nt, and suddenly she wanted to push beyond that control and make him feel with the same powerless intensity that she was feeling.
But then Rowarth released her abruptly, stepping back. His eyes were almost black with lust, desire distilled.
“Pretense,” he said again. “If that was counterfeit, then you are a damned fine actress after all, Eve.”
And then he was gone, leaving her staring blankly at the panels of the door as he slammed it behind him.
CHAPTER THREE
ROWARTH WATCHED EVE as the carriage rolled up the drive toward Warren Sampson’s mansion at Juniper Hill. It had been easy enough to procure an invitation to one of Sampson’s notorious parties. The man was an inveterate social climber and when he heard that the Duke of Welburn, no less, was interested in attending he had been expansive in his welcome. Whether or not Sampson would be equally easy to trap into revealing his crimes was a moot point, but in that Rowarth did at least have the support of two of the Home Secretary’s finest men, his old friend Miles, Lord Vickery and Nathaniel, Lord Waterhouse. Both would be attending that evening and both were part of Lord Hawkesbury’s mysterious and elite group of counterspies, the Guardians, who worked to keep the country safe.
Rowarth could tell that Eve was nervous as the coach traveled up the long drive. She was sitting forward, her gloved hands clasped tightly together, her eyes anxiously scanning the road ahead as though she were dreading the moment they actually arrived and was hoping that fate would intervene in that short time and save her the ordeal. Rowarth felt a treacherous pang of tenderness to see her anxiety. He knew that he should not care a rush for her feelings after the way that she had deserted him but his emotions, it appeared, were not susceptible to rational argument. He had come to Yorkshire determined to fulfill his commission, certain he would feel nothing for Eve and that he could lay the ghosts of the past. Yet almost as soon as he had seen her, his feelings had started to change. It had been unconscionably difficult to force her to fulfill Hawkesbury’s demands with the callousness the situation required. Instead he had felt protective of her, which was the last thing he had either expected or wanted. When he agreed to work for Hawkesbury he had fully anticipated leading Eve into the lion’s den and watching as she was thrown to her fate. Yet now, seeing her fear and the courageous way in which she confronted danger, he had been forced to reappraise the situation. Seeing Eve again, speaking to her, witnessing her bravery and her resilience and her determination under threat had reminded him of what a fine person he had once believed her to be, before betrayal had so disillusioned him. His instinct was stubbornly telling him that Eve simply could not be complicit with Warren Sampson, that she must be a victim of the man’s criminality rather than a partner in it. Which meant that his urge was to protect her rather than use her, to defend her instead of sacrificing her. And yet he felt so angry at this impulse to shield her. Eve Nightingale deserved nothing from him. She had ruthlessly cut her ties with him years before. Now it was his turn to use her equally ruthlessly.
The torches that lit the driveway to the house shone through the carriage windows and illuminated Eve’s translucent complexion, highlighting the scattering of freckles across her nose and dusting her cheeks with a golden glow. Her lips were painted a deep red and looked luscious and impossibly tempting. In accordance with Rowarth’s instructions, she had chosen a fashionable red evening gown that was cut almost indecently low across her breasts. It clung lovingly to her curves and rustled as she moved, emphasizing the swing of her hips. As soon as he had seen her that night Rowarth had found himself possessed by an impatient and overwhelming masculine desire to peel the gown from her body and make love to her on the carriage seat. He wanted to rediscover where else she had those freckles. He wanted to relearn the taste of her, to inhale the scent of her skin and to let himself drown in the warm, silky sweetness of her body as she closed around him tight and hot. Lust, painfully sharp and predatory, twisted within him again as he thought about it. He was in an advanced state of sexual frustration, desperate to take his former mistress with a hunger that had dissipated not one whit. Yet she had spurned him, left him flat. He despised himself for his lack of self-control.
“Where did you go when you left London?” He spoke abruptly.
He had not meant to ask. After he had seen her at the shop he had resolved not to rake up anything of the past, simply to do his job tonight and then go back to London and never see her again. But now old emotions were aroused and old memories stirred and there were some things that he had to know.
He thought for a moment that Eve was not going to reply. The light from the torches skipped across her face in bars of flame and shadow.
“I came here,” she said slowly, after a moment. “I have been here for five years. Did Lord Hawkesbury’s intelligence not provide you with that information?”
It had. It had been something that had puzzled Rowarth, a doubt nibbling at the corner of his mind. Why choose Fortune’s Folly? And if she had run off with another lover, as she had told him in her farewell note, where was he? Who was he? Rowarth had assumed it must be Warren Sampson but now he was not so sure. None of Hawkesbury’s informants had mentioned that Eve had a new protector. Either she and her lover had been extraordinarily discreet or the man had not existed at all.
“You told me in your parting note that you had found a new protector,” he said slowly, watching her, “but my information is that no such person ever existed.”
He saw her stiffen, a quick, instinctive gesture she could not hide, before she turned her face away and feigned indifference. But it was too late and he was too quick, too perceptive.
“Eve?” he said. “Did you run off with a lover?”
She was stubbornly silent but he already knew the answer. Even after five years apart he knew her so well he did not need words.
“You did not,” he said. Urgency beat within him. “There was no new lover, was there, Eve?”
He saw her lips set in a tight line as she capitulated. “No, there was not.” Her words fell starkly into the darkness of the carriage. The torchlight flickered over her face and for a split second he saw utter honesty reflected in her eyes.
No new lover. Rowarth’s mind reeled. She had not left him for another man. She had not been another man’s mistress. Stupefaction, relief, pleasure flooded him at her words. He grabbed her hands, his heart lifting with absurd hope.
“Then why…” He had to clear his throat. “Why did you tell me that you had run away with someone else?”
Again it seemed forever before she answered as the carriage drew closer and closer to the door of Juniper Hill.
“I lied because I wanted to be sure that you would never seek me out.” She spoke the words so quietly that he had to lean closer to hear them and when he did they were like a blow to the heart. “I did not wish to be your mistress anymore, Rowarth. I had to leave you.”
I had to leave you…
Rowarth’s hopes crashed before they were barely born. He dropped her hands as he felt a dull pain spread though his chest. Eve had not wanted to be with him. She had felt so strongly that she wanted to make sure that they never saw one another again. The affinity they had apparently shared, physical and emotional, had been nothing to her. She had quenched the restlessness in his soul, she had anchored him and fulfilled the empty need within him and yet she had felt nothing. She had wanted to be free.
“I see.” He spoke slowly as he absorbed the blow. “I had no idea that you were so unhappy as my mistress. You should have told me. I would have paid you off. There was no need to run away.”
Eve did not reply. She turned away and the light and shadows skipped across her face, hiding all expression.
Rowarth knew that he should be humiliated. He should not want to pursue this further. And yet… And yet once again his instinct prompted him that there was something here that did not make sense, something he strove to understand.
“I tried to find you,” he said.
He