E
velyn should have worn yellow after all.
Every eye in the room was fixed on her, and there wasn’t a single friendly face in sight, not one welcoming smile. In green, she stuck out like a moorhen among canaries.
She raised her chin as her name was announced and the first shocked hush fell over the room. She read mockery, outrage, curiosity, and even amusement on the faces of Charlotte’s guests as they stared at her.
Then came the indignant crack of fans snapping open, like the opening volley of a battle. She squeezed her own fan and walked forward.
The buzz of whispered comments rose, as if a swarm of hornets had suddenly been unleashed around her.
She looked for her sisters in the crowd, but they were of little comfort. Eloisa’s mouth hung open, and her eyes bulged in horror as she regarded Evelyn’s gown. Charlotte’s eyes were filled with the tears of that most pitiful of creatures, the hostess who realizes her ball will not be a success after all. Lucy, wearing a daringly low-cut yellow gown, was ignoring her, her gaze fixed on the gentleman by her side.
Evelyn made her curtsy to her sister and brother-in-law. Somerson’s eyes roamed over her meager jewels, assessing the value. She held her smile. He’d find them lacking, given the tales of Philip’s vast fortune, but these were her own, and she was proud to wear them.
“There was a wager as to whether you’d dare to come tonight,” her brother-in-law said.
“Did you win, my lord?” Evelyn asked sweetly, bristling inside.
His lips pinched. “Unfortunately not, but I’m sure your sisters are delighted you’re here.” He turned to Charlotte. “I think it’s time we started the dancing before the evening is a complete disaster.”
Charlotte blinked at Evelyn, her eyes glistening. “Oh, if only you’d worn yellow!” she warbled as she followed her husband.
The orchestra struck up the first notes, and most people turned away from Evelyn at last, focusing their attention on the dancers crowding the floor. She breathed a sigh of relief.
“Good evening, Lady Evelyn.” She turned to find Lord Creighton by her side. He bowed gallantly. “May I look forward to the pleasure of dancing with you this evening?”
Evelyn’s stomach tightened. She hadn’t planned to dance. It would make her even more the center of attention and speculation. If widows could not dance, surely a traitor’s wife should avoid the merry pursuit.
But the whole object of coming was to show the world that she had nothing to be ashamed of. How better to accomplish that than to enjoy the ball to the fullest? At the very least, she could
look
like she was enjoying herself. What a canny actress she’d become.
“I would be happy to dance, my lord,” she said to the major. It
was
kind of him to ask her, since no one else was likely to do so. “Perhaps the next set? My sisters are headed this way, and I assume they want a word with me.”
“Of course,” he said with a toothy grin, and stepped out of the way as Eloisa and Lucy sailed toward her like attacking frigates. Eloisa’s dark expression was a declaration of impending hostilities, and Evelyn braced herself.
“Oh, Evie, how could you? That dress is simply—” Her mouth worked, searching for the right word.
“Too prim?” Lucy offered.
“Too
green
!” Eloisa growled.
“It does match my eyes better than yellow,” Evelyn said, noting the golden glaze of fury in her sister’s hazel eyes, but Eloisa was too incensed to notice the set-down, and it likewise soared over the yellow feathers that adorned Lucy’s empty head.
“Was that Lord Creighton I saw you speaking with?” Lucy asked. “How I’d like to see what’s under that scarlet tunic of his! What lady could resist such a hero! They say he captured a dangerous spy in Spain, single-handed, and saved the lives of a thousand men!”
Eloisa tsked. “Don’t change the subject, Lucy. We’re discussing the fact that Evie—our own sister—has come to the most important ball of the season practically dressed in
rags
.”
Evelyn raised her chin. She remembered the look in Sam’s eyes as she’d descended the stairs. She wished he were here now, standing behind Eloisa, teasing her, taking the sting out of her sister’s comments, but Sam was outside where he belonged, waiting for her. That offered a little comfort.
Eloisa took hold of one of her arms, Lucy the other. “Come to the ladies’ withdrawing room. I’ll find a yellow ribbon, or at least some gloves. It isn’t too late.”
“I fear it is,” Evelyn said, disentangling herself with as much grace as possible. “Everyone has seen me by now. It would look most odd if I suddenly changed my clothes.”
