“Oh, the poor woman,” cried Evangeline. “How dreadful.” She leaned forward and squeezed his hand. “How good of you to come in her time of need.”
“A good brother should do no less,” he said with a smile. “I am very fond of her. It was she who insisted I needed a house of my own, and she who led me to view Humberton Hall.”
Her brows arched. “So I am in her debt!”
He lifted one shoulder, a small smile playing on his face. “I hope you think so.” He pulled her toward him, and she came intohis arms so easily, so naturally he could have moaned from the rightness of it. “I know I will be eternally grateful to her.”
She draped her arms around his neck and plowed her fingers into his damp hair. “Richard... I have to tell you about Court.”
He heard the shift in her tone, but he didn’t want to see her grow maudlin or sad. “I understand he is dead, and that is what I like most about him.”
She smiled, but it was grim. “You should know now, because the instant anyone hears of...this,they will rush to tell you. Courtenay was an unrepentant, unreformed rake until the day he died, shot by his lover’s jealous husband.”
Richard couldn’t hold back his jolt of astonishment.
“What aroused Court’s passion was the chase, and perhaps the illicit nature of his dalliances. I was only one of the merry young widows he pursued. He had eight lovers that I knew of, but I suspect there were more in the nine years we were married.” She didn’t quite meet his shocked gaze, instead focusing on his shoulder. “His last lover was a newly married lady, and her husband came home unexpectedly one evening and discovered Court in her bed. The husband shot him, then and there.”
“He died in another woman’s bed?” he asked incredulously before he could stop himself.
Evangeline looked right at him and spoke dispassionately. “That would have been preferable. Lord Ambrose shot him in the stomach, then had his servants carry Court home, where they dumped him, naked and bleeding, on the front steps. They weren’t quiet about it, either, and I vow every neighbor in the square saw him before our butler and footman could get him inside. It was the talk of London.” She made a small, indifferent shrug. “It still is, at times.”
“Good God,” was all he could say.
“I was as horrified as anyone,” she went on in the same cool, detached voice. “Not that he was dead, but that he’d gone so... dramatically. I did all that was proper. I wore mourning and left London to live quietly in the country. But none of that mattered. I was deemed a wicked widow.”
“On what grounds?” He was outraged.
“I wore black in public, but not at home. I wore breeches to ride, as I’d done for years. Someone started rumors that I drank brandy, which I must confess appealed to me.” She smiled faintly. “I began drinking it, and rather like it.”
Richard shifted, settling her more securely in his lap. He felt a surge of renewed desire, but quashed it. She was baring her history to him, and that mattered more than the softness of her thighs atop his. “Surely these are not sufficient reasons to ostracize a woman, especially one who was blameless. Quite unlike the husband who was unfaithful, the woman he committed adultery with, and the man who killed him.”
Evangeline clicked her tongue in reproof. “My dear Sir Richard, you have much to learn about London society! In every scandal there must be someone to vilify and blame. Court was dead, which greatly reduced the malicious pleasure in speaking ill of him. Ambrose, who shot him, is a man, and moreover a man with a prominent government position, so people were naturally quick to pardon him—for behaving as any betrayed husband might, you know. And Lady Ambrose, who knew her husband was a jealous man but carried on with Court and likely others, was still Ambrose’s wife, young and beautiful and fashionable. While I”—she raised her shoulders—“was not.”
“You were not beautiful?” He slid his hands around her hips in appreciation. “I refuse to believe that.”
“I wasforward,” she told him, with a wry smile. “Almost eccentric. A twice-widowed woman is always irresistible to the gossips, and there I was, riding in breeches and sippingbrandy. Far more entertaining to whisper about all myshockingbehavior, which must have positivelydrivenCourt to adultery.”
He swallowed another argument, because nothing to do with Courtenay interested him. “Do you worrythiswill also cause you torment?”
He meant them; him; this affair, which was already going so splendidly. Finally her expression eased, and she laughed, turning to straddle him. His abdomen tightened, and her smile grew intimate. “Torment? No. After all this time, I don’t care what they say about me. And if I am to be called a wicked widow...” She slid her hands down his chest. “I may as well act the part.”
This woman. She would wreck him. He inhaled unsteadily as her hand went lower still. “This is not wickedness.”
She pushed one hand through his wet hair, grasping and yanking his head backward. Richard closed his eyes and inhaled deeply as she bent her head to his throat. “I want it to be wicked,” she whispered fiercely. “Wild, intemperate, and unrestrained.” And she bit the taut muscle at the side of his neck.
He gasped, so aroused he could hardly speak. “That is not wicked. Wicked would be... by force...” She had his ballocks in her hand now. “Or in violation of God’s law,” he croaked. “Meant to harm or betray, instead of only meant to bring pleasure.” His hips lifted of their own volition, and she laughed. It sent a surge of ecstasy through him, and he used it to gather her into his arms and lurched forward, carrying them both back across the pool until she was once more on her original ledge, her legs still around him as he loomed over her. “I pledge my word that I will only bring you pleasure.”
She ran her hands over his shoulders, down his arms. “Pleasure is your only object?”
“Yes.” He kissed her. “But not merely the physical pleasure of lovemaking. The pleasure of your company. A connection with a kindred soul. Even, perhaps, love.”
He regretted that last, impulsive bit as her expression froze. But then he kissed her again, and after a moment’s hesitation, she kissed him back, sweet and tender. He made love to her again, first slowly and languidly in the steam and heat, and then wildly, passionately, not caring who heard them.
“Good heavens,” she gasped weakly, as his fingers dug into her hips, holding her against him in the pool. The water barely came up to their waists now, after their exertions. “Solly will give me such a look when she sees the bathhouse...”
“I will clean it myself if you wish,” he said over his hammering pulse. “Only grant me a few minutes’ respite...”
She nestled against him, one arm around his shoulders, plucking at his wet hair again. “Richard... don’t fall in love with me.”
