But what? Jewelry? A nice long string of pearls, perhaps. Something that even if she wrapped it thrice around her neck, the longest strand would dip across the slope of her breasts, brushing against the tender skin where the pale curves met with the trim of her bodice.
No. There was no time to order anything. She planned to leave today.
What did he have to give her? Nothing. Neither literally nor figuratively. She deserved better. She should be in bed with a better man than him. She should be…but he would die before giving her up to another. Bad enough he couldn’t protect her from her stepfather. He could hardly ask her to stay at the very house she’d seen herself being abducted from.
He’d rather her leave him for safety than be taken by force. Maybe she’d even let him join her, after the modiste’s visit. He’d promised Jane a new wardrobe when Madame Rousseau arrived in a couple days. He could say his goodbyes and slip away in the excitement of new clothes. Perhaps save himself a trip to the gallows in the process. Would Rose let him visit if he were a fugitive from justice? He certainly couldn’t visit if he were dead.
Evangeline tilted toward him, snuggled closer, opened her eyes.
“What a grim expression,” came her sleep-thickened voice. “What are you thinking about?”
“Death,” he answered. “By hanging.”
She stared at him for a second, then sighed. “Good morning to you, too.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, instantly contrite. He should’ve said “puppies” or “lemon ices.” Yet another fine example of the many ways he wasn’t good enough for her.
He bent down and kissed her anyway. When he lifted his head, her expression was still pensive.
“If I’m leaving anyway,” she said slowly, “I don’t see why I can’t just admit I was with you in your office. Who cares about my reputation if I can save you from the gallows?”
He shook his head. “Wouldn’t work.”
“Why not?”
“You weren’t with me all night.”
“A fair portion of it,” she insisted.
“Not good enough. Besides, considering all the…mooncalfing I’ve been doing over you, they’d no doubt consider any alibi you provide to be a fabrication.”
“Mooncalfing?” she repeated with a smile.
“Edmund’s term, not mine,” Gavin mumbled. “Lovesick swain” would’ve been his words, had he dared to say them. He hoped she couldn’t read his true feelings in the lines of his face, in the passion of his kisses, in the urgency of his love-making. Good-bye would be hard enough without adding something so complicated asloveto the mixture.
“I think I like being mooncalfed over,” she said, her voice teasing.
“I’m sure.” He planted a loud, smacking kiss on her forehead and tried to smile like an inveterate rake, not a man in love. He was pretty sure he failed.
She reached up to touch his face. He pressed his lips gently against her wrist, then tilted his cheek into the warmth of her palm. He would miss her for the rest of his life, however short that might be. He missed her already.
“It would be so much easier,” she said, “if everyone stopped lying about their whereabouts. We might’ve determined the true villain already if the innocent parties would’ve just been honest.”
“Are there any innocent parties here?” he asked wryly.
Her thumb rubbed his cheek. “Perhaps not. But why must they all cast blame on you? Like Mr. Teasdale, with his ridiculous stories about you fighting with Lord Heatherbrook in your office. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn you argued with him, but it’s not as if you throttled your brother-in-law.”
Gavin hesitated. “Actually,” he said, not wishing to lie to her but even more not wanting to admit the truth. “I did.”
Her hand fell away. “You did what?”
“Throttled him, then threw him into a wall.” He cleared his throat. “Those handprints around his neck were mine.”
She scrambled out of his arms and into a sitting position. The expression on her face could only be described as horrified.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “I should’ve lied.”
She stared at him, unspeaking.