“It would look like you’ve come to your senses!” Eloisa pleaded. “It won’t do for you to stand here all night—
standing out
!”
“You really do, Evie,” Lucy drawled. “Perhaps we could loosen your bodice a little, or plump up your bosoms to better advantage. If people want to stare, give them something to stare at, I always say.”
“Evelyn!” Marianne pushed through the crowd to reach her, her warm smile like a lifeline.
Evelyn’s own smile was genuine for the first time all evening.
“How lovely you look tonight! That particular shade of green is so cool and refreshing,” Marianne said pointedly. She was wearing pale blue silk, with a magnificent necklace of diamonds, amethysts, and sapphires around her neck. She looked like a countess to be reckoned with.
Evelyn noted that Eloisa and Lucy gaped at Marianne, but they didn’t dare say anything against
her
gown.
“Hello, Eloisa, Lucy. How nice you both look as well,” Marianne said. “I hear each shade of yellow has a particular name this Season. What is the color of your gown called?”
Eloisa preened. “My gloves and shoes are ‘caramel,’ and my gown is ‘almond.’ The ribbon at my bodice is ‘orgeat.’ ”
Evelyn tilted her head. “Orgeat? Like the drink they serve at Almack’s?”
“Just so,” Eloisa said stiffly.
Marianne turned to Lucy. “And you, Countess Frayne? What do they call the color of your gown?”
But Lucy was ogling the gentlemen on the dance floor, and Eloisa had to jab her with an elbow and repeat the question.
“Oh. I believe it’s called ‘toasted crumpet,’ ” Lucy replied.
Marianne’s porcelain complexion flushed with the effort of not laughing, and Evelyn hid her own smile behind her gloved palm.
“Ooh, look! Here comes Lord Creighton again,” Lucy gushed, and tugged her bodice a half inch lower in preparation. The major, however, only had eyes for Evelyn.
“I believe this is our dance,” he said, bowing politely and extending a hand to her.
Evelyn hesitated a moment, then put her hand in his and let him lead her onto the dance floor. Odd, when Sam touched her, she felt breathless, dizzy. But with Lord Creighton she felt nothing. Actually, his touch made her want to pull away.
“How was your visit to Lincolnshire, sir?” she asked politely as the music began and they moved down the line of couples.
He frowned, and Evelyn glanced at him in concern, trying to concentrate on the steps.
“Did you by chance forget something when you wrote your note, Lady Evelyn?”
Evelyn stumbled, but his hand under her elbow instantly righted her. “What do you mean, sir?” she asked. Had she signed her name to the letter by mistake, or smudged the ink?
He looked regretful. “There were no funds enclosed with your kind letter. The headmistress was quite baffled.”
She stopped dancing. “But I remember putting—”
He led her off the floor to a quiet corner. “I’m sure it was just an oversight. You have much on your mind of late. It’s of no matter. I gave the school a generous donation from my own purse. You may simply reimburse me at your convenience.”
Evelyn blinked at him, but his smile was warm and sincere. “Thank you, my lord. I shall send someone ’round with the money tomorrow,” she said, and wondered what she could sell to make up the missing money. “May I ask how much I owe you?”
His eyes slid away from hers, as if he were embarrassed to be speaking to a lady about anything so crass as money.
“I gave the headmistress five hundred pounds.”
Evelyn felt herself blanch. Lord Creighton put his hand on her arm again to steady her, and her skin crawled at his touch. She stepped back, pulled away, and his brows rose.
“Was that not enough?”
Evelyn’s heart pounded in her throat. “Yes, of course,” she murmured. She curtsied quickly, her knees shaking. “Will you excuse me, my lord? It has been many months since I’ve danced, and I’m afraid I’m out of practice.”
She crossed the room toward Marianne, uncertain where else to go. She kept her pace slow, sedate, as if nothing in the world was wrong. Anyone who looked at her would think she was calm and unconcerned. How wrong they were!
Marianne caught her arm as she reached her, her smile fading. “Evelyn, you are white as paper!” she said in concern. “Is something amiss?”
Evelyn forced a bright smile as she shook her head. “I’m not used to dancing,” she said, repeating the excuse.
