Lady Eve's Indiscretion

Five

Eve Windham did not snore, and she had the knack of being pretty even in sleep. Deene tormented himself with these guilty secrets—secrets only a husband ought to know. Better by far that he suffer to know them, however, than that he hear any explicit confidences from her.

He knew there was a great deal more to her bad fall than either of them had acknowledged, and for the sake of his peace of mind, he wanted it kept that way.

Let her tell her sisters, or her mama. Let her write letters to her brother Devlin in the North; let her learn what she could from the family who’d loved her since birth. For if Deene were to accept her most intimate confidences now, he would be unable—flat helpless, in fact—to let any other man assume responsibility for her.

Any situation involving him, helplessness, and a woman was to be avoided at any cost.

He instead turned his mind to the gossip Kesmore had passed long, for even the weight of Eve’s head resting against his thigh was insufficient to distract him from that bit of news. According to the talk in the clubs, Deene’s profligate raking on three continents—or was it four, considering that Turkey was part of Asia?—had left him with unfortunate health consequences that could potentially disfigure or even end the life of any marchioness of Deene.

The effects of disease—nobody used the specific word “syphilis”—had been evident in the late Lord Deene, too, hadn’t they? A wicked temper, unfettered spending, intemperate drink…

That such characteristics were common to many an aging peer was apparently beyond the grasp of the average gossip, and in truth, such rumors were only bothersome in passing.

The ones intimating Deene was close to financial ruin were the more difficult to bear. Coming as they did upon the very opening of the Season in which Deene sought to take a wife, there could be only one possible source of such malice.

And before too much more time had passed, Deene intended to make Jonathan Dolan pay for every nasty, sly, vulgar lie ever to pass the man’s lips.

Jenny stared at the apple in her hand. “I am disloyal for saying so, but I am enjoying this respite without Mama and Papa. With just us and Aunt Gladys here, it’s peaceful.”

Eve paused halfway through paring the skin from another piece of fruit. “You aren’t disloyal, you’re honest. Mama is probably saying the very same thing to Papa about us as we speak.”

Louisa was demolishing her apple in audible bites. “Eve’s right, and this way, I get to spend another couple of weeks rusticating with my dear Joseph. Do we have enough for the last pie?”

Eve eyed the pile of peeled and sliced apples before her. She generally avoided association with apples, but the Windham daughters enjoyed a secret fondness for cooking, and her sisters’ choice today had been pies. “Do we really need seven pies?”

“Five will do if the bounty is limited to us and the senior house staff.” Jenny set her apple down. “Six allows us to spare one for Kesmore.”

“So our heathen offspring can smear it in one another’s hair.” Louisa got off her stool and started untying her apron. “Eve, why don’t you take the remaining slices down to the stables? Jenny can come with me to surrender the pie to the Vandal horde in my nursery.”

Which horde, Eve simply lacked the fortitude to deal with cheerfully today. “I’ll clean up here, in any case.”

They didn’t argue with her, which was a mercy. Kesmore had seen Eve’s face splotchy and pink. He’d all but galloped off to avoid the awkwardness of her loss of composure—or perhaps he’d meant to spare her feelings.

It hardly mattered. Since arriving to Morelands several days ago, Eve had slept a great deal, stared off into space almost as much, and taken a few long walks.

And when she walked, she remembered to be grateful for the ability, but she also found her peace punctuated by odd thoughts.

Canby had referred to her repeatedly as “Eve, the temptress.” At the time, she’d thought it made her sound grown-up, alluring, and mysterious. In hindsight, the implication that she was responsible for his behavior, that she’d caused him to violate every rule of decency was… infuriating.

Apples could be infuriating by association.

At services, Eve had volunteered to attend the children in the nursery, and this time—this time—she’d looked at all those boisterous, healthy children with their clean faces and broad smiles, and considered that her life would be devoid of the blessings of motherhood. For the rest of her life, while her sisters were raising up children, and her brothers were raising up children, and her cousins were raising up children, she would be… childless.

That was infuriating too.

And now, Louisa and Jenny would hop into the gig and tool over to Kesmore’s without a backward thought for their safety, their nerves, their ability to cope with a darting hare or approaching storm.

Eve loved her family, but still, there was much to be angry about.

She scooped up the apple slices that hadn’t gone into a pie and wrapped them in a cloth. The day was a pretty day. She was in good health and had the afternoon to herself—she’d try not to be angry about that too.

Meteor was in his paddock, one shared by an aging pony named Grendel. They paused in their grazing as Eve approached, but only Meteor sidled over to the fence.

“Hello, old friend.”

Between his cheekbones, at the throat latch where his neck and his head joined, Meteor had a sweet spot, a place he couldn’t reach himself that he loved to have scratched. Eve’s ritual with this horse started with attending to that spot for him, and Meteor’s ritual with her with allowing the familiarity.

“Have you ever been so angry you’re sick with it?”

The pony flicked an ear, but being a pony, did not abandon his grass merely to watch another horse being cosseted.

“Deene said, of course I’m angry. What does he know? Would you like an apple?”

The horse did not answer, except by ingesting the proffered slice and turning big, brown, beseeching eyes on Eve.

“You are such a gentleman, my friend.”

