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He'd said when last they met that he'd never harangue her again. But circumstances were different now. Now they could share together the fullness of intimacy blessed by the legitimacy of marriage.
Unless he no longer wished that.
She recalled the handful of noisy children who, with their mothers, had followed the army's baggage trains. One little lad had begged his papa for a tin soldier like those the other boys had. Finally, when they chanced near a city large enough to have such trifles, his father had bought him one.
At first the child was ecstatic, playing with his new toy all the day and forbidding the other lads to touch it. After a few days he played with it less and less. One afternoon she came upon it at the stream near their encampment. When she returned it, he thanked her politely, then handed it to his mama without so much as a glance, having apparently little interest in his prize now that it was available whenever he wished.
Had the intensity of the emotion Evan felt for her been based in part on the impossibility of achieving the union he'd sworn he desired? And now that he might at any time claim the prize, he no longer wanted it?
Or was it as Andrea said: wounded, half-blind, he felt himself unworthy, that in honor he could not ask her to bind herself to a man less than he used to be?
Perhaps being wounded had changed him. If she'd heard anything at all from him, even a laconic note saying he'd returned to town and would call when his health permitted, she'd feel more confident going to him.
Go—or stay away? Wait—or try to put him out of mind entirely?
With a groan she paced to her bed. How many nights these last two weeks had she sat sleepless by the window, shunning the society affairs she now found stifling, avoiding Natalie's and Francesca's concerned glances, even her design work losing its power to distract?
She must do something soon or go mad.
Chapter 21
Evan sat on a bench in his London garden letting the soft sun play on his ravaged face. Such light was beneficial to knitting skin, the doctor said. The bandages were off all but his eye, and the doctor was hopeful, once the scarred skin around it fully healed, the eye might realign and clear enough to restore his sight.
In any event, for the rest of his days he'd carry a scar from cheekbone to brow that gave him the appearance of a West Indies pirate. If only the eye resumed functioning, he'd happily settle for that.
With the fingers of his good arm he laid a letter on the bench beside him, grimacing slightly. Though he was regaining limited use of his weak shoulder, any movement still pained. His right hand was completely useless.
He looked at the letter again and sighed. Ever since the implications of his broken engagement had registered, he'd been battling between action and silence. His first response had been rapture. Emily could now be his with all the solemn legality and permanence she'd always desired. He could make the woman of his dreams his wife in truth.
With his second breath he remembered Brent. “I couldn't bear to lose her now,'' his friend had said. Having given them his blessing, what kind of selfish cad would press his own claims at the cost of his friend's heartache?
Still, with every breath Evan had to fight the seductive whisper that said go to her he must. He loved her, had loved her first and longest, and she loved him still.
Or did she? Could not even a pure love eventually collapse under the weight of hopelessness? Perhaps, knowing his union with Andrea was but weeks away, hers had. And when her love fell apart, standing by with a strong shoulder and a sympathetic ear had been Brent. Brent, who had always stood her friend, who'd never forced her to yield to his passion or harangued her to act against her conscience.
"I used to be an honest woman," she'd whispered, her cheeks wet with tears of shame that first night. Why would she wish to pledge herself to a man who had caused her such pain and humiliation? How could Evan be presumptuous, arrogant enough to think she might?
Only by speaking with her could he know for sure.
“Let nothing stand in your way,'' Andrea had said.
Good advice, his heart urged. Or was it?
With a sigh he reread the letter. Mr. Manners disclosed that Emily had been reclaimed by her father's family, declared the Duke's heir and awarded a sizable bequest. She had done him the honor of asking him to manage it for her. As a very rich woman, one of the first steps she desired him to take was to pay off the remaining mortgage on the house Evan had given her. Since she now had available sums greater than Evan's own, he saw no reason, the lawyer wrote with a touch of dry wit, to dissuade her from that course.
At first Evan had laughed at the irony, but his humor had swiftly faded. First he'd discovered she outranked him. It now appeared she would be wealthier as well. Why should she want him, a cripple, when every unattached male of good birth in London would be clamoring for her?