Marianne held something up. “Someone handed me a note for you while you were out on the floor. Perhaps it’s another invitation to dance!”
Evelyn stared at the unfamiliar scrawl. She recalled Eloisa’s plans to find her a lover. What if this note contained an invitation to a tryst? Her sisters were not subtle creatures, and when they did what they thought best for her, disaster was always the result.
She blinked at her name, written brazenly across the face of the letter in violet ink.
“You must tell me what it says, especially if it’s from a new admirer,” Marianne said. “It’s been quite an evening for notes and
billet doux
. Adam received one earlier.”
Fear raised the hairs on the back of her neck and turned her knees to water.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Marianne asked.
Evelyn swallowed. She was being silly. She took the letter from Marianne’s hand and opened it, scanning the single line that slanted across the page.
How charming you look in green. With the compliments of P.R., Chevalier, comte d’Elenoire.
Philip’s initials, his French title, earned through treachery. She looked around the room in a panic, searching every dark corner, every alcove.
Philip wouldn’t dare to come here, of all places. But she held his note in her hand.
The writing blurred before her eyes, became his familiar scrawl.
Her skin crawled, as if his eyes were on her, his hands. As if he were standing beside her. It was merely a cruel trick, surely, but she felt dizzy, sick with fear.
“Marianne, who gave this to you?”
Marianne frowned. “One of Somerson’s servants. Why? What does it say?”
But Evelyn crumpled the note in her hand. “Which man? Can you point him out?”
Marianne looked around. “I don’t see him now. Perhaps he’s returned to the kitchen.”
Images of the Frenchman in the park flashed through Evelyn’s mind.
“There he is!” Marianne pointed to a liveried servant carrying a tray of champagne. “No, perhaps not. All Charlotte’s footmen look alike.”
Evelyn felt her gorge rise. What if he was watching her now, the Frenchman, or Philip, waiting for her to panic?
She would not give anyone that satisfaction.
She looked around the room with a bright, mocking smile, letting her tormentors know they had failed. She turned to Marianne, who was still waiting for an explanation.
“There’s a problem at home. My maid is ill,” she said. “I shall have to leave at once.”
She was afraid to go home, feared Philip was waiting for her.
Sam was outside, also waiting. He’d keep her safe. Somehow she knew it as an unshakable truth. It gave her the courage to walk across the room with an insouciant smile on her face when she wanted to run.
Outside, the cool night air touched her hot cheeks. Shadows loomed everywhere. She hesitated on the step, paralyzed.
Someone stepped out of the dark and paused at the bottom of the steps, waiting for her, and her heart caught in her throat.
Sam. The lean strength of his silhouette stood against the darkness and whatever lurked there.
With a sob, Evelyn ran down the steps and tumbled into his arms.
S
injon opened his arms and caught her.
She didn’t have her cloak, and her face was as pale as milk against the purple shadows.
She cried out as he folded his arms around her, and he remembered d’Agramant’s wife making the same small noise as she crumpled in her husband’s embrace, her bravery gone as Creighton fled. Her blood and tears had soaked the front of his tunic, and her husband held her tight for a long moment before he lifted her face to his, examining her cuts and bruises, running gentle hands over each hurt she’d endured at Creighton’s hands.
Shaken by the memory, Sinjon put a finger under Evelyn’s chin and gazed into her face, but her face was perfect, her only injuries the pain and fear in her eyes. He pulled her close again, cradling her against his chest, holding her safe, letting her cling to him.
“I’m all right,” she murmured, just as d’Agramant’s wife had, but she didn’t move from the haven of his arms. He felt a shudder pass through her.
“No, you’re not.”
He looked around, searching for the danger she feared, but other than a few coachmen watching them with fascinated interest, there wasn’t anything to fear. His stomach clenched. Curious servants were danger enough. He imagined tomorrow’s gossip.
He stepped back at once, ignoring her bereft little gasp as he took her arm and led her to the coach.
Her coachman saw them coming and immediately scrambled up to his perch and picked up the reins, jerking his chin at Sinjon in silent inquiry.
Sinjon ignored him and helped Evelyn into the coach. She sat on the edge of her seat and stared at him, her green eyes wet pools of misery.
