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She turned her face aside, her ivory skin flushing. "No, you mustn't. I only meant that he—he tires himself, I'm sure, carrying out...errands for you. 'Tis only natural he seems sometimes out of sorts."
As she started past, Evan caught her shoulder. "Stay, finish your tea. I'll take care of Baines." He gave her a little push back toward her chair. "And if you receive any less than the most cordial of words from him in future, let me know immediately."
"Oh, but—"
"Stay." Softening the command by tracing his hand in a lascivious pattern over her derriere, he gave her another push. With an exasperated sigh, she returned to sit in her chair behind the desk.
Evan frowned again as he crossed the salesroom. Baines was well paid to wait upon him, whether at his town house in Portman Square or here. The fact that nearly every day the man had to bestir himself to bring to the shop a fresh change of day and evening clothes for his master was irrelevant. If the lackey had any complaints about the change in routine Evan's new lady had caused him, he'd better get over them. Or find a new master.
After delivering a few terse words that had his employee avowing delight in serving his master however his lordship required, Evan dismissed the man. He dropped a kiss on Emily's forehead as he passed her and climbed the narrow stairs to her bedchamber.
Behind the curtained screen in the corner he struggled to pull off his coat. Why, he wondered for perhaps the hundredth time since beginning to spend many of his evenings here, did fashion require garments so tight one truly needed one's valet to get in and out of them? He certainly didn't want the man about, looking down his long nose at this modest dwelling—or its mistress—with that snobbery as engrained in the service community as it was among their employers upstairs. Even were there enough space for Baines to tender him a valet's service, which there wasn't.
Panting, Evan finally succeeded in stripping off the coat. He tossed on a clean shirt and struggled into his evening jacket, pushing hard to force his arm through the narrow opening. Suddenly his hand broke free, hitting the wall beyond with a sharp crack.
Cursing, he rubbed the offended knuckles. This changing alcove was just not broad enough for a man of his size, nor was the ceiling in the small chamber tall enough. Once again he thought longingly of moving Emily out of these cramped quarters and into a house more worthy of her. One spacious enough to accommodate him.
But how to get Emily to agree to it?
He had to smile wryly at his naive initial vision of settling her in an elegant town house with a discreet staff of servants, carriage at the ready to carry them to the Park or shopping or the theater.
Dazzled with euphoria their first heady week together, he'd proposed just such an arrangement—and received a categorical refusal.
The portrait of injured dignity, Emily had drawn herself up and apologized for offering him accommodations so inferior to those to which he was doubtless accustomed. Though he was exceedingly kind to offer an alternative, the little shop was home as well as business, the best she could afford at moment, and she wouldn't dream of leaving. As for carriages, she needed none, being too busy to go traipsing about, and the theater— She'd stopped, blanching.
Cursing himself for stupidity, Evan had watched her almost physically recoil from the vision of herself on display in some theater box, the beau monde leveling their collective quizzing glasses and buzzing about the identity of Cheverley's latest filly. Before he could attempt to recover, she concluded in a cool voice that a businesswoman rose too early to make indulging in theater trips prudent, though of course she appreciated his thoughtful offer.
Icy calm replaced her initial agitation. It had taken two days and every trick and charm he could summon to finally bring back the teasing repartee and passionate fire he adored. Uneasy at the possibility of alienating her again, he'd not ventured such a suggestion since. Nor protested when, to his huge disappointment, she subtly but unmistakably made it clear she would not accompany him anywhere in public.
Without words, he understood, and without words, accepted that his very proper love could not tolerate being pointed out as his mistress.
A few weeks later he'd forgotten the lesson. Strolling down Bond Street, he'd chanced to see an exquisite silver-lace mantilla set on a diamond-studded comb, and thought immediately of Emily. Perhaps the soldier had bought her such a headdress while she followed him through Spain, but none so fine as this.
Evan's smug satisfaction evaporated the instant she unwrapped it and her fine eyes clouded with dismay.
"You shouldn't have," she'd whispered, essaying a smile that didn't quite succeed.
"You don't like it."
"No, 'tis exquisite. It's just...you have given me so much already."
