The Deception (Baron 3)

He stood up quickly, pulling Evangeline to her feet with him. “I mean that you wanted me touching you, pleasuring you. You were yielding and giving, and you enjoyed everything I did to you. Didn’t you enjoy your husband touching you? Caressing you?”

She stared up at him, saying nothing. After all, what could she say?

He looked like he wanted to strangle her. He stepped away, his voice brisk, cold. “Such a thing will not occur again, as long as you are living under my roof. I wouldn’t ever want you to fear me or take me into dislike.”

She felt torn apart by guilt. How could she do this? She merely nodded, her head down.

He felt hot lust twist in his groin. “You must go to bed, Evangeline. It’s very late.”

She stared at him silently for a long moment, then said in a curiously sad voice, “I could never fear or dislike you. That would have to fall to you. But you’re right, it mustn’t happen again. Good night, your grace.” She picked up her candle with a trembling hand and walked quickly from the library, quietly closing the door behind her.

When the duke lay in his own bed some time later, he decided that this young woman who was dependent upon him, who would see to the care of his young son, had to be safe from him. He thought of tasting her breasts and shuddered. He would leave for London as planned, at the end of the week. She tempted him more than any other woman he’d ever known. She wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d ever known, far from it. He had no idea what drew him to her, but something did. He would put distance and time between them to clear his mind of her. It was what he wanted.

Chapter 15

Evangeline stood in the long picture gallery, the morning sun spilling down on her through the high, diamond-shaped window panes. It was just after eight o’clock in the morning. Already it was promising to be the second very warm day in the middle of February, a phenomenon that surely couldn’t last after today. She looked up at a seventeenth-century Duke of Portsmouth, who looked out onto the world with a particularly stringent expression on his long, handsome face. She said to that long-ago duke, “Your grace, my father told me that all the young men I’d met were just that-young. In addition, they were woefully inexperienced. I pointed out to him that they were also possessive, like Henri. Goodness, Henri didn’t want me out of his sight. He wanted me with him, always with him, as if he was afraid that I’d go haring off with one of his friends. My father laughed when I told him that and just shook his head. I remember he said that I was to be patient, that boys became men, just as girls become women.” She paused and looked down at her slippers, not Marissa’s. Marissa’s were much too small. But the skirt that lightly touched those slippers was one of Marissa’s, a rich forest green muslin with beautiful gold braid twisted beneath her breasts and braided trim for the circular neckline. She looked up at the painting again. The duke still looked stringent and not one bit interested in what she was saying. After the previous night in the duke’s library, after he’d had his hands on her bare breasts, well, there was a lot to think about. She said, her voice quieter, a frowning voice to match her thoughts, “But Papa wasn’t right. I’ve met older men, men he’d call sophisticated, but there was nothing there, nothing at all, except perhaps boredom.” She drew in a deep breath. “I must be going mad to stand here talking to you. I know it, but at least I know you won’t give away any confidences. Oh, dear. What I did last night, what I allowed the duke to do, it was wondrous. It was beyond anything I could have imagined. But I shouldn’t have ever followed him. I guess I wanted to go with him, to see what he would do, to hear what he would say—I can’t lie to myself about that. You still don’t answer, and I’m beginning to expect you to. Ah, I’m well and truly mad.”

The duke drew back behind one of his mother’s favorite antiquities, a white marble bust of some ancient playwright in Greece. He was smiling. He wondered how much of her one-sided conversation with a ducal ancestor he’d missed out on. What he’d heard made him halt in his tracks. Wondrous, was it? It made him sweat. He’d wanted to lay her out on the carpet in front of the fireplace. He wouldn’t have cared if she was on top of him or vice versa, truth be told. He’d wanted to kiss her until she was whimpering, and then he’d wanted to come into that beautiful body of hers and—

“Your grace. You are standing here seemingly without any particular purpose. A gentleman of your stature should always have a purpose. Is there some sort of problem?”

He turned to see Bassick, not a foot from him, looking for all the world like one of the dons at Oxford. Bassick was just standing there as well, also seemingly without purpose, looking as aloof and determined as that damned former duke who was being confided in by Evangeline. A lovely name, that. It was soft on the tongue. He liked the feel of it in his mouth, sounding in his mind. How long had Bassick been there? “You walk more quietly than a bloody shadow, Bassick.” “One endeavors, your grace.” “Is that sweat I see on your forehead?” “It is too early to sweat, your grace, but perhaps later I will have to dab my handkerchief to my brow. I believe we may regard this as very strange weather for February in England. It is weather that properly belongs to August. Now, may I assist your grace?”

“I don’t need anything. I merely heard Madame speaking and wondered who was the recipient. It turns out to be one of my ancestors. I doubt he’s much for conversation now. Go away, Bassick. I’ll fetch Madame down to breakfast.”

“Yes, your grace,” Bassick said, turned on his heel and began his stately march down the long corridor.

The duke called out, a smile on his face, “Evangeline, are you here? I thought I heard you speaking to someone.”

There was silence for two heartbeats, then she said, her voice deep and guilty-sounding, “Yes, I’m right here. I was just admiring the gold frames on the portraits. There is a lot of gold.”

She was walking toward him, wearing one of Marissa’s gowns that he remembered, and he wondered where Dorrie had found all the additional material to accommodate Evangeline’s marvelous breasts. She looked splendid. He saw those breasts of hers clearly in his mind, bare and beautifully glowing in the firelight the night before. He drew in his breath. This would never do.

“If I ever lose all my money, why, I’ll just sell some of those gold frames. Surely they’ll support me for a good long time.” He added, looking down, unable not to, “You know, they are rather fine.”

“What’s fine?” she said, knowing very well what he was doing, and staring at him until she realized what she was doing. She jerked her head away.

“The frames, naturally. Now, would you like to come with me to breakfast?”

“Yes, I’m quite hungry. Shall we get Edmund to breakfast with us?”

A thick black eyebrow went up. “I don’t fancy Bedlam with my coffee and porridge. No, we will leave Edmund to Ellen. After breakfast he’s mine for the entire morning. You have nothing more to do than resume your doubtless fascinating monologue to my ancestors. Don’t worry about him.”

Had he really overheard her speaking to his oblivious relative? The thought that he had made her nearly trip over her slippers. “Your head doesn’t hurt this morning?”

“Oh, no. I’m one of those lucky men who rarely feel more than just a bit drowsy if they’ve imbibed too much. Ah, and just how do you feel this morning, Evangeline?”

She was silent as a stone, walking beside him, her eyes straight ahead. He added, his voice lower, “I can tell you how you felt last night, but I suppose you wouldn’t take that in the spirit in which I would present it to you. There goes your chin, up a good two inches. No, I won’t tease you, but it’s tempting, very tempting. I will be a gentleman.” He sighed deeply.

She was trying desperately to remember if she’d said anything to the portrait about betraying him. No, surely not, but she’d been about to. The guilt had been near to spilling out of her. She tamped down on it. Not now. She’d have to stew alive in the guilt, for there was simply nothing she could do about it. Yes, there was. She could make h

erself stop slavering over him with every other thought in her head.

He ushered her into a small breakfast room that gave onto the east lawn. Sunlight flooded into this charming, airy room.

“I see that Mrs. Dent did as instructed,” he said, and pulled back her chair for her. The footman moved back to stand by the door.

“Oh, goodness,” she said and stared with delight at the plate of croissants in front of her plate.