“You also found something to read,” he observed, his voice unexpectedly gentle.
“Yes.” Evelyn’s heart lifted. “Thank you for returning it. I am very glad to have it with me.”
He inclined his head, saying nothing for a moment. His gaze moved to the book. “What are you reading?” he asked, his tone lifting with inquiry.
“Othello,” she replied, momentarily forgetting her discomfort. “It is one of my favourites. There are so many emotions in it.”
“Jealousy, guilt, inadequacy,” he mused with a low chuckle. “Hardly uplifting sentiments.”
“No—perhaps not,” Evelyn allowed. “But fascinating. If Othello had not felt so unworthy, Iago’s plot would never have succeeded.”
“We cannot know that,” Sebastian countered lightly.
“Yes, we can,” she insisted. She opened to a passage and, without thinking, pointed at a line—requiring him, in effect, to come sit beside her.
He obeyed, settling on the edge of the bed so close that his thigh brushed hers. The faint friction sent a tremor spiralling through her. As he bent nearer, she caught the warm scent of him—leather, spice, and something distinctly male—and her breath caught.
“That is certainly one interpretation,” he said, reading where her finger rested.
She drew her hand back quickly, her whole body alive with a deep, involuntary tremor. It was not fear—though fear was tangled somewhere in it.
“I cannot interpret it differently,” she managed, though concentrating on Shakespeare felt suddenly impossible.
“To be honest,” he murmured, lifting his gaze to hers, “nor can I.”
Evelyn laughed softly. His mouth curved, the brief smile transforming his stern features. His blue eyes—intense, intent, rimmed with faint lines carved by sun or laughter—held her captive. Her chest tightened. He was not frightening. But the way he looked at her—almost studying her—made something inside her shiver and warm at once.
He leaned closer.
Before Evelyn had any idea what he was going to do, his lips pressed, hard and hot, against hers. She gasped, her eyes fluttering closed as he drew her with some force against his chest. His mouth was upon hers, his lips prying at her own, tasting them in a way that made the fire inside her grow even hotter, seeming to melt her within. His tongue, hot and eager, pressed in between her lips, exploring her mouth, probing it eagerly. Before she could stop herself, a low moan of longing escaped her.
Sebastian’s breathing was audible as his mouth moved briefly from hers, then returned, clinging to her lips with fresh intensity. His weight pressed against her, pushing her back onto the bed. She gasped as he lay on top of her, his weight muscled and heavy, one knee moving up between her own in a way that thrilled and delighted her, making her body tremble with a feeling that was as confusing as it was remarkable. His knee moved higher, and, suddenly, she tensed.
Sebastian halted. He lifted himself away at once, though his cheeks bore a faint flush and his chest rose in quick, uneven breaths—as though he had felt the same ungovernable pull she had.
“I apologise,” he murmured. His voice was rough, strained. “I did not mean to alarm you.” He stood, gathering his composure. “I must join my family for dinner. I have already said that you may dine here, should you prefer. You may find you feel more yourself by morning—better prepared to meet them.”
“Thank you,” Evelyn whispered, though her throat felt too tight to shape the words properly.
He bowed slightly, then withdrew, closing the door with careful softness.
Evelyn remained where she was, still half-reclining on the bed. Her Shakespeare tumbled from her lap; she collected it absently and set it on the table. Her lips burned with the memory of his mouth—its heat, its insistence, its tenderness. She leaned back, closing her eyes, her body trembling.
What had just happened?
And why—despite her confusion and her fear—did some part of her ache for him to return?
Chapter Ten
Sebastian rolled over, blinking. Images from the previous night still pursued him—flashes of heat and softness, the memory of yielding curves under his hands, the taste of her breath against his mouth. It was all half-glimpsed, half-imagined, and entirely tormenting. He shut his eyes again, wishing he could recall it with less feverish ambiguity. Instead, it rose before him in fragments: pale skin, satin warmth, his own reckless hunger.
“You’re a fool,” he muttered.And now she’s probably afraid of you.
He swung his legs over the bed, irritated with himself, and crossed to the washstand. The chill water cleared his vision but not his guilt. He had sworn to himself that he would not touch her. Not for her sake alone, but for his own as well. And yet he had come so near to breaking that vow that he scarcely recognised himself.
He dried his face with the cotton cloth that his manservant, Mr Ormesworth, had laid out for him, and then strode to his wardrobe to choose some clothing for the day.
He chose a grey tailcoat at random—notbecause he hoped to impress Evelyn, he told himself sternly. It was simply the first morning she would spend under his roof, and he meant to feel steady, composed, capable of facing his mother’s barbs.