His irrational jealousy flared, and before he could think he retorted, "Did your husband never bring you gifts?"
She bent her head, fingers rewrapping the tissue about the comb as if the sparkling reflection of the diamonds were a live and threatening thing. "That...that was different," she said at last. "Besides, 'twould look rather out-of-place in the shop."
A pointed reminder she'd not wear it out anywhere—not with him.
Her lingering distress over the illicit nature of their affair was the only shadow in what had otherwise been the most glorious eight weeks of his life.
What a wonder she was! From the first day, she'd continued to amaze him with her talent and intelligence, to mesmerize with her depth and complexity. Nor had the pull of her beauty lessened. Indeed, if such a thing were possible, the attraction seemed stronger than ever.
So drawn to her was he that he'd several times forgotten to attend social engagements at which he'd planned to be present. Of late he'd evaded such entertainments, despite his mama's unspoken concern. Except for an occasional lunch or political dinner, he'd ceased to frequent his clubs. What attraction could some dull ton party, exactly like every other he'd attended a score of Seasons and more, exert compared to the rich delight of his world with Emily?
Beautiful, demure, devilish Emily. Even the thought of her made his spirits, and other things, rise.
Still, he concluded as he had to stoop to tie his cravat at the dressing table mirror, the current situation was clearly inadequate. Not only did he need more room to change clothes without bruising his fists and damaging the plaster, it chafed him to see her living in tiny rooms above a shop— she who should be mistress of a stylish town house equipped with a staff to do her bidding and—without complaint or raised eyebrows—his.
True, he admitted, as her business grew she might well one day earn enough to purchase such accommodation herself, but for the immediate future—
The solution that flashed into his head was so brilliant he caught his breath, his hands stilling on the cravat. So brilliant, so perfect was it, even his proper Emily would not be able to find a flaw in his reasoning.
Excitement speeding his fingers, he swiftly finished the knot. There was, he thought with a giddy laugh, more than one way to move a lady.
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Emily was at her worktable, absorbed as usual in the completion of a design, when she was seized from behind and two hands clamped over her eyes. After an initial terrified squeak, she caught at the imprisoning wrists. "Evan, stop! I've work to finish."
"It will wait, sweeting. I've a surprise to show you that cannot. Come, Francesca will take you."
"But the shop...the customers—"
“Can return later. Francesca has your cloak and reticule. I'll see you shortly." He leaned over to give her a lingering kiss, then released her wrists. "You know the place, Francesca?" He turned to the maid.
"Aye, my lord. Half an hour, we come."
"Good." Grinning like a small boy inordinately pleased with himself, he strode out.
Totally at sea, Emily followed the maid outside and into the waiting hackney. During the drive, she tried to question Francesca, but the maid would only shake her head and smile, her dark eyes dancing with excitement.
Wherever could he be sending her? Panic flared briefly and died. No, if he were thoughtful enough to honor her unspoken preferences and provide a hackney to convey her separately, rather than taking her up in his crested carriage, surely he was not going to meet her in some public place. And she'd detailed in quite plain, emphatic terms that she neither wanted nor would accept gowns, jewels or other frippery gifts. What could it be, then?
The jarvey left the mercantile district near St. James and headed south. At last the conveyance pulled to a stop on a quiet street before a handsome brick town house.
A liveried footman escorted her up the broad front stairs. Francesca trailing close behind, she followed him through the graceful Adam doorway into a marble entry hall. A smiling Evan awaited her.
"Hush, don't say anything yet." He put a finger to her lips. "Let me show you around."
"But I have work and—"
He silenced her with a kiss. "Indulge me for just a little while. Francesca, there's tea in the kitchen."
With a curtsey, the maid left. Clamping her hand on his arm, Evan proceeded to conduct her through the dwelling, from the reception rooms on the first floor to the spacious parlor and dining room and several bedchambers above.
It was indeed a lovely house. A lovely little love nest in which a rich man could install his mistress. As they went from room to room, her distress and anger grew until, as he grandly opened a door to lead her into a bedchamber so truly lovely she wanted to weep, she could stand it no more.
