to Francesca’s guitar.
Melancholy filled Emily’s chest along with breaths of lavender-spiced air. She loved this little garden, a tangible reminder of the happy sunlit days with Andrew. When accounts did not total, or a tradesman bickered, or some well-born lady puffed up with her own consequence belittled her, Emily would somehow find herself sitting on the bench below. She’d run her fingers along the stiff gray wands and inhale the herb’s sharp, cleansing scent. Whenever something troubled her.
Like the thought of the tall, well-formed man returning tonight. Her lover.
Her cheeks burned, her body heated and the thought escaped before she could check it: I’m sorry.
Don’t be an idiot, she told herself crossly. You’ve chosen your course. There’s nothing to do but go on and make the best of it. Only children and cowards whine and regret.
She was too honest to deny Cheverley’s lovemaking brought her intense—and sorely missed—pleasure. Nor could she deny the idea of receiving his caresses again, soon, sent a spiral of warmth to her very core.
’Twas just her pride that ached, and old memories she should have long since laid to rest. She should view the matter pragmatically, as Francesca suggested.
A businesslike arrangement without long-term or legal complications might suit her very well. And if his lordship’s ardor lasted until she managed to build her income to such a level of security that she would never again be forced into this position, it would, as Francesca said, be all to the good.
And just what does that make you? a little voice in her head whispered. She turned away from the garden, trying to shut out the ugly word that burned, unspoken, in her ears.
After leaving Emily in the lightening dawn, Evan sought his bed. Too keyed up to sleep, though, he soon gave up the attempt. From the exasperated look his mama gave him when he left the breakfast chamber two plates of eggs, ham and sausages and three steaming cups of tea later, he must have missed half her conversation.
Deciding in his present fog of abstraction he would likely run his high-perch phaeton into a post or allow the highbred cattle to bolt, he waved away his groom and elected to walk to his Horse Guards office.
But during the stroll, instead of reviewing details of Wellington’s supply routes, his mind kept slipping back to the sounds and images of last night. The low velvet timbre of her voice. The curve of her little finger as she held her teacup. Her eyes, sometimes deep plum, sometimes the lighter veined lavender of a woodland flower.
Flowers. He halted, electrified. To the woman beautiful as a perfect, fragrant violet he would send every blossom he could find. Grinning, he hailed a hackney and instructed the jarvey to carry him to the closest florist.
Two hours and a good deal of blunt later, he had dispatched enough blooms, he calculated as he mounted the stairs to his office, to cover her desk and most of the dining table. Mayhap she could even strew some petals on the sheets.
An immediate wave of heat assailed him. No, he dare not start thinking of that. Besides, he wanted this evening to proceed differently. He’d promised himself to court and woo her, then had taken her like a street-corner strumpet. The very thought of it galled him anew. He would have been well-served if she’d kicked him down the stairs afterward and bolted the door.
Instead, she’d wept.
His stomach twisted and his chest tightened. Ah, sweetheart, he vowed, never again will I make you weep.
With a start he realized he now stood before the door to his office. Gathering his disjointed thoughts, he entered, extracted a supply ledger from the stack on his desk and sat down to review it.
He was gazing out the window, thinking of violets and amethysts rather than account totals, when his door opened and Geoffrey Randall, his college mate and assistant, strolled in.
“’Morning, Ev. Have you reviewed the ledgers yet?”
Evan glanced at the page he’d smoothed open at least half an hour ago, unable to recall a single total. “Not quite,” he mumbled.
“When you finish, could you check this report for powder and shot? I’ve added the columns three times, but the figures don’t make sense.” Frowning, Randall tapped the paper he held.
Ah, figures. With a private smile Evan called to mind one particular willowy, well-rounded form.
“Something doesn’t seem right,” Randall was continuing. “I’d appreciate your looking at it. If you would, Ev. Ev?”
His drifting attention recalled, Evan focused on the secretary. “Y-yes. You were saying?”
His assistant eyed him with some concern. “Seem a tad done-up this morning, old friend. Rough night? Surely you didn’t lose, for a change?”
A sudden vision of Emily in his arms, and he in Emily, warmed him like a candle flame. “’Twas a wonderful night, and I certainly didn’t lose.”
Raising an eyebrow, Randall laughed. “Ah, that sort of night. Why don’t you go get some sleep? You’re not doing any good here.”
“Thank you most kindly,” Evan replied with a grin. “But you’re correct—my mind isn’t on ledgers today. Shall we discuss the matter later?”
“Of course.” Randall grinned back. “And if the wench is even halfway deserving of that fatuous smile, you’re a lucky devil.”
As Evan neared home, the idea of another gift struck him with vivid clarity.
There must be no gown unfolded with memories tonight. No, tonight she should come to him in sheer purple silk and a whisper of cream lace. His woman, wearing his gown, making new memories that were theirs alone.
Proceeding immediately to the shop of one of the city’s most exclusive mantua-makers, he swiftly made his choice. However, when he informed Madame she need not deliver the garment, for he intended to take it with him, she protested she’d be happy to insure it arrived wherever he wished.
Catching the speculative gleam in her eye, he realized the seamstress was consumed with curiosity to discover the identity of his newest inamorata. Instinctively he knew his reserved, dignified Emily would not appreciate having her name bandied about. Cordially turning aside the dress-maker’s offer, he paid her well and left the shop.
To be truthful, he found the notion of revealing Emily to be his mistress strangely distasteful. Not that he’d ever flaunted his women, but Emily was different—a treasure he wished cloistered for him alone. He’d not have what they shared be the subject of vulgar speculation by Willoughby and those of his ilk.
What a many-faceted jewel she was, too: elegant and proper as the highest-born lady in that demure lavender gown the first day they’d met; siren last night, her ebony tresses flowing silken over her bare back and full, high breasts, her soft mouth and thighs promising sin and magic.
Just thinking of her hardened him to such urgent need he groaned. How many more hours until dark?
After avoiding his mama’s curious glances at tea, he dressed for dinner early and slipped away to his club. Surely he could find someone to get up a game of whist or piquet that would fill the hours until he could present himself back at her shop.
