Would it be sensible to turn into the lure of his arms?
Evelyn focused on the painting once more, thought of the Prince, a sinister brigand who’d slunk away in the dead of night from this patron of art’s house. Could that villainous hand be the creator of such grace and beauty?
“A-are you saying the Prince painted thi–”
A finger brushed her lips. “Some thoughts are best left unvoiced.”
Likekiss me.
Never had Evelyn been a slave to lust or passion. Oh, she had admired the muscular coalman’s shoulders as he’d heaved his sacks and she’d smiled at the grocer’s sweet words whilst choosing apples, but never had she felt such desire – visceral and sharp.
It was disconcerting – to feel an emotion which overcame all else, and temptation beckoned to spill her secrets, to ask what he wanted of her.
But he was a duke. Soon he’d marry a lady of pure bloodlines and dainty manners, who would bring land and wealth, or status and connection. Evelyn knew what Mrs Swift, a lying widow who lived in Covent Garden, was good for…
Mistress.
Even her true identity would remedy little – a baronet’s daughter, yes, but one fallen on hard times, with no reputation to save or relatives to threaten him, just the wolves circling her door.
Perhaps she was being presumptuous in her assertion, but what else could the duke’s interest herald?
Yet despite the temptation before her and the liberal upbringing of her past, she remembered the love between her parents. They may have made errors in life, but they’d been faithful and true unto one another.
One day, God willing, she may find that love and marry also. But if she became the duke’s mistress, Evelyn knew he would ruin her for other men in more ways than one, and when it all turned sour with the duke, as was inevitable, only her deception would be remembered.
And so, she pulled away from the scent of spice and richness, from the glow of candlelight and into the shadows.
Answers. She’d come here for answers.
“Your Grace, pray tell, why have you brought us to this house?”
Casper had no answer.
Indeed, his mind had forgotten all about her lies, Sir Henry, and for a brief moment – no, in fact longer than a moment – even accounts and estate paperwork had faded. He’d merely enjoyed sharing a beautiful painting with a beautiful woman. One who appreciated the artistry, whose hair and smile lit his study brighter than any lantern, whom he craved to possess like an artist craved to paint.
Evelyn had retreated to the shadows of his study but the candlelight still glinted upon her curls. She could never fully blend to the dark.
Anger still burned low in his gut at the redness to her cheek, that he hadn’t been there to prevent such violence, but she was here now, and all he had to do was answer her question.
There was time enough for Evelyn to answer his, when exhaustion did not cloak her eyes and tremble her hand.
Leaning forward, he covered the exquisite painting with a cloth.
“Call me Casper.”
At his audacity, no gasp escaped her lips. It ought to.
No other acquaintances were permitted to address him as such.
Ernest solely uttered it to be annoying, and Uncle Virgil because he’d bounced Casper on his knee as a nipper and liked to remind him of the fact.
No one else.
To be frank, he wasn’t sure others even knew it. Past mistresses had addressed him as Rothwell, even in the heat of passion – their desire was for the duke, not the man.Caspercould be the name of a clerk, hawker or butcher.
Ah, and there it was.
The word had revealed itself hidden in that last thought.