He hovered in the open doorway. A footman would have shut the door and taken his place on the back of the vehicle, given her privacy, pretended he hadn’t seen her tears, didn’t care.
But he did care.
He glanced up at the coachman. “Home,” he ordered.
Then he climbed into the coach.
She didn’t object as he settled himself next to her, pulling her back into his arms.
The vehicle jolted forward, and he heard her sniffle in the dark. He pressed his handkerchief into her gloved palm and closed her fingers over it, as if she were a child.
He glanced out the window, scanning the sidewalk as the coach pulled away. No one watched them go.
The attack in the park hadn’t brought tears, but a London ball was a far more dangerous venue. Ladies were the cruelest creatures on earth, and the higher the pedigree, the more vicious the cat. He’d seen other ladies leave balls in tears, the attacker smirking in triumph at the lethal sharpness of her tongue.
Who would make a better target for insults than Philip Renshaw’s wife? Despite her strong, quiet confidence, Evelyn was as likely to be hurt by a harsh word as any other woman. More so, perhaps, given all that she’d endured since her husband’s treason.
“Tell me what happened,” he murmured against the softness of her hair. He could smell the subtle violet drift of her perfume. He breathed her in.
She didn’t answer for a long moment, and Sinjon wondered if she’d decided to bear her injuries in brave silence.
“My husband sent me a note. Or someone did, signed with his name,” she said at last.
Sinjon’s brows shot up.
“It wasn’t his hand, but the message was personal, a comment about my gown. What if he was there, in my sister’s ballroom, watching me?” He heard her struggle to keep her voice even.
“Or perhaps it was someone’s idea of a joke, to see how you’d react,” Sinjon replied, wondering who could be that cruel.
For some reason, Westlake sprang to mind. Perhaps the earl was trying to draw Evelyn out, make her panic, reveal what she knew, give up her husband’s hiding place by running to him at the drop of a note. He felt a sharp prod of guilt. Wasn’t that exactly what he’d been sent to Renshaw House to do?
“Did you see him?” he asked.
“No. But the Frenchman, that day in the park—” She shifted on the seat, and the silk of her dress gave a hiss of . . . what? Warning, fear? Sinjon doubted the French agent’s face had healed enough for him to appear unnoticed at a society ball. Still, there were any number of suspicious characters watching Evelyn.
Including him.
Doubt lodged in his throat, niggled there, and he coughed.
“Your attacker wanted a flag, I seem to remember,” he prompted, hoping her emotional state would make her less cautious.
“I remember,” she said tightly. “If you hadn’t come along, hadn’t—” He heard renewed tears in her voice, though she fought them. “I am tired, so very tired, of being afraid all the time!”
She was shivering, and Sinjon pulled her closer to the heat of his body. Marielle d’Agramant had stood at attention during her ordeal, her eyes grim, her jaw tight, refusing to show Creighton any fear. She’d worn her dignity like a cloak, the way Evelyn had for weeks. She had not broken under the terrifying odds against her. But unlike Madame d’Agramant, there was no one to comfort Evelyn.
Except him.
He tightened his arms around her, resting his chin on the top of her head. She sank into him with a sigh, burying her face in his shoulder, letting her tears flow.
She felt good in his arms, right. He felt desire stir, and he swore silently. He was offering a kind shoulder, as a brother or a father might, he told himself, but the mental warning had no effect at all on the part of his body that wanted her. Evelyn wasn’t his sister. She was an extremely desirable woman. He willed his erection away, but it refused to obey.
It didn’t help that they fit together perfectly, as if this was an old and familiar habit between them. Evelyn had stopped crying and simply rested in his arms, completely unaware of what she was doing to him. She began drawing absent circles on his chest with the tip of her fingernail. It tickled, and it was damned arousing. He gritted his teeth, tried to shift away, open some space between them, but she wriggled nearer, fitting herself closer still.
He gave in to temptation. How could he not? It seemed the most natural thing in the world to lift her face and lower his mouth to hers. He kissed her gently, carefully, giving her time to object, a chance to pull away. Her lips were silken, salty with tears, and shaped themselves to his, her response sweet. He held back lust that raged like a battle charge.
