No, too melodramatic. Ellis might well be shifty—it took one to know one—but she had no reason to believe him anything worse. “Do you ever think there might be more to him than meets the eye?”
Alex seemed amused. “Ellis? I suppose that’s true of anyone. We all have hidden depths.”
He didn’t seem convinced, and it was almost enough to make her doubt herself. Almost.
“Tired?” he asked.
“So tired.” She gave a theatrical yawn.
His lips twitched. “Very well. Quick and perfunctory lovemaking it is.”
She squealed as he threw her back onto the bed.
…
She made the most extraordinary squawking noise as he pinned her beneath him. He only intended to tease her a little before letting her sleep—it had been a long day—but her cheeks turned a becoming shade of pink. Blushing was fatal in a medium and not a flaw she was prone to but he’d seen her cheeks this way at least once before, when he’d made her climax. And she was laughing. Miracle of miracles. Skin glowing, eyes shining, whole body shaking. With a besotted ache in his chest, he watched as she struggled for mastery of herself.
“You are so beautiful when you laugh,” he said when she’d caught her breath.
She smiled up at him. “Beautiful? If you like. But you…” Her blush intensified. “Of all the faces I’ve ever seen, yours is my favorite.”
“Because I’m beautiful?”
“No, though you are. I suppose it’s because I’m fond of you.”
Fond? From any other woman, he’d call that tepid, but from Evie? The admission went to his head like Irish whisky. He was drunk on this woman, but unlike when he was drinking, his control wasn’t slipping. He knew exactly what he was doing. If he were free to make his own choice, he’d ask Evie to marry him right now, sure in the knowledge that he’d never regret it.
But he wasn’t free.
“It’s been a difficult day. I should let you sleep.” He didn’t mean it. Hated having to be a gentleman.
She reached up and cupped his cheek, her face soft with the aforementioned fondness. “That may be the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”
“Thank God,” he said a moment before she kissed him.
She tasted of the apple tart that they’d eaten at dinner, her lips warm and soft. As he sank into the kiss, he’d never felt more hers. Oh, he’d been hers almost since the beginning, but now she claimed him. She wanted him, and he suspected, not for a little while. If he could somehow deal with Nightingale, she could stay. He couldn’t have everything he wanted. He couldn’t marry her, but they could be together. They didn’t have to lose each other completely. He just needed to convince her. If he could.
Doubt caused a hollow ache in his chest, so he deepened the kiss, his tongue stroking her lower lip. He groaned as she opened for him. Mine, his kiss said. Primitive and perhaps delusional. No man could own this woman. She was solitary by nature. Sufficient unto herself.
Mine, his body insisted.
Evie answered in kind, arching her back, pressing into him. Mine.
She tugged at his shirt. “I want this off.”
Happy to obey, he shrugged free of it and let the garment flutter to the floor beside the bed. Her combination gaped open. He pulled her close and tongued one hard nipple through the linen. They undressed each other, greedy for skin against skin. For touch and taste.
At last, they were both bare and she lay warm and pliant against him. He wanted to make the moment last, to stretch it out into eternity if he could, but when her hand found his cock and squeezed, when he saw how desperate she was, how needy, further delay became impossible. Her legs parted in invitation, her hand positioning him, urging him on.
He entered her in one deep thrust. “Fuck,” he groaned.
She laughed and arched her back again. This woman was going to be the death of him.
“Touch yourself.” He spoke low, his mouth at her ear.
And she did, clever fingers circling her clitoris.
He began to move and it was everything. No better feeling existed that this, the woman he adored pinned beneath him, her heels digging into his arse, urging him on as he fucked and fucked her. He didn’t want it to end, but as she cried out her release, he couldn’t prevent it.
“Evie.” I love you. I love you. I will always love you.
But the words stayed trapped inside his heart.
…
It was much easier to sleep at Stoney Hey than in the oppressive grandeur of Harcastle House, but Evie still woke before dawn. In those first moments, she couldn’t think what had disturbed her. Through the mist of early morning vagueness, she slowly became aware of the empty space beside her. The absence of warmth.
She rolled out of bed and groped on the floor for her discarded clothes and, as luck would have it, found the combination first. The fire was out, which meant it was so early that the servant hadn’t been in to see to it. Where on earth was Alex?
The adjoining room seemed the obvious place to start looking, so once she’d hooked her petticoat on over the combination, she felt her way to the interior door she’d noticed last night. Yes, the handle turned; it wasn’t locked.
The room was some sort of sitting room. Alex sat with his back to her, in an armchair by yet another fire. Presumably he’d lit this one himself. He gave no sign that he noticed her, but somehow she thought he had.
By the faint glow of the gaslights in their sconces, she made out the details of the room—it was small, three of the walls taken up by shelves. Instead of books or ornaments, the shelves held contraptions made of wood and leather. Magic lanterns. She’d noticed several in his bachelor quarters in London too.
“You’re quite the collector,” she said as she reached his side.
He smiled and took her hand. As she’d suspected, he wasn’t a bit surprised by her sudden appearance. “Would you like to hear a sad story?”
“About magic lanterns?”
“Yes. And about me, or rather me as a child.”
“About Little Alex, then? Yes. Yes, I would.” Actually, she felt pathetically eager for anything that had to do with him. She wanted to drink up all the details of his past and present, and heavy on her heart was the dread that she’d spend the rest of her life yearning for news of him.
There was another chair, but as she glanced around for it, he pulled her down onto his lap. He made a comfortable seat, so she remained where he’d put her despite the indignity.
“When I was nearly six…” He paused, and she saw the conflict in his expression. From past experience of his reluctance to talk about himself, she sensed he was struggling with the urge to remind her that he understood his upbringing had been easy compared with hers. Perhaps remembering what she’d said on this subject the last time they’d discussed his childhood, he suppressed it. “When Little Alex was nearly six, the duke employed a new nanny.”