“There you go. My sister confirms it.” Mr. Lioncroft refocused his gaze on Evangeline. “I am not a good person. I never have been. But I am trying to do right by you, and by my family. Which means I refrained from killing my sister’s rotter of a husband, much as I might’ve liked to do so, and which also means I will not allow you to sacrifice yourself for me. I will attempt not to make a cake of myself over you in public.”
Evangeline tried to lighten the awkward atmosphere. “Just in public?”
His lips curved in a slow, secret smile. “I reserve the right to make a cake of myself over you in private.”
Lady Heatherbrook cleared her throat. “Please do not discuss right in front of me what you may or may not do with Miss Pemberton in private.”
“Would you care to leave, dear sister?”
“No. I thought you were trying not to ruin her.”
“Oh. Right.” He inclined his head toward Evangeline. “See how quickly I forget? Being considerate is a wholly new endeavor for me. For over the past decade I have lived by myself, but for a couple years before that…” His eyes shadowed. “I left a trail of bruised pride and broken promises in my wake.”
“More like bruised limbs and broken hearts.” Lady Heatherbrook gave a short, wry laugh. “Anyone you couldn’t beat in a carriage race, you beat with your fists. And captured the fancy of most of their ladies in the process.”
“Yes. Well. I never claimed to be a good person.”
Evangeline stared at him. “I can’t imagine that behavior endeared you to your friends.”
“I never had any friends.”
She blinked. “Never?”
He shrugged one shoulder and glanced away.
“You had me,” Lady Heatherbrook said softly.
His smile was humorless. “Not when it mattered.”
Lady Heatherbrook flinched. “That was your own fault.”
“I know.”
An uncomfortable silence leached the warmth from the room.
Evangeline gazed at the man on the other side of the sofa. He appeared to be trying desperately to appear as casual and unaffected as ever, but the tightness of his muscles belied the posed carelessness in the splay of his long limbs.
Hard to believe a man like Mr. Lioncroft was more like her than unlike her. He’d grown up friendless. So had she. He had one family member he could count on. So had she. That family member had left him alone and hurting. So had she.
But her mother was gone now, forever. And Lady Heatherbrook was sitting right there across from them, her cheeks pale, her eyes moist, her hands twisting in her lap. She would not be doing so if she truly thought her brother a reprobate beyond all redemption. If he would just go to her, speak to her, surely she would forgive him for whatever he had done.
Why was he still sitting there, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, staring at an invisible spot on the ceiling with enough force to burn holes in the plaster? Did he truly believe himself so wholly bad as to be unlikable, unlovable, unforgivable? And why was Lady Heatherbrook not speaking up on his behalf? Because she believed those things, too?
A distant chime shattered the silence.
Lady Heatherbrook twisted her skirts nervously. “Time for supper. Should we join the others?”
Mr. Lioncroft started, as if he’d forgotten he wasn’t alone. The fierce expression in his dark eyes was wounded and raw.
Deciding she cared more about him than his sister’s chaperonage, Evangeline reached out, gently, hesitantly, and touched his arm with her fingertips. “Gavin—”
He leapt to his feet. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to dine without me.”
In seconds, he was across the room, out the door, and gone.
Evangeline turned toward his sister, who immediately closed her eyes.
“Please don’t say it.” Lady Heatherbrook’s voice was harsh, scratchy. “I—I know. I do know. I’m no better than he. I don’t think I’m hungry, either. I seem to have lost my appetite.” Her eyes flew open. “I’m sorry, Miss Pemberton. Forgive me.”
