All the rage left him then, banished by the misery he could see in her face and feel in every line of her body. He picked up the wrap and placed it gently about her shoulders, wanting to draw her close, shaken by the instinct he felt to comfort her. But again she drew away from him, lonely but indomitable in her strength.
“Do not pursue this, Rowarth,” she said. He could see her hands shaking as she wrapped the shawl about herself. “It was a long time ago.”
Frustration and determination gripped him in equal measure. Pride and anger prompted him to let the matter drop and yet he found he could not.
“I don’t believe you,” he said brutally. “I don’t believe that you left me through choice, Eve. You must tell me what happened.”
For a brief moment she looked him directly in the eyes. “Nothing happened,” she said. Her voice was cool and light again, devoid of emotion. It was as though the unhappiness he was sure he had seen in her only a moment before had never existed.
“You mistake,” she said. “I appreciate that it must be difficult for you to accept, but I am afraid that I discovered that the role of your mistress was not one that suited me. So I left. That is all.”
Rowarth swore. “So you preferred to go back to an existence where you struggled to hold body and soul together as you had done once before?” he challenged. “You ask too much if you expect me to believe that, sweetheart.”
“I never wanted you for your money and status.” There was a thread of anger in her voice now. At last he had provoked her out of her self-control. She had always had a temper. “Oh, it was nice to be rich—” she invested the word with scorn “—but it was never really my money, was it?” She sighed. “I wanted respect,” she said. “Self-respect I had earned. I did not have that as a courtesan, using my body to buy survival.”
Again Rowarth thought she was dealing in half-truths. He knew how fiercely she hated the depths to which poverty and desperation made men sink and that she had deplored the necessity of selling her body in order to save her life. But he had also thought that between them there had surely been mutual respect and trust.
“You had my respect,” he said. “I wanted to marry you.”
Again she was silent for a moment, biting her lip. “I did not wish to be a duchess.”
“No,” Rowarth said. “Apparently you wished to be a pawnbroker.”
Again she showed a flash of temper. “Is it inconceivable that I might want an honest trade?”
“Rather than be a duchess?” Rowarth drawled. “Frankly, my dear, it is. And besides, pawnbroking is not generally considered to be an honest profession.”
She looked furious. “Enough,” she said. She turned her shoulder to him. “I am afraid that you will simply have to accept that I left you because I did not wish to be with you. There is no point in discussing the matter further.”
The carriage had drawn up in front of the steps of Sampson’s mansion and a liveried footman opened the door. Rowarth descended and held out a hand to help Eve down. Her face was serene again, concealing any emotion she might feel inside, but he felt her fingers tremble a little in his.
You will simply have to accept that I left you because I did not wish to be with you…
The words echoed in Rowarth’s head as he guided her into the entrance hall. So be it. Eve had made her feelings clear. His instinct that there was more to her betrayal than met the eye was clearly wrong and he would be a fool to pursue it further. She had wanted to be free of him. There was no more to be said.
The hallway at Juniper Hill was a riot of bad taste. Eve’s fascinated gaze was drawn upward to the ceiling where naked painted cherubs romped amidst fluffy blue clouds. In the alcoves were statues of hugely endowed Greek gods and artfully draped goddesses, whose state of undress was only equalled by the scandalous deshabillée of Warren Sampson’s female guests. Those invited tonight were not the respectable citizens of Fortune’s Folly but those of the local gentry who hunted hard, especially when it came to women, plus some actresses from the theaters of York and Harrogate, a smattering of Sampson’s business associates and those of their wives bold enough to attend.