Deene had been a gentleman. Eve was going to have to thank him, and that would rankle, but not thanking him rankled more.

Everything rankled. “I can hardly think. I’m so overset these days. If I were a girl, I’d saddle up and go for a gallop, leave the grooms behind, and let the wind blow the cobwebs from my soul. Another slice? Grendel will soon come to investigate.”

Grendel did not investigate, exactly, but he turned his grazing in the direction of Eve’s tête-à-tête with Meteor.

“I keep recalling things, things that make no sense. We had an early spring that year, and then an onion snow, so as I lay there in the mud, I smelled both green grass and snow. Snow has no scent, but it did that day.”

She fed the stallion another slice. “I did not call for help because I was afraid Canby would find me.”

And oh, the shame of that, to lie in the cold mud not just helpless and hurting, but terrified—and afraid she’d wet herself from fear if nothing else. Grendel lifted his head as if considering the probability of cadging an apple slice and took a step closer to the stallion.

“All I could think was I would never be able to face my family, though if I hadn’t been in such a tearing hurry to get back to them, I might not have overfaced my mare on bad ground, and lamed us both for the duration. Thank God my brother Devlin found me first. I had been such a fool. I did not know the half of it then.”

Meteor had another sweet spot, just below his withers. As a girl, Eve had scratched that spot for him until her arm had ached. She pushed the cloth full of apples near the fence and climbed between the boards.

“I don’t have to marry. I know this.” When she applied her fingernails to the horse’s shaggy spring coat, a shower of coarse dark hairs cascaded to the ground. “But where would that leave me? Papa’s little charmer, the doting maiden aunt who isn’t a maiden.”

Who will never be a maiden again.

Who threw away her greatest treasure on a worthless, scheming, lying, manipulative, evil man.

The anger hit her then like the initial staggering gust of wind announcing a brutal tempest, had her leaning into Meteor’s neck just to stay on her feet. Yes, she was angry. She was infuriated, enraged, magnificently wroth over a past she could not change and a future with too few choices.

Deene had been right about that, but as Grendel sidled close enough to poke his nose under the fence and help himself to an apple, Eve identified the emotion fueling all her anger, and maybe some of her shame as well.

As the tears came down again, what Eve felt was bitter, heartrending sorrow.

“Where the hell have you been?”

Anthony stopped short at Deene’s tone, and from the surprise on his cousin’s face, Deene surmised nobody had warned Anthony that Deene was in residence at Denning Hall.

“Good morning to you, too, Cousin.” In a blink, Anthony’s features had composed themselves into a slight smile.

“I beg to differ.” Deene aimed a look at the footmen stationed at either end of the breakfast buffet, and they silently left the room. “I thought you were summoned here from Town, Anthony. I come down on your heels and find my cousin is nowhere to be found.”

“I’m to report all my comings and goings to you now?” His tone was mild as he helped himself to a full plate.

“Since you are my only adult family, my heir, and what keeps my senior stewards in line, yes, I think that would be both courteous and prudent. Tea?”

“Please.”

Deene moved the pot that had been sitting by his left elbow to Anthony’s place on his right. “I came out here in part to find you, Anthony, and instead spent more than a few minutes wondering what had become of you. They were not comfortable minutes.”

“I’m touched. Pass the cream, if you please.”

The alternative to bracing his cousin on sight would have been an interview in the library, with Deene seated at the estate desk and Anthony called onto the carpet like a truant schoolboy awaiting a birching.

That would not serve. They were family first, employer and employee second—or so Deene hoped. Deene passed the cream and the sugar.

“I was in Surrey, and congratulations are in order. I’ve become a papa again. Where’s the salt?”

Deene passed the salt cellar too, but took a moment forming his reply. “A papa, again? Did I miss a wedding, Anthony?”

“Of course not. There is cheese in this omelet.”

“I prefer cheese in my omelets, and because the kitchen had no notion you’d be gracing us with your presence, my preferences carried the day. Anthony, explain yourself.”

“There’s little to explain.” Anthony put a spoonful of egg on a toast point and took a bite. “I maintain a household in Surrey for my domestic comfort, and as happens in the usual course, the household includes children. I have two girls and now a boy. There was a stillbirth too, so the children’s mother was a trifle worried this time around.”

Deene looked at the fellow munching on toast and eggs beside him and saw a familiar figure: blond hair, blue eyes, a lanky, elegant build, and the Deene family features on his face.

And yet he saw a stranger. “One can understand why you would detour to greet your son upon his arrival into the world. I gather mother and child—children—are doing well?”

“She’s from peasant stock. Mary Jane knows how to look after herself, and I provide amply for her and the children. Do I take it you also like cinnamon on your toast?”

Deene’s gaze fell on the little container sitting near the butter. “Occasionally, and in my coffee.”

“Bit of an extravagance, don’t you think?”

A casual question, but it might also be an attempt to shift the interrogation away from Anthony’s bastard children and to put Deene on the defensive.

Or were the rumors in Town just taking a greater toll on Deene’s composure than he’d realized?

“I have larger problems than whether I can afford to stock my spice rack, Anthony, or perhaps I should say, we have greater problems.”

