Delectably Undone! Part 2

"Including those, I bought twenty paintings. I deposited one thousand pounds."

She dropped the brush, scarlet flooding her cheeks. "That's too much! Especially for-" She broke off, the color ebbing, leaving her blanched. "Some of them were not...not Lionel's best work."

Evelyn nodded. "No, they were not. Some of them were his older work." He bent down and picked up the brush. "The way he painted before. Like the mountainscape, the portrait." Before what? "But the others, that seascape-" He drew breath. "What happened to him, Loveday? Something changed him."

Their eyes met and Loveday felt herself drowning, falling into the deep, deep blue just as she always had. She had always known he would see the difference. Even if he didn't yet quite know what he had seen.

"Things happen. People...change, Evelyn. That's all." She held out her hand for the brush.

People did change. And she lied by evasion.

He gave her the brush and she took it, fumbling, and turned away to hide the tears. There was a muttered curse, and his arms came about her, drawing her back against the comfort and strength of his body. She shook as his fingers closed over hers and gently removed the brush, to drop it in the basin.

This was madness. The heat and strength surrounding her were temporary at best, and illusory at worst. He was not for her. If she had not known that six years ago, she knew it now. She should pull away, before all her hard-won common sense dissolved. And yet she remained.

The length of his body pressed against her, warding off the chill. His cheek rested on her hair, his breath warm in her ear. Her heart hammered as heat stole through her. It had been like this that other time. He had offered comfort, and she had lost her head, reached up and kissed him clumsily on the jaw.

She slammed the door shut on the memory. Of his shock. And then his eyes darkening as he drew her closer and showed her what a kiss could be.

Now he held her helpless before him, one arm close about her waist, his other hand lifting to touch gentle fingers to her face and throat. She quivered, her soul crying out in silent delight, her breath coming in soft gasps as her pulse danced and an ache blossomed in the growing dampness at her core. There was a reason...somewhere there was a reason she must refuse him, but she had forgotten what it was as her body, alive and yearning, melted against him. Warm lips brushed her ear, and his hand stole up to cover her breast, kneading lightly. A moan escaped her trembling lips as heat stabbed, a golden shaft from breast to that growing secret ache, and his arms tightened. Her head fell back against his shoulder and one hand rose to cover the tormenting fingers at her breast, pressing them closer, wanting more. The fierce ridge of his erection rode hard against her bottom and she moved her hips, wanton, enticing.

With a harsh groan he pulled away, stepping back, leaving her bereft, torn apart. Summoning every fading ounce of resolve and courage, she turned to face him, her cheeks scarlet. His eyes blazed into hers, hot and dark.

"Evelyn?" She held out her hand. Not knowing why, only that she must.

He flinched, looking down at it. And she saw what he must see: the frayed cuff of her sleeve, smeared with paint, and her hand, roughened and paint-stained, reaching across an unbridgeable gulf; the schoolmaster's daughter and painter's sister, and the aristocrat.

"You still clean his brushes. He's been home today, then?"

Her hand fell. Time to step back from the edge. As he had done. "Brushes need to be cleaned, my lord. Or they become useless."

He frowned. "So he came home, left you with his brushes, and went out again? Why? Because I was coming?"

"He had to be...somewhere else." Crimson scorched her cheeks again at the lie. So far she'd been able to avoid direct lies. Not this time.

"It used to be something you did for him while he made a cup of tea for both of you and talked about his day, his work. What he had planned for the next day."

She turned away to hide the pain. How many times had Evelyn been there while she did just that? Sometimes he'd helped her. A novelty for the viscount's heir, to play at a dirty manual task.

"Loveday?" His very gentleness sliced at her. "Did I destroy that, too? Your friendship with Lionel?"

"No!" Shocked, she spun around. "He was angry, upset, but what you-" She broke off. That was unfair. It had not been just Evelyn. She had known what she was doing. It would have taken only a word, a gesture, to stop him. She had not spoken that word or made the gesture, because she had not wanted him to stop. Any more than she had wanted to stop just now. She ached with the pent-up yearning of six endless years. "What we did," she corrected herself, "did not cause any falling out between Lionel and myself." She dragged in a breath. "It's different for us. It's not as though I disgraced an ancient name, or anything like that."

"Dammit, Loveday!" Evelyn caught her wrist in a fierce grip. "Don't cheapen yourself like that, as though your innocence was of no account! You're still his sister, and he was right to be furious with me. And even if you had no brother to be furious, I still should not have taken you." His voice had gentled and his clasp on her wrist eased. "I don't want to think that it made a difference between you."

Unthinking, she laid her other hand over his. "Evelyn, I promise you, it made no difference."

Slowly, he nodded and released her. "Very well. I'll wait."

To her absolute horror, he went and sat down on a chair.

"Wait?" Her tongue felt frozen.

He gave her a level look. "You can hardly expect me to leave you here alone at night. I'll wait until Lionel returns. If he doesn't wish to speak to me, I'll go as soon as he's back."

