shrugged. “The fellow was half-cut when he bought them, slurring and stumbling about the place. He fell into the console table and knocked over my fancy gilt clock.” She laughed. “Happen he got home and couldn’t remember how he came by them.”
“Did he give his name?” Mr Sloane said abruptly.
Mrs Mulligan seemed suddenly suspicious.
“You must put my husband out of his misery,” Vivienne said. “He’s wagered fifty pounds on the fact he can purchase a plague mask before the masquerade.” She tapped Mr Sloane on the arm. “Mr Mallory is determined to win the bet and must have purchased every mask in town.”
“The gentleman placed an order for two more masks.” Mrs Mulligan removed a leather tome from under the counter and turned to the relevant page. “Oh! No, I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”
“Mistaken?”
“His name isn’t Mr Mallory. It’s Mr Wicks.”
Chapter 11
“I canna recall seeing the lass so excited.” Buchanan joined Evan in the hall. “Seems she wants to keep her costume a secret, though I heard Mrs McCready say she’ll catch her death in the flimsy gown.”
Anticipation burned in Evan’s chest. The wait was killing him. For twenty minutes he’d paced back and forth at the bottom of the marble staircase, dressed in his corsair costume—grey coat with gold buttons and trim, an open-necked shirt and a brown leather belt thick enough to carry the weight of three pistols.
“If it’s flimsy, I doubt she’s coming as an Elizabethan courtier.”
Whatever the costume, Evan would make her come tonight. It was impossible to suppress his desire, impossible not to gather her into his arms and plunder her pretty mouth. They’d be married within a week. Why postpone the inevitable?
Buchanan heaved a sigh. “She’s barely raised a smile since her mother died.”
Evan wondered what was worse. Never knowing a mother’s love or feeling its loss so intensely.
“But I thank ye for showing her life is worth living.” The Scot raised his hand. “I know ye’ll go yer separate ways when this is over, but she’s happy now, and that counts for something.”
Buchanan’s statement roused a host of questions, roused emotions too complicated to consider when consumed by lust. And the sudden appearance of Vivienne Hart at the top of the stairs did little to calm Evan’s mental chaos.
“Sorry to have kept you.” She floated down, her silver slippers barely touching the steps. “I forgot to bring the silk cloak the countess gave me and had to wear this old thing.”
Evan hadn’t a clue what Miss Hart wore beneath the thick wool cloak, but the teasing braid dangling over her shoulder held him riveted. As did the smile so brilliant it could light the night sky.
His gaze drifted to her earlobes, free of adornments. And while he longed to take each one into his mouth and suck softly, old feelings of inadequacy surfaced.
“Wait here. I shall be but a moment.” Evan darted past her and mounted the stairs in his heavy cavalier boots, returning a few minutes later clutching a black leather box. He stood before her and raised the lid to reveal two pairs of earrings. “It’s difficult to know what to choose without seeing your costume, but pearls and diamonds complement any gown.”
Miss Hart’s eyes widened as she studied his offering, though she looked at him more than she did the sparkling jewels. “It’s kind of you to think of me, but I cannot wear another woman’s earrings.”
Her clipped tone said she had misunderstood. Like the new stockings she’d discarded in favour of Lamont’s dandified clothes, she assumed they belonged to a lover.
“They were my mother’s earrings, Vivienne.” Hell. A lump formed in his throat. “They’ve been in this box for thirty years. It would please me if you wore a pair this evening.”
“Your mother’s?” She pursed her lips so tightly her nostrils flared. She looked at him, at the box, dabbed tears from the corners of her eyes and blinked almost as many times as she swallowed. “I—I would like that very much. Pearls would be perfect with my gown.”
Evan offered her the box. He lacked the dexterity to remove something so precious without showing signs of his inner torment. Words failed to describe the strange combination of emotions as he watched her slip on the earrings.
Fitchett appeared, the wrinkles on his weathered face deepening into a smile upon noticing the pearls. “Turton insists on driving tonight, sir. He said he’d die of boredom if left in his sickbed.”
“Turton is to refrain from all strenuous activity for two weeks.” Thank the