Anthony frowned at him. “If you’re going to harangue me about the ledgers, old boy, I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in nigh a week, and much of what you want is kept in Town.”

“Anthony, while you have the luxury of maintaining a casual establishment with a female, I am very publicly soon to be in the market for a wife.”

Anthony topped off his teacup and stared at his plate. “I know you feel you must marry, Deene, but you’re hardly at your last prayers, and if need be, I can stick my neck in the marital noose. If nothing else, we know I can get children. Mary Jane will raise ten kinds of hell, but sometimes a little liveliness has enjoyable results.”

“You’d marry to spare me the effort?”

Anthony’s gaze when he met Deene’s eyes was hard to read. “I am your heir. I am your only adult family. I am your cousin. Yes, I would marry if you asked it of me. I don’t like to think I’ve spent most of my life laboring in the Denning vineyards so Prinny can get his fat fingers on all our wealth should the title go into escheat.”

Something eased in Deene’s chest, a doubt, a worry, something he was relieved not to have to name.

“You cannot know how grateful I am to hear it, Anthony, because our situation might come to such a pass.”

They spent more than an hour in the breakfast parlor, dissecting each rumor, tracing its likely impact.

“Kesmore isn’t a gossip, but he lurks in the usual places—at the clubs, in the card rooms, and at Tatt’s. I trust his information.”

Anthony’s expression was thoughtful. “What about his motives?”

“In what sense?” While it was good to have a sounding board, Deene could not like the direction of Anthony’s thoughts.

“He’s married to a Windham, and there are at least two of those yet available for marriage. If he’s not in favor of your courting his countess’s sisters, he’ll want to discredit you—all’s fair in love and war, right?”

Eve had brought up the same point. “I served with him in Spain, Anthony, and as far as I can see, the man would simply tell me to take my business elsewhere. He does not lack for courage or suffer an excess of delicate sensibilities. Moreover, it makes no sense he’d start a number of rumors and then be the first to inform me of them. I say we’re back to Dolan.”

Anthony winced and rearranged his cutlery on his empty plate. “What’s his motive?”

“Spite. The same motive he has for keeping Georgina from us.”

When there was no reply, Deene lifted the pot to refresh their tea, only to find it empty.

“What aren’t you saying, Anthony?”

“I, of all men, have a reason to hate Dolan. Marie and I…” Anthony looked away, out the windows toward the pastures rolling beyond the gardens. “That is ancient history, but I cannot help but wonder from time to time about what might have been. I should know better, but memory is not always the slave of common sense.”

This was tricky ground. Deene did not interrupt.

“But even I, who cannot stand to hear Dolan’s name, am not entirely comfortable ascribing this behavior to him. For one thing, if there is a scandal to be brewed regarding unsound health or finances, the scandal will eventually devolve to Georgina’s discredit. Whatever else he is, Dolan is not stupid.”

Valid point—an aggravatingly valid point, and yet Deene did not want to acquit Dolan of mischief he’d clearly delight in.

“Dolan is cunning, I’ll grant you, but he’s an upstart. He will not know that ten years is nothing when it comes to Polite Society’s recall of scandal and gossip. He might very well think he can topple my expectations now, and when Georgie makes her come out, there will be no association between my ruin and her fortunes. It makes one worry for the girl.”

“Worry for the girl will not redress the reality that insufficient worry was devoted to her mother, though to the extent that I can, Deene, I appreciate your sentiments regarding Georgina’s welfare.”

On that sad note, Anthony took his leave while Deene remained at the table for another half hour, staring at the empty pot.

Her Grace, the Duchess of Moreland, was looking adorable. Her husband of more than thirty years closed the door to his private study and took a moment to appreciate the privilege of seeing her thus.

She was curled on the end of the sofa closest to the windows, her feet tucked under her, a lurid novel in her hand, and a pair of His Grace’s reading spectacles on her elegant nose. As the door clicked shut behind him, she looked up and smiled at her spouse.

When he’d suffered a heart seizure two years past, His Grace had lain amid all the ducal splendor of his household, praying with abject fervor to be allowed to live for a just few more years—even a few more months—basking in the warmth of that smile.

“Percival Windham, you shouldn’t have.”

He glanced down at the yellow tulips in his hand. “I spared the roses, and it’s my own damned garden. I can pick a few posies for a pretty girl when I jolly well please to.”

He crossed to the sideboard, poured some water in a glass, and stuck the flowers on the windowsill. His wife would pass by the bouquet, move a couple of blooms about and rearrange the greenery, and instead of looking ridiculous in a ducal study, the flowers would look exactly right.

He adored this about her as well.

She set her novel aside—reading one by daylight was a sure sign none of the children were in residence—and patted the place beside her on the sofa. “What’s the occasion?”

“Does love need an occasion?”

She cocked her head and studied him. “Give me a hint.”

“It is the anniversary of our third kiss.”

The smile blossomed again, a trifle naughtier to a doting husband’s eye.

“The Scorcher.”

She had named many of their earliest romantic encounters.

The Scorcher. The Ambush. The Ravishment of My Reason. The Obliteration of My Resistance.

He particularly enjoyed recalling that last one and thought she did too. Nothing had pleased a young husband more than to hear a catalogue of his wooing as categorized in Her Grace’s intimate lexicon.

