He saw it. Worse yet, he savored it.
And then, for heavens sake, he moved even closer.
His gloved hand lifted, and with maddening gentleness, he tucked a wind-blown curl behind her ear. The tips of his fingers brushed the shell of it, warm and deliberate.
Evelyn swayed, despite herself. Her chest rose and fell too quickly. Her throat felt dry. And that smile, that half-formed, mocking,knowingsmile, still danced in his eyes.
“I—” she began, but she forgot what she meant to say.
She should have stepped away, but she didn’t.
His gaze dropped to her mouth. She felt it. Oh, God, how she felt it, like a touch. And her lashes fluttered. Her chin lifted, instinct betraying her resolve. Her lips parted.
He leaned in, and her breath caught. Then, just a single inch from her lips, he stopped. She could feel his breath now, spilling all over her lips. She thought her heart might tear out of her chest.
But he didn’t kiss her. Instead, he whispered so quietly that she nearly thought she imagined it. “I am going to enjoy being married to you, Evelyn.”
She barely registered the shock before he pulled back, slow and unhurried. And with one last unreadable look, he turned, stepped through the balcony doors, and disappeared back into the ballroom, leaving her breathless and absolutely seething.
She knew she could not marry this man, for she also knew what was waiting for her.
Chapter Four
“That scoundrel!” Evelyn wailed. “How dare he send me flowers!”
The silk ribbon snapped between Evelyn’s fingers, fluttering to the floor like a fallen petal. Her voice rang through the sitting room with such vehemence that her friend, Hazel Thorne, nearly dropped her embroidery needle.
“Pardon?” Hazel blinked, entirely bewildered. “Who dares to?—?”
“Why, the Duke of Aberon of course,” Evelyn snarled, flinging the bouquet of perfect white peonies onto the tea table as though they might bite. “Imagine the audacity. The sheer insufferable gall of the man. As though I were some simpering debutante, won over by petals and scent.”
Hazel, who had not yet been told precisely what had happened between her friend and the aforementioned duke, eyed the flowers with caution. “They are very lovely, though.”
“They reek of manipulation.”
“They smell like peonies.”
“I should like to see them set aflame.”
“Evelyn,” Hazel said gently, “have you had breakfast?”
Before Evelyn could respond with something cutting and undoubtedly melodramatic, the door flew open and their other close friend, Cordelia Brookes burst in, with her cheeks flushed from the cold and her arms laden with parcels.
“Forgive me, forgive me! I had to detour by Gunter’s, or I feared you would both mutiny.” She deposited a wrapped box of ices and a tin of biscuits onto the tea table, nearly toppling the vase of offending flowers. “Now, what are the news? Has someone died? Been caught in a scandal? Been proposed to by a terrifying duke?”
“Yes,” Evelyn replied flatly.
Cordelia blinked. “Yes to which part?”
“Yes to all of it, emotionally speaking,” Hazel muttered, and Cordelia turned a wide-eyed gaze from her to Evelyn.
“Evelyn. Start talking.”
Evelyn sat down with all the regal command of a general about to outline a siege. “I need your help to dissuade the Duke of Aberon from marrying me.”
Cordelia’s gasp was immediate and dramatic. “You’re betrothed?”
“Not willingly.”
