“I am,” Evelyn admitted, deeply touched by her friend’s compassion for the second time that day.
She wished Lucy good evening, then shut the front door, divested herself of pelisse and bonnet, and slipped quietly upstairs. The house was still; Mama was likely resting before dinner. Evelyn entered her chamber and closed the door behind her before collapsing onto the bed.
Her thoughts flew in panicked circles. A woman’s reputation was as fragile—and as valuable—as gold. And hers… hers might be ruined.
“Oh, I hope this does not spell trouble for me,” she whispered.
She lay where she was, shivering with fear as much as with the cold of the walk. As she thought back over the walk, one thing returned incessantly to her mind: The strange, wondrous feeling of lying in the tall, strong man’s arms, his body pressed to hers. Her own body flooded with intense heat and a feeling thatshe could only describe as longing. Delicious, forbidden, wild longing such as she had only ever read about in the novels she and Lucy borrowed in secret.
“Don’t be foolish,” she told herself harshly, pushing the feeling away. Of all the things facing her at that moment, that was the strangest, and quite possibly the most foolish, response she could think of.
And yet, despite the danger, the fear, the humiliation… the memory that returned again and again as she lay there was the sensation of the muscled, warm arms that gripped her and the unmistakable longing she had seen in the gentleman’s eyes as he looked up at her.
Chapter Three
“Your Grace! Are you harmed?” a voice called from the small crowd now gathered on the pavement outside the millinery shop.
Sebastian grunted. “I am well,” he managed. His ankle ached where it had twisted beneath him, his side throbbed, and a sharp pain stabbed through his wrist where it had struck the stone. Yet all of it faded beside the fierce, bewildering rush of desire still burning in the pit of his stomach—an ache far worse than any pain in his bones.
“Your Grace! Allow me to assist you,” offered a military officer in a red uniform, stepping forward.
Sebastian shook his head. “I am well. But if everyone would kindly move on, I would be obliged.” He gave the officer a level glance—one that carried the implicit request for order.
“Please move on, everyone!” the officer barked, understanding at once.
The murmuring crowd began to disperse, though Sebastian caught snatches of whispered speculation—“a disgrace,” “a scandal,” and similar nonsense.
She knocked me out of the way!he wanted to snap.What filth fills your minds that scandal is all you can imagine?
Yet he could not deny the disconcerting truth: a beautiful, soft, fragrant woman had been lying across him moments before. He took a tentative step and winced as his ankle protested, the pain briefly outmatching the heat tightening low in his belly.
You are being a fool,he told himself sharply. On the rare—very rare—occasions in his life when he had felt desire for a woman, he had stamped it out with ruthless practicality. He would not marry, and he would not risk siring a child he couldnot acknowledge. Desire, for him, was out of the question—dangerous, forbidden. And usually easy to resist. The women he met at parties were poised, presentable, and some even truly beautiful. But none of them had sparked anything like the raging fire that the woman with the tumbledown brown hair had done.
His mind filled with her. Her form was soft and sweet; her curves round and firm where he had accidentally touched them as she fell. Her bosom was full and soft too, her waist a sweet curve. She smelled of some soft, floral perfume. Her thighs were smooth and rounded, one of them sliding briefly between his own as they tangled together on the pavement. He bit his lip, a surge of fresh desire cascading through him. Her body was sweet and tempting.
“You are being ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath as he limped up the pavement toward the park. He needed a Hackney coach to return to the inn where his horse waited, and then he must ride for Brentfield Park—a three-hour journey he could scarcely imagine undertaking in his present condition.
He needed to conserve his strength, yet all he could think of—all that filled him—was the lovely young woman who had knocked him off his feet, saving him from injury; mayhap from death. The sign had been nearly a yard long, half a yard high, and made of iron; had it struck him, he might very well not be standing.
Her eyes returned to him again and again in his thoughts—warm, deep brown, filled with gentleness and astonishment as she stared into his. They were kind, expressive eyes. They had startled him with their sweetness. He had never been looked at with such unguarded warmth.
He halted, glancing back toward the fallen sign. Something lay near it—an object he had not noticed before.
At first, he thought it might be hisporte-monnaie, but that was still in his pocket, coins jingling faintly. He frowned.Perhaps something belonging to one of the ladies. He went to fetch it.
He limped towards the spot where he had been standing earlier, grimacing at the pain in his ankle.Perhaps I have cracked a bone,he thought. The burning pain was not as intense as he would have imagined, given his experience of fractures: riding accidents and one or two bouts of boxing—an illegal sport, but one in which he enjoyed sparring with his Cambridge friends—had taught him a great deal about the pain of a broken bone.
He reached the spot and bent down. The object was leather, as he had thought, and fitted easily into his hand. It was thick—far too thick and heavy for a purse of any sort. He turned it over—and his eyes widened.
“Shakespeare’s Complete Works,” he murmured.
He stared at it, astonished. It seemed almost uncanny. One of the ladies must have dropped it—certainly it had not been lying there earlier when he had paused to look into the shop window. And it could hardly belong to the woman in the white pelisse; she had only just arrived. Which meant…
“It must be hers,” he said softly—the brave young woman with the deep brown eyes.
“A pity,” he muttered. “I ought to return it.” But he had no name, no direction, not even a clue. He had been too dazed to ask her anything. A pang of regret pierced him. He owed her more than thanks—quite possibly his life. And besides… a quiet, insistent part of him whispered… he wished to see her again.
“Stop being foolish,” he snapped at himself. He had no place for women in his life—however brave and lovely one of them might be. He had sworn off all of it long ago, and was the better for it.