“Yes, the Scorcher.” He took a seat beside her, and when he reached for her hand, she was already reaching for his. “Such an occasion is not to pass without a token of my esteem.”

“And we have the day to ourselves.”

“My love, though I know you enjoy my company without reservation, you do not sound particularly happy to find us home alone without a single child underfoot.”

She blew out a breath, her expression suggesting His Grace’s marital intuition had scored a lucky hit. “I worry about the girls.”

She worried about all the children, their spouses, the grandchildren. Her husband.

“They’ll look after one another. How much trouble can they get into with the entire Morelands staff ready to peach on them should they get up to mischief, and Kesmore close at hand?”

“Peaching is all well and good, but better yet they should be prevented from getting up to mischief in the first place.”

His Grace did not entirely agree with his wife on this point. Children needed to err and stumble and right themselves early and often, in theory. In practice, he knew he had the luxury of assuming such a posture—for it was a posture—only because Her Grace was indulging a rare spate of fretting.

They took turns at it, truth be known.

“You are concerned for our Evie,” His Grace observed. “Or am I mistaken?”

“Mostly for her. The Season hasn’t even started, and the proposals have already begun, haven’t they?”

How did she know these things? “Trottenham asked for a private audience last week. I’m hearing noises at the club from some other directions as well.”

“Trottenham.” Her Grace heaved out a sigh that spoke volumes of maternal frustration. “Percy, she’s begun the year riding with the third flight. What if one of them takes advantage? Another mishap would be her undoing.”

The third flight. An apt term referring to the riders at the back of the hunt, the cautious, the unskilled, or—in His Grace’s experience—the ones too drunk and uncaring of the sport to keep up with the real hunting.

As for Her Grace’s reference to Eve’s mishap… It must go unremarked. “Evie has acquired wisdom since her come out, my love. I have faith in her.”

“My faith in her has never wavered. It’s my faith in the company she’s keeping that fails to inspire.”

Trottenham was above reproach, but those other fellows… “I think her sisters will chaperone her more effectively than anyone else. They’re very protective of our Evie and recruit their husbands in the same cause.”

They all were—now, when it mattered a great deal less than it would have seven years ago.

“Maggie told me something.”

He patted her hand. Her Grace and Maggie had become thick as thieves since Maggie had married the Earl of Hazelton—and about damned time.

“Don’t keep me in suspense. Hazelton would never betray the girl’s confidences.” Well, hardly ever. Women apparently thought gentlemen’s clubs were only for cards, beefsteak, and reading the newspapers.

“She said having her own establishment was the only thing that kept her sane in recent years because of the privacy it afforded, the sense of control over her domain. I think Eve needs that too.”

This was Her Grace, easing into one of her radical notions. Her radical notions had a way of working around to occupying spaces near to common sense by the time she was done with them, but still…

“Evie is far too young to have her own establishment, my love. If we allowed that, it would be like, like… giving up. On her. Or casting her aside. You cannot ask that of me.” The idea of Evie, their baby girl, all alone and growing older without family around her—it was enough to provoke something almost as bad as a heart seizure.

Her Grace patted his hand, which was coming to resemble the calloused paw of an old soldier, while hers remained as pretty as the rest of her.

“I agree. It isn’t time, and it may never be time, but I was thinking I might see Lavender Corner put a little more to rights.”

“You are speaking Female on me, Esther. Does this mean you want to double the size of the place or send the servants over to dust?”

“The servants already keep it in good order. I was thinking perhaps I’d make sure the flower gardens were getting proper attention, the linen aired, the sachets kept fresh. A mother sees things a housekeeper cannot.”

He grasped the agenda now. Dense of him not to see it earlier.

“This will require that you jaunt off to Kent posthaste, won’t it?”

“The Season hasn’t started. There’s no time like the present, and I wouldn’t be gone long enough for you to miss me.”

She carried off airy unconcern quite credibly. His Grace wasn’t fooled, but he also wasn’t the only one capable of dissembling in the interests of parental pride.

“I have another idea.” He brought her knuckles to his mouth for a warm kiss. “How about we get a leisurely start tomorrow and break our journey at The Queen’s Harebell?”

He had the satisfaction of seeing her eyes widen and that special smile bloom on her lips.

“Oh, Percy.” She cradled his jaw with her hand and kissed his cheek. “The Queen’s Harebell in spring, the scene of no less an occasion than Chocolate at Midnight. That is a splendid idea.”

Yes, it was, if he did say so himself. Esther rested her head on his shoulder, and the moment became one of a countless number His Grace would hoard up in his heart to treasure at his leisure.

Esther’s smile became a little satisfied—not smug; Her Grace was never smug—and His Grace recognized that once again, she’d achieved her ends without ever having to ask for them.

That she could—and that he almost always spotted it when she did—was just one more thing to adore about her.

Being an upstart, bogtrotting, climbing cit of a quarry nabob was hard work, which Jonathan Dolan minded not one bit.

He thrived on it, in fact, or he did when hard work meant long hours at the quarries, the building sites, and the supply yards. When it meant longer hours, haggling at the negotiation table, poring over ledgers, and hanging about in smoke-filled card rooms, the prospect was much less appealing.

Much, much less.

