and nearly tore the door off its hinges as he opened it. All the gowns were there: the red, the violet, the yellow. Every dress, every wrap.
All except the hideous black dress and the matching black cloak in which she’d arrived.
“No.”
It was a strangled sound, the cry of disbelief. He hurried over to her vanity, to the jewelry box. Every piece he’d given her was nestled on velvet, winking up at him mockingly. Only the two pieces that her father had given to her were missing.
He felt as though something inside of him was ripping and being torn asunder. She wouldn’t leave him. He wouldn’t allow it.
He tore out of the room and down the stairs. “Laurence! Laurence!”
Somewhere a clock was chiming—once, twice, thrice. It was the bloody middle of the night. Where could she go?
His hair untidy, his jacket askew, Laurence appeared in the entryway just as Rafe reached it.
“Did Eve have a carriage brought round?”
“Miss Chambers, sir? No.”
Then she was on foot. Where was she going?
He rushed out the door and down the steps. He couldn’t see her on the drive. He couldn’t see her in the shadows of the night. He almost screamed her name, but his pride wouldn’t allow him to do it, to let all of London know that once again, he’d been left behind.
Chapter 20
Rafe was standing at the window of his apartments at the club, watching the people coming and going, trying not to remember how much they had fascinated Eve. To not think of her was proving a fruitless endeavor. Everything reminded him of her.
When he walked through his residence, he inhaled her fragrance. He could no longer tolerate being there, not even for a moment. Every room held a memory of her.
It was equally as difficult being here, at his club.
When he boxed with Mick, he thought of Evie enduring his lessons in the ring.
When he looked out over the gaming floor, he saw it through her eyes.
When he went to his office, he regretted that he’d not shown her the globe that Tristan had carved for him, that he’d not told her that he was afraid to be grateful for it. If he truly cared for something, it would be stripped away. The best recourse was not to care.
Then he was immune to hurt.
