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“Your lordship—oh.”

They sprang apart.

“Hazel,” he said as neutrally as he could manage considering the surge of pure frustration he felt over being interrupted mid-kiss. “I was just wishing your granddaughter a good night.”

“Yes, I see that,” she said impishly. “Good night, your lordship. Sleep well.”

He fled into the washroom.

That kiss had inflamed parts of him that always responded with an ungentlemanly lack of decorum around Miss Ballard. He stripped off his clothes and the bandage on his ankle, turned on the hot water faucet, mixed it with the cold tap until the temperature was tolerable. He stood in the gigantic cast iron tub with spray from the shower head raining down on him, cock in hand.

He knew what her lips felt like now. Soft and firm. The shape of her body was imprinted upon his. They had spent half the day together. As much as he would love to luxuriate in the warm spray imagining Evaine’s breasts and her soft sighs as she took him deep, he couldn’t stay in here all evening. He came with a furious groan. Watched his seed swirl down the drain.

Didn’t feel much relief for having taken himself in hand.

His own palm was no substitute for Evaine’s touch. He’d been fighting to suppress an erection ever since the gentle brush of her fingertips on his ankle. He re-wrapped his foot. It wasn’t nearly as neat as Evaine’s. Nor as arousing.

With a towel clinging to his hips for dear life, he braced himself against the sink and stared into the mirror. “You have to work with her. Not seduce her. Not fuck her. Not marry her,” he told his reflection, knowing that if either of the first two things happened, the third would become inevitable. Best to get the notion out of his head right now. He was here to demolish his legacy, not cement it.

He would never marry. Never pass on the blight of Wolfhaven’s legacy.

All to claim a hollow victory over a man who had been dead for ten years.

Gareth stared at his own damaged face.

“This is your fault, Father,” he said to no one. “You wrought this end. Brought your entire line crashing down.” He would see this through if it killed him.

In the mirror behind him, a shadow moved. Startled, Gareth whirled.

Nothing was there. Barely a flicker of the curtain where he’d been certain he’d seen the outline of a man.

“Stay dead, damn you,” he gritted out, and slammed out into the hallway.

Evaine

After her interrupted rest the night before, Evaine slept like the dead. Gran’s coughing never once roused her.

She dreamed of Gareth’s kiss over and over again, waking in such a state of unmet need that she barely noticed what time it was when she finally awoke for the day.

“Gran?” She sat up, but her grandmother’s bed was empty and neatly made. The curtains were closed. Daylight poured in around the edges. Evaine rolled out of bed and yanked them aside. The sky beyond was bright with puffy clouds in the distance. No sign of rain. Surely that was a good sign. The cottage might dry out quickly in this crisp fall weather. They might not have to stay in the haunted mansion for the winter, if Cogswell could repair the roof.

Evaine tested the water in the bathroom and found it warm. Someone must have gotten up before her and lit the water boiler again this morning. Hopefully, it wasn’t the duke. Or Gran, for that matter. Neither of them was in physical condition to be performing manual labor. She should’ve done it herself, but since the water was already hot, she decided to take advantage of it and wash her hair.

The stream from the showerhead only lasted a few minutes, but it was enough for her to remember that kiss and imagine Gareth’s body on hers as she ran her fingers through her slick folds. Her core clenched around emptiness.

She wanted him badly, but she knew where that led. Men like him pursued women like her for only one thing. Sex. And while she wanted that too—very much—she had already experienced the heartbreak that came after base needs had been satisfied. It wasn’t worth the risk.

But she wouldn’t mind kissing him again if the opportunity presented itself. The duke was surprisingly good at kissing.

Well-rested and clean, she felt markedly refreshed. She dressed in a clean shirt and long brown skirt over a cream petticoat edged with lace. Gran, who was sitting at the table in the kitchen, reading a newspaper that had to be months old, eyed her outfit askance when she walked in.

“You should wear something more feminine,” she admonished. “There are tea and toast. Help yourself.”

“My skirt is perfectly feminine. It’s a skirt. By definition, it’s a feminine garment.”

“It’s nearly as mannish as those awful trousers you wear sometimes.” Gran pointed one gnarled finger at the ceiling. “He likes you. You could be a duchess if you play your cards right.”

Evaine rolled her eyes. “Have you seen the duke?”