“If you can’t get your lazy damned crews to put in a full day’s work, that is not my affair. Damages will be assessed per the clause you negotiated, Sloane.”

Sloane paced the spacious confines of the Dolan offices, running a hand through thinning sandy hair while Dolan watched from behind a desk free of clutter.

“The damages will put me under, Dolan. I told you, it isn’t that the crews won’t move your stone, it’s that they can’t move your stone. The rain in Dorset this spring has been unbelievable. This is not bad faith. It’s commercial impossibility.”

The blather coming out of the idiot’s mouth was not to be borne.

“Is that so? The weather is responsible? So we’ve moved from liquidated damages to the commercial impossibility clause?” Dolan kept his tone thoughtful, though even posturing to that extent was distasteful.

Relief shone in Sloane’s squinty brown eyes. “Yes! An act of God, exactly. Torrential rain and no one able to manage. I knew you’d see reason. Hard but fair, that’s what they say about you.”

“Pleased to hear it. Do they also say I’m able to read and write in English?”

They probably speculated to the contrary, but Dolan took satisfaction in seeing Sloane’s gaze grow wary. “I beg your pardon?”

“I can read, Mr. Sloane. I’m sure you’ll be pleased for my sake to learn I can read in several languages. One of them English, though it’s by no means my favorite. And because I own the quarry in Dorset, I also maintain a subscription to the local paper nearest that quarry. Shall I read the weather reports to you?”

Dolan opened a drawer at the side of his desk and pulled out a single folded broadsheet dated about ten days past. “Plowing, planting, and grazing being of central import to much of the shire, the editor is assiduous in his record keeping and prognostication.”

Sloane had sense enough to stop babbling.

“Mr. Sloane, sit down.” Not an invitation, which also should have been a source of satisfaction, considering the man was English to his gloved, uncallused, manicured fingertips.

He dropped into a chair. “I just need a little more time.”

A little more time, a few more potatoes, a little more daylight… The laments were old and sincere, but useless.

“You are late on the deliveries because you do not pay a wage sufficient to attract men who can be relied upon. Because you skimp on wages, your wagons and teams are not properly maintained, and they break down. Knowing you are under scheduling constraints, the smiths, wainwrights, and jobbers take excessive advantage of you when their services are needed on an emergency basis, and once again, to save money, you turn to the most opportunistic and questionably skilled among them.”

He did not add: you are an idiot. He did not need to.

“I have a family.” This was said with quiet desperation, which was probably the very worst aspect of being a quarry nabob. Watching grown men literally sweat while their dignity was sacrificed to their shortsighted greed.

“You also have a mistress, who is likely more for show than anything else. You have too many hunters that you never ride, and you have daughters to launch upward lest your wife have unending revenge on you for your failures.”

Sloane nodded, and Dolan wondered if this was how the priests felt in the confessional: tired, disgusted, and… trapped in their ornate robes and elaborately carved little boxes.

And still Sloane sat there, quivering like a fat, beautifully attired hare waiting for the fox to pounce.

“Lie to me again, Sloane, and I will have your vowels. I will use them to discredit you from one end of the kingdom to the other. You will have no mistress, no stable at all, no fancy clothes, and very likely no family worth the name. You have two weeks before the damages will start to toll. Get out.”

Sloane’s relief was a rank, rancid thing. The odds of the man making a delivery in the next two weeks were not good, but Dolan built slack into every schedule he negotiated, then added more slack, because most of the time, it did rain like hell in Dorset in the spring.

When Dolan was sure Sloane had vacated the entire premises, he grabbed hat, gloves, and cane and left the office, locking the door behind him.

A clerk glanced up from his desk as Dolan passed. “I’m away until tomorrow’s meeting with Ruthven, Standish. Have the files on my desk first thing, send out for crumpets, and dust the damn place before I get here.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Dolan.”

The day was glorious, almost warm, and brilliantly sunny because the trees weren’t leafed out yet. Dolan strode along in the direction of Mayfair, when what he wanted was to enjoy the day amid the graciousness and privacy of Whitley.

At home more work awaited, a short interlude with Georgina to tuck her in, then more work over a solitary dinner. How was it a quarry nabob felt just as much a slave as if he were still a five-year-old boy, his fingers perpetually cold and muddy from tending the tatties?

The memory was never far from his awareness, which explained in part why he almost plowed over a slight woman carrying some small parcels down the street in the oncoming direction. The parcels scattered, the woman stumbled, and Dolan grasped her by both of her upper arms as she pitched against him.

She righted herself with his assistance, and Dolan found himself looking into a pair of fine gray eyes. “Miss Ingraham. I beg your pardon.”

“Mr. Dolan. My apologies.”

She tried to draw away, but he held her steady. “The fault is mine. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

Her slightly frayed collar and less-than-pristine gloves added to her usual air of constrained dignity. He let her go and bent to pick up her packages. “I gather today is your half day?”

“Yes, sir. If you’ll just pass me those boxes, I’ll be on my way.”

“Nonsense. Where are you going?”

Her ingrained manners wouldn’t allow her to entirely withhold the information, but she was a female. She could prevaricate, and he couldn’t stop her. Instead, she did the most peculiar thing: she blushed, and she smiled. “I was going to the park.”

