Valiant (Gentlemen of the Order #3) - Adele Clee Page 0,51
say good night?
If ever there was a perfect time to play a game of honesty, this was it.
“Go to bed,” she said, slipping off her cloak before Fitchett hurried to attend to them. “I’m in need of something strong to drink and might mix my own concoction.”
“We have an early start tomorrow, a busy day. I suspect the masked rider will do something wicked to scupper our plans.”
They were to meet at the office of the Order to receive an update from Mr D’Angelo, as well as visit Mr Howarth, make arrangements to marry and see if the Hatton Garden constables had located Mr Golding.
She shrugged. “All the more reason to relax and gather my thoughts. Good night, Mr Sloane.” She walked away so he couldn’t see the desperate loneliness etched on her face, the loneliness that left her chest empty, her hopes hollow.
“Vivienne.”
“Yes.” She stopped and glanced over her shoulder.
“It’s unwise to be alone together, to drink when spirits lower one’s inhibitions.”
She laughed. “Do you fear I might prance around barefooted?”
Green eyes with the allure of polished jade settled on her face. “You know what I’m trying to say.”
No. She had no idea. All thoughts of a romantic evening had abandoned her after the mild tussle with Mrs Worthing. “Perhaps a glass of brandy might loosen your tongue. Or perhaps the reality of our situation leaves a bitter taste in your mouth that makes everything unpalatable. Either way, I bid you good night again, Mr Sloane.”
He paused. “Good night, Miss Hart.”
Miss Hart? Not Vivienne?
She fought the sickening churn of rejection and continued to the drawing room. Despite leaving the door open in invitation, the clip of Mr Sloane’s boots on the marble stairs confirmed his retreat.
Chapter 13
The bitter taste in Evan’s mouth had nothing to do with Vivienne Hart. This crippling feeling of malcontent had nothing to do with abiding by a contract made seventy years ago. No. Evan’s rude awakening came from the realisation he’d been living a lie.
Strange that he had spent his life fighting against the failings of his ancestor, proving his valiance, showing the world he was no cowardly pirate and had courage abound. In truth, his need for casual relations made him as weak as every other man.
Having seen the destructive power of love—how his father had lived in a constant state of mourning—the thought of being dependent upon one person had left Evan avoiding commitment.
And then Vivienne Hart had hammered on his door amid a raging thunderstorm to play havoc with his rationale. Seducing him with the prospect of an adventure. He’d been enticed by her bravery, her tenacity and cavalier attitude, not by hidden treasure or the prospect of vengeance.
Miss Hart deserved the moniker Valiant. She had defended him in front of Charles Sloane. Stood beside him like the king’s own guard, ready to fight to the death. She trusted him. With resounding confidence, she had placed her beating heart in his hands.
And how had he repaid such loyalty and devotion?
By dragging her into a lewd conversation with an old paramour.
By dragging her down to his low level.
She deserved better. Yet despite finding the strength to walk away from her downstairs, he couldn’t calm his craving. He couldn’t let her think him indifferent to her charms. He couldn’t let her settle into bed, believing he didn’t care. Hence the reason he sat in a chair in the corner of her bedchamber, hidden in the shadows. Waiting.
He remained alone with his thoughts for half an hour, had dismissed the maid who came to stoke the fire, light the lamp and turn down the bed.
The rattle of the doorknob sent his heart shooting to his throat. It was laughable that a man with his experience should feel nervous about being in a woman’s bedchamber, but such was the power of Vivienne Hart’s allure.
Evan watched the figure enter the room, hoping it wasn’t Mrs McCready with her penchant for snooping. Fitchett mentioned he’d found the servant examining the portraits in the drawing room. And Evan was sure he’d seen her walking the corridors late last night, too.
It wasn’t the cranky old crone. He knew it was Vivienne Hart when she braced her hands on her hips and scanned the room.
“How odd.”
“Odd the lamp isn’t lit?” he said from the depths of the dark recess. “Or odd the maid isn’t here to undress you?” That task was unreservedly his. Indeed, his voice held the smooth drawl of a man intent on seduction.