Servants were circulating with trays of champagne. In the center of the hall was a gigantic ice sculpture of a naked, rampant god Poseidon, his icy erection almost as enormous as the trident in his hand. It rather spelled out the point of the entertainment, Eve thought. And in the middle of all this splendid ostentation was Warren Sampson himself, preening in peacock blue, expansive and vulgar and most frightfully proud, as far as Eve could see, of displaying his money in such an opulent style. He was surrounded by a positive plethora of hangers-on, including the squire’s brother Tom Fortune, who smiled very suggestively as Eve approached. As she and Rowarth stepped forward Eve registered the sudden excitement that ran through the ranks of Sampson’s guests. The men raised their quizzing glasses and looked Eve up and down from the diamond clasp in her red curls to the tips of her red satin slippers, lingering on the bodice of her gown where her abundant charms were so amply displayed. The women cast glances of lascivious greed at Rowarth who was looking exceptionally elegant in his austere black-and-white evening dress.
A frisson of nerves ran through Eve as Sampson’s gaze fell on them and he came forward to greet them, his eyes lighting with self-congratulation to have caught so eminent a guest as the Duke of Welburn.
“My dear fellow…” He stretched out a hand to Rowarth, his voice unctuous. “I am charmed that you have been able to join us tonight.”
Not by a flicker of expression did Rowarth give away any emotion other than an apparent delight to be there. The perfect courtesy bred in an English gentleman evidently made him able to carry off such a meeting, Eve thought. In contrast, her skin was crawling simply at being in close proximity with Warren Sampson. There was something unwholesome about the man and when he turned his gaze on her she felt a sense of revulsion she was afraid might be almost too strong to conceal.
“Mrs.…Nightingale, is it not?” Sampson was working hard to cover his astonishment at seeing her, but could not quite hide his feelings. Eve could not be sure whether his surprise arose from the unexpected appearance of his unwitting stooge or simply from shock at seeing a lady he had previously thought irreproachably respectable flaunting herself in such a shocking gown. His eyes lit with a predatory gleam as his gaze lingered on the swell of her breasts. Eve felt Rowarth stiffen almost imperceptibly beside her but when she flicked a glance up at his face his expression was quite smooth. His hand was in the small of her back, pushing her forward a little so that she could not avoid Sampson’s appreciative appraisal. She felt a bitter taste in her mouth, as though Rowarth was whoring her out, which of course, he was. And she had only herself to blame. When he had started to question her on the past in the intimate darkness of the carriage she had lied to him because it was the only way to keep her secrets and to keep the horrible memories of her miscarriage and loss locked away in the dark where it belonged. But she knew that she could not now complain if Rowarth despised her. She had deliberately pushed him away. Even so, a sliver of misery like a lump of ice wedged itself in her heart.
“Mr. Sampson.” She forced a smile. “It is such a pleasure to attend one of your parties. Your hospitality is legendary.”
Sampson laughed, showing his teeth. “My dear Mrs. Nightingale, had I known of your interest I would have invited you sooner.” He took her hand, his touch suggestive, and pressed his lips wetly to her fingers. Eve suppressed a shudder. Sampson’s predatory gaze went from her to Rowarth.
“Nor did I realize,” he murmured, his breath hot in her ear, “that you were a particular friend of his grace.”
“Oh, Rowarth and I are very old acquaintances,” Eve said, with an arch look up at Rowarth who smiled back straight into her eyes. “But should we ever fall out I will let you know, Mr. Sampson.”
Sampson laughed. “I live for that day,” he said.
Eve smiled. She had never been much of an actre
ss, she was all too well aware that she had too fiery and opinionated a disposition to hide her true feelings well, but since Rowarth wished her to offer herself—since she had to do so to save herself from Hawkesbury’s so-called justice—she would fulfill her role with all the fervor she could.
And hate herself for it later, no doubt. But she could not allow herself to think about that now.
Sampson was still holding her hand and she let it rest there, tightening her fingers with the slightest of pressure.
“I was hoping,” she murmured, “that I might have a few moments with you in private later, Mr. Sampson. There is a matter I would very much like to discuss with you—a business matter to our mutual benefit.”
Sampson’s eyes almost popped out of his head with a combination of lust and excitement, curiosity and, Eve was interested to note, wariness.