The park, a monument to England’s democratic leanings, a place where anybody could enjoy fresh air and sunshine. Dolan cast back and could not recall seeing that quiet smile on any previous occasion. That smile went well with her fine gray eyes and exceptional figure. “Then we’ve a bit of a walk ahead of us.”

He tucked her packages under one arm and winged the opposite elbow at her, and damned if the infernal woman’s smile didn’t fade to be replaced by a look of reproach.

“Mother of God, it’s simply a courtesy, Miss Ingraham. It isn’t as if you’re the scullery maid.”

Her spine straightened, she wrapped her hand around his arm, and they moved off, leaving Dolan with a rare opportunity to observe his daughter’s governess outside the child’s presence.

“Have you been shopping?” Inane question, of course she had. Dolan wished again his late wife might have spent more time teaching him the difference between interrogation and small talk, for he’d yet to grasp the distinction.

“Just a few personal things. This really isn’t necessary, sir.”

He did not reply—let her be the one to demonstrate some conversational skills. He was sure she had them, though whether she’d take pity—

“I like the French soaps.” She said this very quietly, glancing about as she did. “They’re very dear, but the scents are such a pleasure. And there’s a particular tea at the Twinings shop. Everybody should have a favorite tea.”

She had fine gray eyes, a lovely smile, an excellent figure, and she could make small talk.

“I quite agree, Miss Ingraham. My preference is Darjeeling. What’s yours?”

For an entire day, Eve tried to study the welter of thoughts and emotions roiling through her.

At breakfast she listened to Aunt Gladys prattle on about how pretty the gardens were—while Eve contemplated ripping up every tulip on the property.

She endured a social call from Louisa and Kesmore, trying not to see the concern in either of their gazes or to allow them to see in her own eyes the nigh overwhelming desire to smash the teapot on the hearthstones.

She held Jenny’s yarn and considered strangling her sister the very next time the word “dearest” was uttered aloud.

After tossing away half the night, Eve overslept and woke up ready to discharge the entire senior staff for allowing it. She was eyeing all the pretty, proper demure clothing in her wardrobe with a view toward burning the lot of it when her gaze fell on an old outfit she’d had for years.

It would still fit her.

While she studied the ensemble, an insight—dear God, at long last, an insight—struck her: what was wanted was not destruction per se, but action.

No more weeping, wondering, and wandering the house. She yanked the dress out of the wardrobe and tossed it on the bed, then pulled her chemise over her head and regarded her naked body in the mirror.

She bore no visible scars, deformities, or disfigurements as a legacy of her fall. She could walk, she was healthy, and by heaven it was time to start acting that way too.

Her hair went into a practical braid that she coiled up into a bun at her nape. From under the bed, she pulled a pair of boots she hadn’t worn in seven years. She dressed without assistance, dodged the breakfast parlor and headed for the kitchen, there to cut up some apples.

She left the kitchen, realizing for all she’d had an insight, it had been only a limited insight: it was time for action, yes, but what action?

“I don’t suppose you have any answers?” She fed Meteor an apple slice without receiving a reply.

While Grendel sidled closer, she scrambled over the fence to give Meteor’s withers a scratching. “I feel like I am going to explode with indignation, horse. Like having a tantrum nobody will be able to ignore, like starting a fire in the formal parlor…”

Like what?

She fed him another apple slice then attended to the spot behind his chin that had him stretching out his neck. “You are no help. I come here for wisdom, and I get horsehair all over my outfit.”

Grendel came within a few steps, and Eve realized the pony wasn’t going to allow her to entirely ignore him. She held out an apple slice to him.

Ponies were not prone to insights. They usually lived a scrappy life among larger animals and inconsiderate children, or casually negligent former owners. A pony was generally left to manage as best it could, and the average pony managed quite well.

Grendel did not take the treat. He regarded Eve out of eyes that seemed at once knowing and blank.

“Eat your apple, you idiot. Meteor won’t stand for it to go to waste.”

Grendel took a step closer while Eve held the apple slice a few inches from his fuzzy, whiskered muzzle.

“You are no kind of pony if you can’t see a perfectly lovely treat—oof!”

He’d butted her middle with his head, once. Stoutly.

“That was rude.” She passed the apple slice over her shoulder to Meteor and stood there, hands on hips, feeling as if the pony were glaring right back at her. It was enough to drive an already overset woman—

Yes.

Yes, yes, and yes.

“You.” She grabbed Grendel’s thick forelock. “You come with me, and don’t even think of giving me any trouble, or I shall deal with you accordingly.”

The little beast came along. He did not give her any trouble.

Deene climbed into the saddle, patted his gelding on the neck, and turned the horse down the drive. Anthony had departed a couple of days ago, the plan being for him to go on reconnaissance in the clubs and ballrooms and unearth whatever intelligence there was to be found.

While Deene… buried himself in ledgers that made little sense, rode out to visit tenants who were wary and carefully polite when enduring his calls, made lists of eligible women of good fortune and reasonable disposition… and did not call on the Windham sisters or even on Kesmore.

A clear focus was called for, and proximity to Eve Windham created rather the opposite.

He worried about her. He worried about Georgie. He worried about his finances. He worried about Anthony, so newly a father and trying to appear casual about it.

