He was making something that would be wonderful sound sordid. But she wanted it all the same.
The hand that had been at her waist pressed her head to his mouth so that he might continue to whisper, ‘I want your body, Evie. That is all. I want to ruin you. I want what I want. I do not care if it destroys us both. That is why I left you six years ago. And that is why I must leave now.’
And then he pushed her away, out of his lap and on to her side of the bench. The night air had grown cold. She could feel it against her exposed breasts and the constriction of the bodice pulled low under them.
‘Compose yourself. And then go back into the house and find your betrothed.’ His voice was as cold as the air, passionless. ‘As I have told you before, I am not the man for you. Marry St Aldric, Evie. Please. He will care for you. I cannot. But you must stop this pointless hoping that there will ever be another choice.’ He stood then and walked away. Deeper into the garden or back into the house? She was not sure.
She tugged the bodice back into place and laid a hand against her cheek, waiting for the blush to subside. If she sat here a while longer, she would be as cold as he was, but not as emotionless. She was angry.
Sam Hastings was all she had ever wanted. She had tricked him into coming here and followed him like a fool, only to be refused again. He had brought her to the brink of fulfilment. And then he’d delivered nothing more than threats and speeches, like some Drury Lane villain.
Did he not realise that she might have taken some pleasure in the act that he found so base and unworthy? Her body still seethed with desire. It was as if she was waiting for some gift that only Sam could give her. He had shown it to her, held it close and then snatched it away at the last minute. Then he behaved as though she was the one who was cruel.
Well, it would not happen again. Tonight, she would make her choice once and for all. She would go to another man and would never turn back. At least St Aldric would not reject her without even trying to love her.
She would tell herself that what she felt for Sam had been a childish infatuation. And now, as he claimed, it was nothing more than lust. Neither of those things had a place in her future. She would leave the memories of the good Dr Hastings in the nursery where they belonged.
And some day she would revisit the memory of this night and find it as brittle and faded as a dried flower. She would look at her children, hers and Michael’s. And she would wonder why she had ever been so silly as to want another man.
But not today. Today it would be difficult. She thought of St Aldric and his many good qualities. And, slowly, she felt the ardour subside. Michael was handsome. He was kind. He had an excellent sense of humour. When he saw her, he would walk towards her, not away. And there would be a smile on his face that showed promise and a joyful anticipation of their future together.
She stood and took a breath. The air was clean and cool, and if it smelled of a man’s cologne, it was probably just her imagination. Then she straightened her dress and went back to the house.
‘Lady Evelyn has made me the happiest man in London.’
Sam had returned to the ballroom in time to see the announcement. St Aldric was grinning like an idiot, oblivious to the fact that the woman beside him was still flushed from the kisses Sam had given her.
As he had for so much of his life, he stood by mute, struggling with his own base desires, and allowed it to happen. He had stood in the garden for a time, waiting to see that Evie got back to the house without help. There were no tears from her, no passionate cries that he return. A profound silence seemed to emanate from the spot they had been. A few minutes later, she had got up and walked away from him.
It felt like the day he had first put out to sea and watched England retreating until it was a dot on the horizon. He had seen the water as nothing more than distance between him and the woman he could not help but love. It was the same now. The ballroom seemed to stretch before him as couples filled the dance floor for a waltz. And Sam was on the only solid spot, losing her all over again.
He took a sip of his drink, wishing that it was something stronger. Another hour, perhaps, and he could make his excuses and depart. But he did not have to stand here, watching her be happy without him.
It had been so easy in the garden, when all innocent, brotherly thoughts had fled like animals before an advancing fire. She wanted him. He must have her, or he would go mad. He felt the pressure building, the desperation to drag her to the ground, throw up her skirts and lose himself in the softness of her body.
He imagined entering, in one quick thrust, the tightness of her, the rush. Her cry of shock at the loss of her maidenhead.
And discovery. Thorne’s shout of outrage. The discovery of the truth.
Disgusting. Obscene. Profane.
He’d pushed her away, horrified at what he had done, but secretly, sinfully triumphant. She was his in all ways that mattered. She would marry the duke. But each time he touched her, she would be thinking of this moment and how much she had wanted another.
It must never happen again. He would go to the Americas this time. Or Jamaica. With luck he would succumb to a fever and his suffering would end.
He turned away from the crowd, hoping to find diversion, in cards, brandy or perhaps a pretty face that might distract him from the only woman he really cared to look at.
Instead, he found their father.
‘Doctor Hendricks.’ Lord Thorne had tracked him in the crowd of well-wishers and Sam checked the height of his raised glass, the fullness of his smile, searching for any telltale signs in his person or behaviour that might show him to be less than enthusiastic for the match.
‘Sam.’ Now Thorne’s tone was as it had been, when he had still been a favoured son. Before he had made his stammering offer for Evie.
‘My lord,’ he said, with a half-smile that he hoped was not too strained.
‘St Aldric and Evelyn have nearly finished their dance. There is no reason to wait longer.’
For what? he wondered. Was he expected to depart already?
But it seemed Thorne was speaking more to himself, than to Sam, as though there was some duty that he had been delaying. ‘I … we … wish to speak to you, in my study.’ If anything, Thorne looked as uncomfortable as Sam felt. It was odd that he could not match his mood to the festivities. Surely, this must be a moment of triumph.
‘Of course, my lord.’ Sam glanced at the clock. ‘On the half-hour, perhaps? That should give enough time for the crowd to settle.’
‘Twenty minutes.’ Thorne seemed to see this as some sort of reprieve. ‘An excellent idea. Until then.’ He moved off through the crowd again and Sam watched him absently accepting congratulations for his daughter’s successful match.
It was damned odd.
And there in the centre of the dance floor was Evie. Dear, sweet Evie, looking almost as overwhelmed as Thorne. As she spun past him, in the arms of the duke, her eye caught his, if only for a moment. She gave
