Her sweet lips parted gently under his, and he could no longer resist. His tongue darted out, exploring the inviting warmth of her mouth. Her lips were plump and full, parting for him, and her mouth was clinging and warm, setting his senses aflame. He drew her closer, one hand sliding along her back, the other curving instinctively around her waist—lower still, to the sweet fullness of her hips.
She gasped, and the sound jolted him.
He pulled back abruptly.
“I—I am sorry,” he managed, breath ragged. Shock flickered across her face—or was it something else?—but shame surged through him all the same. What was he doing? What was he risking?
He turned aside, fighting for composure, cheeks burning.
“I should not have—” he began hoarsely. “I… I will make my way indoors. When you wish to come inside, please do so. It is cold, and I would not like to think of you lingering in this chill.”
He stepped back, unable to fashion the calm, unaffected expression he wished to present. He tried not to hurry, but his shame scorched him, and he longed for the shelter of a crowd—somewhere he could hide for a moment and gather his disordered senses.
The ballroom was a crush of bodies, a blur of colour and movement, and it offered a hundred convenient opportunities to go unnoticed. He made his way toward the refreshments table, rejoining the group of men to whom he had spoken earlier.
“Capital!” one of them exclaimed cheerfully. “We were just hoping you would return. What do you think about investing in ships?”
Sebastian forced himself to focus, shaking his head slightly as though clearing it of trivial distraction. But thoughts of Evelyn whirled unbidden—her soft, yielding form pressed to his, the sweet heat of her mouth clinging to his. It was torment to drag his mind away.
“Joshua here has a likely venture in mind,” the man continued. “We hoped you might give your opinion on its soundness. You have always had a fine sense for wise investment.”
“Thank you,” Sebastian murmured, though the words barely registered. His entire mind was outside with Evelyn, continuing what he had done. He imagined drawing her close, her hips pressing to his as they moved together. He longed to slip his hands over the silk of her gown, to discover the tender curves concealed beneath that modest neckline.
He tore his mind back from the images, listening to Joshua as he described the business venture he had in mind. It was hard to care about the cost of ships and the liabilities involved in sea voyages when all he wanted to do was run outside and kiss Evelyn.
“I think it sounds a reasonable prospect,” he said at last when Joshua finished.
“Capital!” the first man repeated with satisfaction. “Just what we thought. You see, Joshua?”
Sebastian inclined his head but turned away, feeling the conversation grate upon him. The last thing he wished to consider was investment. All he could think of was Evelyn—of her tears, her tremulous courage, the softness of her lips—and whether his loss of control had frightened her beyond forgiveness.
He drifted toward the refreshments table, where Nicholas stood. The ballroom’s noise washed over him without penetrating, his thoughts caught between longing and fear. Hersudden gasp in the garden—how sharply it had brought him to his senses. If she had not tensed, he might have lost himself entirely. And then… then he did not know what would have happened, only that he would never have been able to retreat into the safe distance he had promised himself.
He did not want to gamble with his heart. He could not afford to. And yet, standing there beneath the glittering chandeliers, replaying the sorrow in her eyes and the sweetness in her voice, he wondered—uneasily, helplessly—whether the gamble had already been made.
Chapter Thirteen
The drawing room was silent, the windows shut, the velvet drapes drawn back to reveal a cloudy sky. Evelyn looked up from the sewing on her lap at the sound of a footfall in the corridor.
She tensed, hastily setting her mending aside and tucking a stray curl behind her ear. Her heart thudded. She was sure it must be the Duchess.
The footsteps came closer—then merely passed the door. The housekeeper walked softly by. Evelyn exhaled in a rush, her shoulders sagging. Only then did she realise, with a jolt, that she was trembling.
“I cannot do this,” she whispered.
It was late morning, just before luncheon, and Sebastian had been out riding since dawn. Evelyn had chosen not to accompany him; the thought of joining the party made her stomach knot with insecurity. After the duchess’s cruel remarks, she dreaded providing any fresh opportunity for criticism. She could not shake the feeling the older woman had stirred—that she was unworthy and did not belong.
Part of her wished she could confide in Sebastian, but shame held her silent. To admit her distress felt like admitting that the Duchess was right. And Sebastian himself was behaving so strangely. The memory of the previous evening’s waltz lingered vividly—too vividly. Yet since then, he had been distant, absent for hours. Perhaps he was avoiding her.
With Sebastian, Gemma, and William all out riding, she was left alone in the house with the Dowager Duchess and Nicholas. Nicholas was polite—earnest, even—if shy and uncertain around her. The Duchess, however, was a constant, silent threat: never speaking, always watching, always disapproving. Evelyn hadhidden in her chamber for most of the morning, venturing to the drawing room only once she was certain it was empty.
Feeling restless, she rose and crossed to the balcony. Three floors below, the green lawns stretched wide and immaculate, dotted with daisies and roses nodding in the breeze. Tall irises flanked a distant fountain. She could not see the front hedge from where she leaned—only a vast rolling expanse of lawn bordered by tall trees on three sides and the manor on the fourth. The estate was beautiful, grand, inviting—yet she barely dared to walk through it lest she meet the Duchess’s cold stare again.
“I cannot do this,” she murmured once more.
As she gazed out over the gardens, an idea struck her. She could visit Mama. Surely no one—not eventhe Dowager Duchess—could deny her the right to call upon her own mother. Mama’s melancholy alone made such visits sensible. And it would spare her the torture of enduring luncheon at the Duchess’s table.
She rang for her maid, her spirits quickening with the decision.