“I do not worry about you.”

Beast flipped an ear back, then forward.

Beast, being a gelding, seldom evidenced worry unless his ration of oats did not timely appear in his bucket. Deene let his unworried mount canter over much of the Denning Hall home farm, then down the track that separated the Hall from the Moreland home-wood.

The land was in the last stages of coming back to life after winter’s sleep. The trees were still a gauzy, soft green, the earth had the fresh, cool scent of spring, and daffodils winked from the hedgerows. Deene crossed onto Eve’s property, Lavender Something, and crested a rise to see the little manor house, a picture of Tudor repose snug at the bottom of the hill.

As he studied the scene, he had a tickling sense of something being out of order. There were pansies here and there, the windows sparkled in the midday sun, the drive was neatly raked but for—

A groom was leading a pony trap away toward the stables, a fat little pony in the traces.

Beast—or perhaps Deene—decided to amble down and investigate. Eve’s property was supposed to be more or less vacant but for staff, which meant nobody had cause to be paying a call.

He hitched Beast to the post in the drive—the stables likely sported only the one groom—and went up to the house. A knock on the door yielded no response; a slight push on it gained him entry.

The interior upheld the promise of the exterior: pretty, cozy, and warm to the eye in a way having nothing to do with temperature. Eve would be comfortable amid all this light and domesticity.

He spotted her before she detected him. She stood at the window in a second, homey little parlor done up all in gold, cream, and soft hues of brown. Her outfit was brown as well, but sported fetching little details in cream and red—a touch of piping, a dab of lace.

Why did she have to be so damned pretty?

She turned and uncrossed her arms. “Lucas.”

As she came toward him, the force of her smile nearly knocked him physically on his arse. She’d never smiled at him like that; he hoped she’d never before smiled at anybody like that.

Luminous, radiant, and soft with pleasure and joy. Even as his mind comprehended that she was going to embrace him—and welcomed the idea wholeheartedly—his thinking brain also latched onto one detail: she was wearing a driving ensemble.

For a long, precious moment, he held her while his heart resonated with the happiness and pride he’d seen in her eyes. “You soloed at the ribbons.”

She nodded, her hair tickling his chin. “I drove here, Lucas. I drove here by myself, and I can’t wait to drive myself home. Just saying the words feels good. It feels marvelous.”

He clamped his arms around her, lifted her, and whirled her in circles. “You drove yourself here. You’re going to drive yourself home. You’re going to drive yourself wherever you damned well please.”

Her laughter was a marvelous thing, her body against his every bit as wonderful. He could feel the joy in her, the relief.

“I’m going to drive myself wherever I please, whenever I please, however I please. Nobody will be safe from Eve Windham when she takes a notion to tool about. I might drive up to Yorkshire and call upon St. Just, or out to Oxford to check on Valentine. I shall certainly call upon Westhaven in Surrey, and Sophie and Maggie and… all of them. I can see them anytime I please.”

He set her on her feet, letting her slide slowly down his body. “You might nip out to Surrey to see how Franny’s foal is getting on. You might take a notion to peek in on the next meet at Epsom.”

She stood there, beaming up at him, a woman transfigured by her own courage.

He must kiss her. The moment called for nothing less, and even if it had, he was helpless not to kiss her.

Kissing Eve had been a lovely experience each and every time: tipsy and bold under the mistletoe, surprised but eager in the privacy of shadowed ferns, hesitant but sweet in the confines of a landau…

When she was ebullient, when she was in roaring good spirits with her recent accomplishment, kissing her was… beyond description. Her confidence pulled him in; her joy pulled him under.

Any thought of trouble in London, any thought of the tedium of the Season awaiting him, any ability to think deserted Deene between one breath and the next. He registered impressions only:

The buttons of her outfit pressing hard into his sternum.

The slight tug of her fingers where she’d fisted her hand in the hair at his nape.

The way she wasn’t the least shy about plastering herself with gratifying snugness against his growing erection.

To hold her this way felt… glorious.

And he registered a small, muted kick of common sense against his conscience: he should close and lock the door.

This last he could approximate. He scooped her up against his chest and backed against the half-open door until it was closed, then advanced with her to lay her down on the sofa. She lay on her back, smiling a secret, pleased smile, giving Deene the sense she was as cast away as he.

“Don’t stop kissing me, Lucas. Kissing you is…”

He paused above her, wanting to know exactly what words she’d choose, but instead she held out her arms and gave them an impatient shake. He shrugged out of his coat and came down over her.

“We should take our boots off, Evie. We’ll get dust—”

Absurdities. He was spouting absurdities, and even those fled his awareness as Eve fused her mouth to his and curled her two booted feet around his flanks. He pulled back, pleased to find she was panting.

For a procession of instants, she gazed at him, bestowing on him a look that conveyed glee and arousal and… tenderness.

The look in her eyes utterly shifted the moment, from one of celebration to one of anticipation. When he lowered his head to rest his cheek against her hair, he understood that for Eve, this was like a soldier needing to pillage after victory in battle, like the necessary carouse after winning a close race or a bet against very long odds.

And it was his privilege to make sure no lasting harm befell her while she indulged in a few moments of heedlessness… no harm whatsoever.