“You intrigue me, Mrs. Nightingale,” he said. “I will rejoin you as soon as I can arrange it.” He kissed her hand again, running his lips over her knuckles in an odiously familiar manner that made Eve want to wipe her hand on her gown.
“Your servant, madam,” Sampson said, moving off to greet some of his other guests and giving her one very long, backward look.
Rowarth took Eve’s hand in a grip so tight she almost flinched.
“He seems to like you,” Rowarth said, his voice hard and low.
“Of course he does,” Eve said sharply. “There is plenty of me on display to like.” She glared at him. “You would also have observed that he was surprised to see me. He was not expecting me to be here tonight. I told you that I barely know him.”
Rowarth’s gaze narrowed on her. “I accept that,” he said slowly.
“Oh, you do, do you?” Eve snapped. “Not that it makes any difference to you. Well, stay close to me, Rowarth, while I trap him for you. You want me to whore myself tonight,” she added, seeing him recoil and glad that her bitter words had touched him, “so I will do. I was your harlot so will do whatever you wish.”
She was unprepared for Rowarth’s response. He caught her arm and pulled her behind the cover of an enormous statue of Apollo. His expression was tight and furious and made her quake inside. “Never refer to yourself like that again, Eve,” he said. “Never! Do you hear me?”
Eve was utterly shaken. For a long moment their gazes held, tense and stormy, and then Rowarth swore under his breath and his arms went about her and his mouth came down on hers with absolute mastery, forcing her lips apart, his tongue tangling with hers and plundering her without restraint. Eve was lost from the first moment, her emotions adrift, the sensuality flaring between them in a scalding tide. She forgot where they were, almost forgot everything, in the maelstrom of sensation and desire that swept her away.
“Getting into the swing of things rather well, Rowarth.”
An amused male voice had them falling apart, panting, and Eve looked up to see a tall man with brown hair and the wickedest hazel eyes she had ever seen smiling at her and making her an elegant bow.
“A pleasure to meet you again, Mrs. Nightingale,” he said, “though I do apologize for interrupting you at such an impossibly awkward moment. You may remember that we met a few times in London. Miles Vickery, entirely at your service.” He gave Eve a look of comprehensive admiration that brought a blush to her cheeks. “I wish that Hawkesbury had chosen me for this assignment rather than bringing Rowarth in specially,” he drawled, “but then I suppose he does have the prior claim.”
Rowarth did not seem amused. “Vickery—” he began, with so much possessive threat in his voice that Miles backed off, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“All right, Rowarth. I understand.” He grinned. “Don’t forget that I am your oldest friend. There is no need to call me out. I’m here only if you need help tonight. As is Nat Waterhouse.” He pointed out a tall, dark man who was across the other side of the hall drinking champagne and flirting with a blond woman with improbably girlish ringlets, whose breasts were tumbling out of the bodice of her clinging blue gown. As they watched, Waterhouse raised one of the blond’s ringlets to his lips and she simpered up at him in return.
“Contrary to all appearances,” Miles Vickery said drily, “Waterhouse is working tonight.”
He bowed again and sauntered off, leaving Eve very aware of Rowarth’s presence at her side. She had felt the tension simmering in him from the moment they had first greeted Warren Sampson. She turned to see him glaring at her.
“No one will believe that we were ever lovers if you look at me like that, Rowarth,” she said. “There is no need to behave with such ill-tempered possessiveness.”
“Is there not?” Something primitive flared in Rowarth’s eyes before he banked it down. “That is what you do to me, Eve. There is business unfinished between us.”
“There is nothing between us—” Eve started to say, even as he caught her close again with a demand she was powerless to resist and which made a mockery of her denials.
“You still respond to me,” he murmured, his lips brushing the corner of her mouth. “Admit it, Eve.”
