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He muttered a curse under his breath. “Eve, I swear I meant you no insult.”

“Just go home, my lord,” she said wearily. “You may have nothing better to do with your time, but I certainly do.”

His eyes glittered at her. “Very well. Then I shall see you tomorrow evening.” When she merely stared at him, he looked a bit more uneasy. “I will see you tomorrow, won’t I?”

How she’d love to refuse, but she dared not. “My stepmother has already accepted for the family, and I wouldn’t for the world gainsay her.” Maman would assume that Eve was embarrassed by her.

“You’d come to dinner for her, but not for me?” he pressed her.

“Why would I do it for you?” she managed to choke out.

“Because we’re old friends,” he said, his gaze dropping inexorably to her lips before he seemed to catch himself and jerk it back up. When she blushed, he drawled, “And it’s a little late to deny the acquaintance, don’t you think?”

It infuriated her to hear him repeat the line he’d said yesterday, the one that had prompted her to tell him how she knew him. Angry with herself for blushing, she said, “Watch me.”

Then she marched right back into the house, shut the door, and locked it. But even as she heard him call out, “Good day, Miss Archer!” and walk away, she was tempted to open the door and beg him to come back.

And that would be the height of folly.

CHAPTER 3

For the hundredth time since yesterday morning in Hatton Garden, Noel chided himself for being a fool.

He shouldn’t have kissed her.

Even now, as the carriage headed closer to Eve’s lodgings, he wondered how else he could have reacted to her teasing him and looking like an angel, even in her patched gown and too-large coat.

He’d had to kiss her, damn it, even if it was only the one time, because otherwise he would have driven himself mad wondering how she would taste, how she would feel in his arms. Except now he was driving himself mad wondering when he could do it again.

What insanity. Although the kiss had gone rather well at first, he had somehow managed to bumble through what had come after, thinking only that he shouldn’t be kissing her when he intended to offer for Lady Margaret one day soon.

Suddenly, she’d looked stricken and called him “my lord” and made him yearn for what he’d known he dared not have. Then he’d panicked and tried to fix matters by offering to hire her to do some embroidery. Any other woman in her situation would have welcomed the work. Right?

Then again, what he knew about young ladies could be put into a thimble with room left over. He and Natalie hadn’t been close until she’d fallen ill. Even then, it had taken her three years to die, and with Father already dead, Noel had spent most of that time trying to figure out how to keep the family solvent and Natalie alive, trying every doctor and remedy that might keep her from death’s door. He’d neglected his estate so he could be there for his family. Not that he regretted it, but it was only more proof that caring for someone came with a high cost.

After Natalie had finally lost her battle with consumption, it had been a relief to spend his time shoring up the viscountcy finances. It was better than dwelling on how he’d failed to save her. On how he’d lost years of closeness he might have had with her if he hadn’t behaved like a typical heedless older brother when he was young.

Over time, his own grief had settled into a blessed numbness that kept him from pain. He sometimes thought he and Mother moved through their daily lives in a dance that never altered its rhythms or patterns.

It was only at the end of the most recent Season that he’d gone looking for a wife. He wasn’t getting any younger, after all. He had to sire an heir.

His ideal candidate had been someone who wouldn’t tie him into emotional knots, because he didn’t have the strength for it anymore. He could barely keep his own mother from her grief. He certainly couldn’t shower love and affection on some woman he hardly knew.

So, he’d started courting the first woman who’d seemed sensible and responsible, a tall order among the usual crop of young hopefuls. Lady Margaret would never make him feel or yearn or risk loss. She would run his household and bear him children and never expect more from him than he could give. She would never spend him into penury. She would make the perfect viscountess.

He sighed. But it hadn’t been Lady Margaret he’d lain in bed last night craving. God, he’d barely been able to sleep thinking of Eve’s soft lips, soft body … soft everything. Of her teasing smiles and her amazing talent for drawing.

Of the fact that he’d insulted her and still wasn’t entirely sure how.

The carriage shuddered to a halt, and he groaned. Now he’d have to endure an entire dinner with her and her family while she sat staring daggers at him. Which was preferable to her flashing her sweet, melting smiles at him that threatened to overrun his control.

With an oath, he climbed out and headed for the door of the skinny building sandwiched between a larger building and an alley, one wall of which held her sketch. He couldn’t see it now that darkness had fallen, but he smiled to remember her beautifully rendered Father Christmas. The twinkle in the fellow’s eyes had brought him to life, and that was hard to manage in an embroidery design, even one “writ large” on a wall.

He knocked on the Archers’ door and James answered. “Cor, you look dashing!” he cried.

Noel chuckled. “You look rather dashing yourself, young man.” It was true. The lad wore woolen breeches and a matching coat, not to mention an embroidered waistcoat with fleurs-de-lis dotting it. All of it appeared well-worn, and the suit was clearly a decade out of fashion, but it was far better than what Noel had expected the boy to be wearing.

James preened a bit. “Mother got the breeches and coat from Mrs. Beckford—they used to be her son’s, the lady said. Sissy made the waistcoat a while ago from one of Father’s old ones. And I already had the shirt and gloves.” He tugged on the collar. “It’s tight, though, on account of the cravat. I don’t like a cravat.”