All he had been doing was what she had asked of him. And for this, he might have lost her, just as he was learning how much he needed her.Deeper than desire, though he had not known how much his body would crave hers—she had become integral to his survival.
And she objected to his very character. He had hurt her, and it was a knife to his own ribs. A bullet in his own damn heart.
But even now, his body called to hers in a way he could not ignore. God help him, he had ruined their friendship, possibly irrevocably, and still he could not stop thinking of her. His body throbbed for her. Only her—another woman could not sate him.
He cursed to himself as he passed the threshold of his house, handing off his gloves and hat to a servant and moving straight to his study, where, if he was frank, very little work usually took place. His life was one of dissipation. Drinking too heavily, regretting it at dawn, then doing it all over again. He knew his vices: he gambled too recklessly, rode too fast, tired of his employments too quickly. The only constant in his life was Evelyn.Had beenEvelyn.
He sat on the large leather chair behind his desk and closed his eyes. There was nothing he would not do for her. And yet . . .
He had made hercry.
Frustrated, angry at himself, he drew the nearest paper towards him and glanced over it, then seeing it was a bill, thrust it aside once more. He loathed this restless, gnawing hunger. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw heartbreak in her eyes. He saw her naked before him, legs parted, breathless with desire.
Cursing once again, he unbuttoned his falls. After sating this most base of needs, he would address himself to the matter of his life—what he was making of it, and what he had already ruined. But for that, he would need clarity.
At the first stroke, his head fell back against the chair. All the desire he had poured into Evelyn now fuelled him, and with the memories of her lingering in his mind, it took very little time to bring him to the brink.
If only they had not been interrupted. If only he had been able to sink inside her, to know how she felt around him. If only he’d kissed away her moans and brought about another peak of bliss.
His breath caught, hips jerking. His hand pumped faster.
She had been perfect, and he had dreamt of her for so long. Out of respect, he had never let himself imagine her when he took himself in hand before—but now he needed imagine nothing. He knew her. The way she looked beneath him. The way she sounded. The way she had offered herself to him with such innocent, breathtaking enthusiasm.
They were no longer just friends.
If only he had made her his. If only he had told her how long he’d wanted that. Wantedher.
Perhaps he had always loved her the way he had as a boy. A malady forgotten but never treated, now resurging with a vengeance. The reason he had never married was not because he disliked the prospect, but because he disliked the prospect with any other lady. He had been waiting for her—not by design, but by instinct.
He ought to have told her.
His climax came upon him too suddenly, and he almost missed the handkerchief he had snatched up for the purpose. He shuddered, a low moan escaping his lips as he expelled himself in the waiting material.
For a long moment, he sat motionless, pleasure spilling down his limbs as he panted.
He loved Evelyn Davenport.
No, not just loved—he wasin lovewith her. Wildly. Desperately. Beyond all reason. The thought of living without her was insupportable. His happiness, what little of it there was in this world, entirely depended on her. He’d known it for years, but now it struck him with devastating clarity.
He, who had never allowed himself to believe that marrying for love was the act of a rational man, would have sacrificed his estates, his title, his every earthly pleasure in an instant so long as he could live out the rest of his days with her.
What the hell was he going to do?
With the intention of seeing his mother to discuss how best to cancel the prospective engagement, Charles called at Norfolk House the next morning. Unfortunately, he was not the only caller, and when he entered the drawing room, he was confronted with the sight of Lady Rosamund and her mother.
“Ah,” he said, halting in the doorway.
His mother sent him a quelling glance, as though she sensed his urge to flee. “Charles, I’m so glad you’re here. Were you hoping to speak with your father? I believe he has gone to one of his clubs, but he will be back presently, I’m sure.”
No doubt the duke had left the moment the Countess of Lavenham, Rosamund’s mother, had arrived. Polite as he was, he had no patience for fuss and fancies, and Lady Lavenham possessed little else.
Charles wished he could make a similar escape, but that would be impossible.
“Ladies,” he said, bowing. “I had not expected to find you here.”
Lady Lavenham fluttered her fan, an unnecessary gesture in the cool air of the room. A hearty fire burned in the grate, but it did little to combat the chill from outside. “Oh dear me,” she said, “as though it is so unexpected to find us visiting soon-to-be family.”
Lady Rosamund’s smile didn’t falter, but she glanced at her mother in what Charles suspected was a silent rebuke. “We thought we should call to discuss next week’s arrangements,” she said smoothly.
