“You.” She grabbed Grendel’s thick forelock. “You come with me, and don’t even think of giving me any trouble, or I shall deal with you accordingly.”
The little beast came along. He did not give her
Deene climbed into the saddle, patted his gelding on the neck, and turned the horse down the drive. Anthony had departed a couple of days ago, the plan being for him to go on reconnaissance in the clubs and ballrooms and unearth whatever intelligence there was to be found.
While Deene… buried himself in ledgers that made little sense, rode out to visit tenants who were wary and carefully polite when enduring his calls, made lists of eligible women of good fortune and reasonable disposition… and did not call on the Windham sisters or even on Kesmore.
A clear focus was called for, and proximity to Eve Windham created rather the opposite.
He worried about her. He worried about Georgie. He worried about his finances. He worried about Anthony, so newly a father and trying to appear casual about it.
“I do not worry about you.”
Beast flipped an ear back, then forward.
Beast, being a gelding, seldom evidenced worry unless his ration of oats did not timely appear in his bucket. Deene let his unworried mount canter over much of the Denning Hall home farm, then down the track that separated the Hall from the Moreland home-wood.
The land was in the last stages of coming back to life after winter’s sleep. The trees were still a gauzy, soft green, the earth had the fresh, cool scent of spring, and daffodils winked from the hedgerows. Deene crossed onto Eve’s property, Lavender Something, and crested a rise to see the little manor house, a picture of Tudor repose snug at the bottom of the hill.
As he studied the scene, he had a tickling sense of something being out of order. There were pansies here and there, the windows sparkled in the midday sun, the drive was neatly raked but for—
A groom was leading a pony trap away toward the stables, a fat little pony in the traces.
Beast—or perhaps Deene—decided to amble down and investigate. Eve’s property was supposed to be more or less vacant but for staff, which meant nobody had cause to be paying a call.
He hitched Beast to the post in the drive—the stables likely sported only the one groom—and went up to the house. A knock on the door yielded no response; a slight push on it gained him entry.
The interior upheld the promise of the exterior: pretty, cozy, and warm to the eye in a way having nothing to do with temperature. Eve would be comfortable amid all this light and domesticity.
He spotted her before she detected him. She stood at the window in a second, homey little parlor done up all in gold, cream, and soft hues of brown. Her outfit was brown as well, but sported fetching little details in cream and red—a touch of piping, a dab of lace.
She turned and uncrossed her arms. “Lucas.”
As she came toward him, the force of her smile nearly knocked him physically on his arse. She’d never smiled at him like that; he hoped she’d never before smiled at
Luminous, radiant, and soft with pleasure and joy. Even as his mind comprehended that she was going to embrace him—and welcomed the idea wholeheartedly—his thinking brain also latched onto one detail: she was wearing a driving ensemble.
For a long, precious moment, he held her while his heart resonated with the happiness and pride he’d seen in her eyes. “You soloed at the ribbons.”
She nodded, her hair tickling his chin. “I drove here, Lucas. I drove here
He clamped his arms around her, lifted her, and whirled her in circles. “You drove yourself here. You’re going to drive yourself home. You’re going to drive yourself wherever you damned well please.”
Her laughter was a marvelous thing, her body against his every bit as wonderful. He could feel the joy in her, the relief.
“I’m going to drive myself wherever I please, whenever I please, however I please. Nobody will be safe from Eve Windham when she takes a notion to tool about. I might drive up to Yorkshire and call upon St. Just, or out to Oxford to check on Valentine. I shall certainly call upon Westhaven in Surrey, and Sophie and Maggie and… all of them. I can see them anytime I please.”
He set her on her feet, letting her slide slowly down his body. “You might nip out to Surrey to see how Franny’s foal is getting on. You might take a notion to peek in on the next meet at Epsom.”
She stood there, beaming up at him, a woman transfigured by her own courage.
He must kiss her. The moment called for nothing less, and even if it had, he was helpless not to kiss her.
Kissing Eve had been a lovely experience each and every time: tipsy and bold under the mistletoe, surprised but eager in the privacy of shadowed ferns, hesitant but sweet in the confines of a landau…
When she was ebullient, when she was in roaring good spirits with her recent accomplishment, kissing her was… beyond description. Her confidence pulled him in; her joy pulled him under.
Any thought of trouble in London, any thought of the tedium of the Season awaiting him, any
The buttons of her outfit pressing hard into his sternum.
The slight tug of her fingers where she’d fisted her hand in the hair at his nape.
The way she wasn’t the least shy about plastering herself with gratifying snugness against his growing erection.
To hold her this way felt… glorious.
And he registered a small, muted kick of common sense against his conscience: he should close and lock the door.
This last he could approximate. He scooped her up against his chest and backed against the half-open door until it was closed, then advanced with her to lay her down on the sofa. She lay on her back, smiling a secret, pleased smile, giving Deene the sense she was as cast away as he.
“Don’t stop kissing me, Lucas. Kissing you is…”
He paused above her, wanting to know exactly what words she’d choose, but instead she held out her arms and gave them an impatient shake. He shrugged out of his coat and came down over her.
“We should take our boots off, Evie. We’ll get dust—”
Absurdities. He was spouting absurdities, and even those fled his awareness as Eve fused her mouth to his and curled her two booted feet around his flanks. He pulled back, pleased to find she was panting.
For a procession of instants, she gazed at him, bestowing on him a look that conveyed glee and arousal and…
The look in her eyes utterly shifted the moment, from one of celebration to one of anticipation. When he lowered his head to rest his cheek against her hair, he understood that for Eve, this was like a soldier needing to pillage after victory in battle, like the necessary carouse after winning a close race or a bet against very long odds.
And it was his privilege to make sure no lasting harm befell her while she indulged in a few moments of heedlessness… no harm whatsoever.
Even if he wanted to bury himself in her heat, wanted to hear her scream his name with pleasure, wanted to feel her desperate with desire.
“Lucas?” The bewilderment in her gaze when he lifted away from her tore at his heart.
“Boots off, Evie. I have an idea. Trust me.”
Three complete sentences, one declarative, two imperative. Quite an accomplishment when a man’s cock was rioting in his breeches. He tugged her up by one arm and knelt to pull off her boots.
While she sat there looking puzzled and a trifle disgruntled, he untied her stock and eased her jacket from her shoulders, then started unbuttoning her shirt.
“Will I like this idea?”
“You will like it.”