Her hands crept up to touch his face, to curl around his neck and draw him closer. With a sigh she kissed him back, laying gentle, butterfly kisses on his mouth.
Hungrily, he licked the seam of her lips, angling to kiss her more deeply. She gasped, her lips parting, and he plunged in, seeking her tongue with his own. She drew back in shock, and he frowned. It was an oddly virginal response for a married woman.
But he wasn’t ready to stop kissing her. He trailed his mouth along the delicate bones of her jaw, nibbled at the frantic pulse point at her throat, and lapped at the delicate jut of her collarbones.
“Oh,” she sighed, seeming almost surprised. “Oh, my.” She let her head fall back, giving him access to the delicate spot under her ear, baring the upper slopes of her breasts to his eyes and his hands. He could hear her little pants of desire, and it drove his own need higher. He captured her mouth again, nipping at her lips until she opened, let him in, let his tongue meet hers and tangle. She tasted of champagne. How long had it been since he’d had either wine or woman?
He could have her, he thought. She was willing, certainly, and it wouldn’t be the first time he’d taken a woman in a moving coach. He pressed his erection against her hip, slid his hands up the sweet curves of her waist.
He paused, his hand stopping an inch beneath the swell of her breast. He could feel the heat of her body through the thin silk of her gown. She was looking up at him, the faint light of the city shining on her face. She opened her mouth in anticipation of another kiss. When he hesitated, she clutched his shoulders, tugging, urging him on.
He gazed at her. She was beautiful, desirable, and he wondered at his hesitation. He’d never refused an invitation like this before. He was a master of seduction, and he was hard, ready for her, and she wanted him too. But it was wrong.
He shut his eyes, swore silently. She was feeling shock, or fear, or both. Her desire was merely the turmoil of her wounded emotions. He could not take advantage of her in this state. She needed a warm bath, a glass of sherry, and a good night’s sleep.
She moaned and moved restively against him, a sinuous undulating swirl of her hips that almost undid his resolve. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, desperately trying to think of a good excuse, a reason to stop that wouldn’t drive her into another flood of tears.
The coach jolted, driving her against his erection. He groaned and kissed her again, but the coach had stopped. He lifted his head and looked out the window.
They’d arrived at Renshaw House, and Starling was coming down the front steps.
Evelyn was still nuzzling his cheek, kissing his neck, driving him wild, but he shook her gently.
“We’re home, Evelyn.”
He pointed at Starling, and she gasped and stiffened at once, pulling away from him. He moved to the other seat, across from her, and she fussed with her dress, her hair, touched trembling fingers to her lips.
Starling opened the door.
The butler looked stunned to see Sinjon inside, and his white brows rose skyward like twin moths in silent question. Sinjon smiled wryly, keeping his legs crossed, the evidence of his arousal hidden. If the coach had taken a few more minutes to arrive, or Starling had opened the door a few seconds faster, the poor man would have found Lady Evelyn Renshaw kissing her footman. Or worse.
“Lady Evelyn felt ill, and wished to return home earlier than expected,” Sinjon explained.
“Just a headache,” Evelyn said, her voice still smoky with desire. She swallowed, the white length of her throat working, and strove for a brighter tone for Starling’s sake. “Too much champagne, perhaps.”
The butler relaxed and smiled fondly, obviously glad to see that her ladyship had enjoyed the dreaded party after all, Sinjon thought.
“Shall I have Mary prepare you a headache powder?” he asked, handing her out of the coach.
Sinjon watched her climb the steps. She did not look back at him. He peered out at the coachman, who regarded him curiously.
“Well?” the man said. “I’ve never ridden inside this rig. What’s it like?”
Sinjon almost laughed. Was that all he wanted to know?
“Lovely, my friend. Warm and soft and comfortable. Ride me ’round to the stables, if you will. I want to enjoy the pleasure a little longer.”
He glanced up, saw light flare in Evelyn’s bedroom as the candles were lit. He shut his eyes, still smelling her perfume in the dark coach, still feeling the imprint of her lips on his, still tasting her. Desire stirred again, and he clenched his fists, willing it away, but it would not go.
He growled out the darkest soldier’s curse he knew.
He was on dangerous ground.