“And what is that to the purpose?” Eve was really angry with him now both for demonstrating the power he still had over her and arrogantly asserting that it meant anything at all. “I admit that there is some sort of inconvenient attraction still between us,” she said, “but it is no more than that.” She tapped her fan sharply in the palm of her hand. “You should take a good, long look at yourself, Rowarth, duke or no. You come here and insult me with your false accusations and coerce me into behaving like a harlot in red silk and no underwear and then you behave like a dog in a manger.”
They stared at one another, locked in furious confrontation, until recalled to their surroundings by a discreet cough.
“Excuse me, madam.” A liveried servant had approached and was standing a little distance away, clearing his throat. Eve tore her gaze away from Rowarth. “Mr. Sampson’s compliments and would you care to join him in the library?”
“Thank you,” Eve said, casting Rowarth one final glance before she followed him. “I should be delighted.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“I DON’T LIKE it,” Rowarth said to Miles Vickery. The two of them were stationed on a stone balcony directly above the open terrace windows that led from the library into the gardens. It gave them a perfect means of eavesdropping on the conversation inside the room without being so obvious as to be lurking suspiciously on the terrace. But Rowarth could also see the disadvantages. If Sampson closed the terrace doors then they would hear nothing and more importantly, if Eve needed help it would take them a long time to reach her. Nat Waterhouse, who was downstairs making sure that no one sprung them, was nearer, but he could not know what was happening inside the library.
At the moment Eve was alone and Rowarth was already feeling as strung out as a wire. His tension had ratcheted higher and higher since the confrontation with Eve in the carriage. He had despised the way in which Sampson had looked her over, his hands itching to plant the man a facer. He had almost done the same to Miles, who was a childhood friend. And Eve’s words to him in the hall had cut directly through all the bitterness and anger within him and had gone straight to his heart.
You come here and insult me with your false accusations and coerce me into behaving like a harlot…
Rowarth gritted his teeth. He was not proud of himself. There had been a time when he had been a better man than this. Eve had made him so. Now he wondered what would be worse—being obliged to listen to Eve seducing Warren Sampson, for the man was such an exhibitionist and the party so uninhibited that Sampson probably would not trouble to close the windows—or being unable to help her if Sampson turned threatening. Both thoughts were unendurable and it was he who had placed her in this situation, using her as bait, driven by his anger and need for revenge....
“Of course you don’t like it,” Miles Vickery said, breaking into his thoughts. “The woman you used to love is down there in danger of either
seduction or violence or worse.” Miles shook his head. “To be honest, old chap, I think you are touched in the attic to have gone so far with this scheme. When Hawkesbury first mooted the idea you should have told him to go hang. I could not believe that you did not.”
“Yes,” Rowarth said, belatedly recognizing the truth of Miles’s assertions. “I should have done.”
“I know you were bitter after Eve left you,” Miles continued. “I know you were afraid to show weakness like your father, but really, old chap…” He shook his head. “The two cases were very different, were they not? And Eve had been ill, which I am sure must have made matters more difficult—” He broke off, seeing Rowarth’s expression. “I know, I know. None of my business.”
Rowarth stared at him, wondering if he had misheard. The wind from the gardens came faintly to him, carrying the scent of pine and jasmine with it. It also breathed suspicions into his mind, faint but powerful, no longer possible to dismiss.
“I beg your pardon?” he said.
“None of my business—” Miles began.
“No,” Rowarth interrupted. “The other bit.”
“Eve had been ill,” Miles repeated, as though Rowarth was a rather slow schoolboy having trouble with his lessons. “I know it was not something that you ever mentioned, but I saw the doctor leaving—”
Rowarth grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket. “What? When?”
“Steady on, old chap,” Miles wheezed. “I thought you were supposed to be cool under pressure?”
Rowarth released him. “When?” he repeated, very softly now.
Miles smoothed his jacket down. “Must we do this now, old fellow?” he beseeched. “Try to keep your mind on the job in hand. Sampson will be arriving at any moment.”
“Forget that,” Rowarth said. “This is more important. You were saying?”