Even if he wanted to bury himself in her heat, wanted to hear her scream his name with pleasure, wanted to feel her desperate with desire.

“Lucas?” The bewilderment in her gaze when he lifted away from her tore at his heart.

“Boots off, Evie. I have an idea. Trust me.”

Three complete sentences, one declarative, two imperative. Quite an accomplishment when a man’s cock was rioting in his breeches. He tugged her up by one arm and knelt to pull off her boots.

While she sat there looking puzzled and a trifle disgruntled, he untied her stock and eased her jacket from her shoulders, then started unbuttoning her shirt.

“Will I like this idea?”

“You will like it.”

“Does it involve my undressing you as well?”

He sat back on his heels, proud of her. “It can.”

And then a cloud passed before the sun in her gaze.

“Lucas, there must be a limit—”

Ah, common sense was nipping at her heels too. He put one finger on her lips. “There must. Trust me to see to it. I promise you’re safe with me, Eve.”

She didn’t hesitate for even an instant. She reached out and started unknotting his cravat. Before Deene could take three steadying breaths, his shirt was open and Eve was drawing a single, incendiary finger down the length of his sternum.

“Back to my idea, Eve…”

Her lips quirked up. “I liked it better when you were kissing me, not just spouting ideas.”

Eve, impish and intent on her designs, had Deene counting the pulse beats in his groin. “Then we get back to kissing.” He lifted her up and turned, then sat so she straddled his lap. Before she could latch her lips to his, he stared in amazement.

“What on earth are you wearing, Eve Windham?”

Her glance flicked down her front, over an elaborately and very colorfully embroidered set of stays that, thanks to some innovative genius whom Deene would like to genuflect before, laced up the front.

“Jenny makes them. Kiss me.”

It took concentration, to kiss her, to loosen those ingenious stays, to not spend in his breeches at the feel of her breasts all silky and warm beneath his fingers.

It took a little contorting too, to get his hand under her skirts while she used her tongue—hot, wet, wicked—on his ear and undulated her spine so her breast pushed against his palm.

And it took persistence, wagonloads of persistence to get her skirts out of the way and find that slit in her drawers, and then kiss her past the bolt of surprise that went through her when he first made contact with the sweet, damp heat of her sex.

“Lucas, what are you—?”

He did not answer with words; he showed her by repeating a caress of his thumb over the little bud of flesh an aroused man neglected at his peril.

Her breathing changed. She rested her forehead on his shoulder, and he touched her again, more firmly.

“Ohhhh… Lucas.”

Eve conveyed wonder and surrender with just his name. He relaxed, certain she’d allow him to give her this pleasure, certain she’d take what he offered.

Though not immediately. He had to experiment a little with pressure and speed, had to pause to pleasure her breasts with his mouth, and pause again to gather the reins of his composure.

He could give them both this much, not more. More was for… not for them.

She hitched against him.

“That’s it, Evie. Move if it makes you feel better.”

She heard him. He knew this because her hips started a slow, languid roll to go with the movement of his thumb. Her pace was voluptuous and savoring, so arousing Deene had to count his breaths to keep from spending.

She did not moan, but he felt it when the shocks of pleasure started to grip her body. She twisted her fingers in his hair, her breathing became harsh, she pushed against his thumb, and then went still while, even with his relevant parts outside her body, Deene could feel her drawing up inside, convulsing for long moments with silent ecstasy.

The need to finish pounded through him even as Eve hung over him, panting against his neck. He got his falls undone on one side, extracted himself from his breeches and was spending all over his belly within half a minute.

Likely less.

And then… more bliss, just to hold her, to hold her and marvel at what had gone before—and mourn that it could not have been more.

Sensations registered with heightened clarity while Eve drowsed on Deene’s shoulder:

The scent of lavender and cedar about his person.

The cherishing quality in the way his hand smoothed slowly over her hair.

The feel of his heart, beating in his naked chest against her naked breasts.

The exact temperature of his neck, the weight of his cheek against her hair.

The luminous and novel lightness suffusing her body.

Each impacted her awareness with bell-tone perfection.

And this was just a taste, just a delectable sample of what and whom Eve must give up for the rest of her life. Further intimacies were out of the question, and thank a God in the mood to show some rare mercy, Deene had somehow understood this.

She could not have borne for him to be disappointed in her, could not have borne to see the warmth and approval in his gaze shift to speculation and disdain.

To whom had she surrendered her virtue?

Upon how many had she bestowed her favors?

Was she diseased from all that excess?

Had she borne a child, perhaps, as a consequence of her folly?

But no, Deene had not disappointed her, had not let her down by asking too much or giving too little.

All those promises Canby had made—glorious pleasure, nothing like it, you’ll want it again and again, you’ll want me again and again—what lies they’d been.

While Deene had asked nothing and given her true pleasure.

What a goddamned perishing shame they were destined never to share more.

Eve was marshaling her courage to draw back and remove herself from Deene’s lap when his hand tightened on the back of her head, and a shocked, very familiar voice sounded from the doorway.

“Good gracious God in heaven.”

And then Jenny’s voice, urgent, low, and miserable. “Mama, come away. Come away now, please. We must close the door.”