A ghost of his former self.
Rain lashed the carriage, pounding the window in frantic splatters.
The dash from Somerset House had soaked Casper’s breeches and boots despite Weston’s finest caped greatcoat, and the hem of Evelyn’s skirt was similarly saturated, that preposterous hat left sagging somewhat.
Without her wet pelisse, he observed her constant shiver, and so throwing caution, good sense and all propriety to the howling wind, he awkwardly raised himself up and hunched to lift the cushioned seat, finding wool blankets and a hipflask of brandy – after all, a gentleman should always hope for the best and prepare for the worst. This situation encompassed both scenarios.
Not wishing to appear the rake, he nevertheless crossed to sit beside Evelyn, just as the rain hardened to hail…in May.
What damn foul weather this year. ’Twas as though this little island had fallen into disfavour and the heavens sought their wrath by assailing it with anything to hand.
Not a word passed Evelyn’s lips as he tucked the blanket about her and then offered the flask. She took an unladylike gulp and as their fingers brushed, he noted her gloves were likewise sodden.
Grasping hold of her wrist, he began to peel away the wet material, revealing blanched palms and reddened knuckles, the cotton no match for such a vile day. Each glove tip was patched.
Casper shoved them in his pocket and stared to the misted window.
Through the veil of white, he glimpsed hawkers and beggars huddling in doorways, slatterns gripping insubstantial shawls to their quivering shoulders and a mangy hound cowering against a shop window to avoid the pelting ice.
Come June, the haymakers from Ireland would be arriving on English shores, with fiddles on backs and tall yarns upon lips, but with this weather the work would be scarce. He must remember to set aside funds for food and shelter.
“You’re frowning,” Evelyn stated to his side.
“The rain. This terrible year will be difficult.”
Bare fingers sneaked out from under the blanket and sought his.
Never had he just…held a lady’s hand but he could now appreciate the benefit. Its tender clasp gave an indefinable comfort, smothering the loneliness and gaining strength from another.
In days past, he’d sought solace from his paintings – his defiant beauty – but never had she sent a unique warmth stealing throughout his chest. Never had he felt such cold calloused skin beneath his own fingers and so yearned to soothe. Never had another touched him with such affection – real and shared.
Never had he enjoyed a day more…
But then Evelyn’s other hand reached up to stroke his cheekbone and that effected an altogether different sensation. A primitive one.
“How did you bruise yourself?”
Being so distracted by thoughts of you, I got repeatedly clouted.
Obviously, he couldn’t say that, but equally he had no wish to sound as though he’d lost the bout – how emasculating.
“I box. But you should have seen my opponent’s face.”
“Hmm.” Suspicion underpinned her murmur. “Is boxing how you stay all…” Evelyn swallowed, accompanied by a cough and he hoped she’d not caught her sister’s ailment. “…muscly. I’ve never seen a nobleman with such a…firm physique.”
Casper attempted to view her eyes as she spluttered anew but her head was slanted to the window and that damn hat prevented close observation.
Grumbling, he reached out and unravelled the ribbons at her throat, heard her gasp but ignored it and proceeded to pull the repulsive article from her head.
It caught in hairclip paraphernalia and she yelped, so he tugged the clips loose as well, until the hat came away like an octopus, all waving silks and dangly bits.
He hurled the abomination to the opposite seat, twisted and gaped.
Evelyn’s hair now tumbled to her shoulders in a profusion of wild curls, a crimson lake red which he wished to plunge into and never breathe again. He stretched out a hand and stroked the mass.
“You claimed I could trust you,” she whispered.
And he kissed her.