Still, he loved her. Should he not at least affirm that and let Emily make her choice?
But he wanted her so badly, he wasn't sure he could present his case without pressuring her. Besides, he'd looked in a mirror. The last thing he wanted was for her to marry him out of pity.
Perhaps if he were to write her...
With scorn he looked down at his still-useless hand. What effrontery possessed him to think he might try to win her back when he couldn't even pen the note?
He'd combed the papers every day and as yet there'd been no announcement of her engagement. He'd see her at Andrea's wedding. Perhaps he should wait, observe her behavior toward Brent and himself, take that as his guide. Besides, being surrounded by a crowd would prevent his succumbing to the temptation to press his suit. But how could he see her at last after so long and be unable to speak his heart?
Damnation, what a miserable, dithering idiot he'd become, he thought, slapping the letter down in disgust.
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Emily followed Billingsly down the hallway, her heart thudding against her ribs. All during the ride to Portland Square she'd reminded herself of Miss Marlowe who, once she'd met the man she wanted, had not hesitated to do whatever it took to make him hers.
Yet Emily, who prided herself on her independence, had always waited for the men in her life to act—Andrew to approach her father and his, to bid her flee with him; Evan to dictate the course of their relationship. She'd hidden behind memories of her dead husband to deny her growing love for Evan, let shame over mistakes of the past dissuade her from reaching out to correct the future.
Did she have the courage to boldly admit her love and risk the humiliation of a refusal?
"Listen to your heart," Francesca urged.
Listening had brought her here, still unsure what she would say to him. If he turned her away, she hadn't even devised some polite excuse for her visit that might cover the embarrassment of rejection.
They halted outside the library door. "He's in the garden just outside, Lady Auriana," the butler said. "As you requested, I'll not announce you."
She wiped nervous hands on her skirts. The butler bowed, and she spied the edge of a smile before he walked away. Heavens, did everyone suspect why she was here?
A few steps into the room, she stopped short, attention caught by her landscape hanging over the fireplace. Her anxiety eased a little. Evan must still care something for her to so prominently display the painting in what Billingsly said was his favorite room.
Her pulse accelerated as she spied him. Gathering her courage, she seized the door handles and walked out.
"Put the tea on the bench if you please, Billingsly."
He'd obviously heard footfalls, but as she advanced from his blind side, hadn't seen who approached.
"Hello, Evan," she said softly.
His whole body tensed. "Emily?" he breathed, still staring straight ahead.
"Yes." As she drew closer, her thoughts scattered like leaves in a high wind. She could think of nothing else to say.
Ah, but there was so much to regard. The nasty scar beside his eye, fiery pink but healing. The right shoulder he seemed to keep hunched, his right hand motionless on his lap. His color was good, if pale; his hair luxuriant with the sheen of recovering health and his body as commanding and powerful as she remembered.
The almost overwhelming desire to run to him dissipated a bit as he continued to sit silently, not even glancing at her. She halted uncertainly.
"A-are you well?"
"Yes. Much recovered. Thank you. Please, be seated."
Andrea had warned he might appear distant, but this was beyond anything worse than she'd expected. Not knowing what else to do, she took a chair beside his bench.
"Andrea tells me you designed her wedding gown."
"Yes."
"She's in raptures over it—Mama, too. Something in blue, I believe? A good color for her."
"Yes, cerulean shows her hair and skin to advantage. I'm glad it pleases her."
If they uttered any more polite banalities, she'd scream. Every nerve cringed in embarrassment and she felt ready to bolt.
He seemed totally indifferent. Whatever love he'd once felt had apparently fled as swiftly as the descending blade that slashed his face.
The prize no longer sought, now that it was within grasp.
She should gather the tatters of her dignity and go.
If you truly love him, you will do whatever it takes. Andrea's advice played in her ears.
She'd come this far—she should brazen it out to the end. Baldly tell him why she'd come, be definitively accepted or rejected.
But how to begin? Somehow, after that exchange insipid enough to feature as conversation at morning call, she couldn't just blurt out, "Evan, do you still love me?"