She nearly choked. "But...you can't!"

"Yes, I can."

Panic fluttered in her throat. "But-" She cast about for a way to be rid of him. "Your dinner. I...I've no food here for you. Indeed-" this would shift him "-I must go out to get my own dinner."

He stared at her, clearly stunned. "You were planning to go out by yourself? At this hour?" He rose.

"You're leaving, then?" She tried not to sound relieved.

His gaze narrowed. "Not exactly. I'm taking you out for a meal," he said. "What? No!"

"And if Lionel isn't back by then," he continued, as if she hadn't spoken, "I'll wait."

"But, you're going out." She waved at his elegant evening clothes. "You must be."

He shrugged. "There's a ball later. It won't signify if I'm late."

She forced back the whirling panic. There had to be a way out of this, if she could only think of it. Somehow she had miscalculated. He was angry. Angry with Lionel for supposedly leaving her here alone too much.... She let out a breath.

"Very well. I'll...I'll need to leave a note so he doesn't worry."

Evelyn bit back the obvious retort; that if Lionel was worried about her he wouldn't have rented rooms in this area, let alone left her unguarded in them. G.o.d! If he had ignored Lionel's request for the commission... His gut churned.

"Good idea," he said.

It had to be safer to take her out. If they remained here alone... His body hardened. Six years had not quenched his desire for Loveday Trehearne. Once, he had taken advantage of her innocence. She should hate him for that, yet it appeared she was still vulnerable to him.

He watched as she hurried around, found a sc.r.a.p of drawing paper and wrote a brief note. Despite her a.s.surances, he couldn't rid himself of the idea that there was something wrong between Loveday and Lionel. Something was eating at her. In the growing gloom she looked pale, hesitating over the note, as though choosing her words carefully. Her gaze skittered to his face, then she wrote hastily and propped the paper against a candle near the tinder box.

"It's easy to see there," she said, her gaze not quite meeting his.

"Very easy. Are you ready?"

She bit her lip. "Is there time for me to change?"

He swallowed. "Of course." There was probably time for him to go insane, too. He repressed the instinct to follow as she vanished behind a curtain into the other room.

He tried to ignore the soft, intimate sounds that spoke of a woman undressing, the trickle of water, the faint splashing that told him she was washing. His imagination painted the images for him: Loveday in her chemise, naked; the washcloth caressing her pale, delicate curves, stroking over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s; cool water peaking the dusky pink nipples. He remembered their satin softness, remembered their taste...the sweet scent of apple and cinnamon that had always been a part of her...

The memories flooded him, dissolving the years...Loveday, shy before him in her stays and shift. Her skin like peach silk under his touch, flushed to rose in the lamplight. Loveday, naked in his arms, so sweet and generous. And his. All his, yielded beneath him. A madness he regretted more than he could say. All very well to a.s.sure himself that he would have stopped if she had asked. She shouldn't have needed to ask; he should have d.a.m.n well stopped, anyway. Better, he should never have let it start. Instead, selfishness had won. Even now he remembered her soft cry spilling into his mouth, her body stiffening in shock....

His foot caught against a painting, sending it clattering to the floor. Shaken, he realized that he had taken several steps toward the curtain dividing them.

"Evelyn? Is something wrong?"

Blood pounding, he forced himself to stop. "It's nothing. Caught my foot."

No matter how much he wanted to, he wasn't going to seduce Loveday again. He breathed deeply, trying to steady his hammering pulse and shaking hands. He turned his back on the useless blasted curtain and let out a pent-up breath. His gaze fell on the note against the candlestick.

He strode over and picked it up: Evelyn came by to collect the paintings. I have gone out for a meal with him. I won't be late. L.

Brief. To the point. And so unlike the way she would have once written to Lionel. Lionel, who had once savagely demanded to know what Evelyn's intentions were toward Loveday. He remembered with shame his wordless reaction, his shock at the thought of marrying so far beneath him, his horror at the thought of his family's likely response.... Lionel had read his answer in his face, dropped him with one swift blow and left.

Evelyn picked up the pencil and scribbled a note at the bottom.

He was waiting by the outer door when she emerged, and his breath hitched. It wasn't the gown. That was gray, ill-fitting and b.u.t.toned to the throat.

It was her hair. Released from the imprisoning knot, it was pinned up more loosely, curling around her face as it always had, so that his fingers itched to slide in and tumble the fiery ma.s.s around her shoulders, spread it over crisp white linen as he- He clamped down on his unruly thoughts, glancing at the note to remind himself of the promise he had written there. To himself as much as Lionel. His word, irrevocably given.

"You'll need a cloak," he said, picking up his own evening cloak and moving to the door to open it for her.

She shook her head. "No need."

"Don't be an idiot. It's cold out. Fetch your cloak," he said, swinging his to his shoulders and feeling for the clasp.

She swallowed. "I don't have one."

His fingers stilled on the fastening. Her cheeks were fiery.

"Why not?"

Her jaw tightened. "Because I sold it, if you must know!"

His stomach clenched. Things had been that bad? He held back the words that leaped to his tongue. He had bought the paintings. The money was in the bank, albeit Lionel's account. They would be all right now.

"No matter," he said. "Use mine." Swinging the cloak from his shoulders again, he went to her and settled it around her, drawing it close. A mistake. The fragrance of cinnamon and apple curled through him again. Sweet. Spicy. Intoxicating.

With a mental curse he stepped back from her quickened breathing and the temptation of the drifting curls.

"Come. You must be hungry." G.o.d knew he was. He held the door for her and tried not to breathe as she pa.s.sed.

Halfway down the creaky stairs she stopped.

"Oh!" Her hand went to her mouth. "I might have left a candle burning. In...in the back room. Wait here. I'd better check." And she hurried back up the stairs.

He waited at the bottom. Moments later she reappeared.

"Had you?" he asked.

She looked blank. "Had I what?"

"Left a candle burning."

In the gloom of the yard he could have sworn she was blushing.

"No, I hadn't." Then, her voice a little high, she said, "We will not be very late, will we?"

"No. Not late," he replied. And wished it were otherwise-that he could keep her out shockingly late, scandalously late. That he could take her home to his bed and spend the whole night ravishing her and being ravished in return....

She forgot all her worries. Forgot everything except that she was with him again, and that they were Loveday and Evelyn, not the aristocrat and the painter's sister. She remembered things, too. Such as his undignified enjoyment of hot, roasted nuts bought straight from the vendor's brazier.

And if her heart skipped a beat to find that he remembered things, what did it matter? Did it matter that he bought her eels down by Westminster Bridge, and stole several bites as he had always done? Or that he wiped her fingers afterward with his handkerchief, as he had done long ago, laughing at her protests?

She floated through the evening enfolded in his cloak and scent, a fragile bubble of joy surrounding her. She knew it could not last, that when he took her home she must let the evening's delight pa.s.s from her, and not try to cling. That would extinguish even the memory of joy. But she would not think of it now.

She had relaxed. And he had never enjoyed an evening more. The ball he had planned to attend later was far from his mind. And as for the dinner he was supposed to be enjoying right now at his aunt's house, while meeting the lovely and wealthy Miss Angaston...well, Aunt Caroline was going to tear strips off him, but the bites of jellied eel Evelyn stole from Loveday were far more to his taste. He shared the roasted nuts with her, too, popping them into her mouth one by one, holding back the rising tide of desire when her lips closed on his fingers.

The evening wore on. Nine o'clock came. And went. Ten o'clock. He should be at the Hardress ball by now. Aunt Caroline, already furious at his non-attendance at her dinner, would be fuming. Every polite smile and charming excuse she made for him would only add to the reckoning. But what if he took Loveday home and Lionel wasn't there?

Even here, out in the street, he was aware of her every breath, the fragrance of her hair, every eyelash. In the confines of her lodgings his control would be stretched to breaking point.

He shouldn't have brought her out like this, though. She was far from the only woman being escorted by a man. He knew what many of them were. Once, he would have been looking at them. As the other men looked at Loveday. Even men with other women. Snared by the flaming hair and pausing to look further, hot speculation in their eyes.

Evelyn thanked G.o.d for the enveloping cloak, but nothing could veil the sparkle in her eyes or hide the sweet fullness of her mouth. Fortunately, a threatening glare from him was enough to keep the others at bay.

Until they ran into Huntercombe.

"Hi-St. Austell!"

He would have kept going except that Loveday, hearing him hailed, had stopped.

"Evening, St. Austell." Huntercombe's gaze flickered to Loveday, slid over her in speculation.

A slow burn ignited in Evelyn's gut. Huntercombe was the sort of pond sc.u.m that gave ponds a bad name.

"Huntercombe. You'll excuse us."

Lord Huntercombe grinned. "Oh, of course." He cast another appraising look at Loveday and Evelyn felt her shrink closer, felt as though a bucket of slops had been tipped over them both.

"Huntercombe at your service, my dear," the man murmured.

Loveday said nothing, but Huntercombe didn't seem to care. He addressed Evelyn again. "Very nice, St. Austell." He leered at Loveday. "As tasty a morsel as ever I saw. Let me know when you're done plowing her, and I'll-"

Huntercombe crashed into the gutter, doubled over, clutching at his midriff, blood pouring from his nose. And Evelyn found himself standing over him with clenched fists, his knuckles bruised, rage burning unfettered, and Loveday clinging to his arm.

Slowly her voice penetrated the red mist. "...No, Evelyn, please. You mustn't. Please, come away."

Huntercombe sat up, wiping away blood. "Good G.o.d, St. Austell!" He staggered to his feet with the help of one of his friends. "Are you mad? What's the-"

"Apologize." It was all Evelyn could get out from between gritted teeth.

"What?" Huntercombe's eyes goggled. "d.a.m.ned if I will! Apologize? To some doxy you're- All right! All right!" He backed away, stumbling over the gutter.