Page 23

T he air was sultry. If she had known it would be so stifling, she would have argued with her mother more profusely about whether or not to take her pelisse.

As it was, Evelyn had argued, and her mother had looked at her, and Evelyn had put on her pelisse. And now she was baking.

A gaggle of ladies, all around her age, meandered past her. Evelyn was forced to take a step back, right up against the wall, to prevent herself from being in their path. Their joyful chatter sparked into the late morning air.

“Never seen such a—”

“He didn’t!”

“I promise you, he actually said to my face—”

Precisely what the gentleman in question had said, Evelyn was never to know. Their conversation, like their perambulation, rambled on along the pavement, and they disappeared out of sight around a corner before she could overhear any more.

Their absence only served to underline just how alone she was. Which was most strange; had not Richard been most clear about what time they were to meet?

Evelyn pulled her brother’s pocket watch out from her reticule. One of these days, someone was going to create a gown that had pockets just like those for gentlemen. One day.

The pocket watch was clear; the hour was almost twenty past eleven, and he was late.

Evelyn swallowed. And handsome. And charming. And utterly unsuitable.

“What has become of your beau?” Laurent asked, fidgeting in place.

“He’s not my beau,” said Evelyn softly. “And if you need to excuse yourself for a moment, feel free to do so. I’ll be careful not to be spotted.” She tugged on her wide bonnet’s brim as if to make her point.

Laurent chewed her lip. “Very well. Be careful , my lady. Unlike at home, there are eyes here, in such a place.”

Evelyn was all too aware. But her thoughts, as ever these days, returned to Richard.

It had taken a good long time to accept, even in the silence and solitude of her mind, that she was attracted to him. It had taken even less time for Evelyn to know, absolutely, that she could not consider a future with Richard… Richard Whateverhisnamewas.

Because was that not precisely the problem? If they had met at a ball, if he’d been introduced as one of her brother’s friends, or an earl’s third son, or the like, perhaps a courtship could have occurred.

But he was a model . He had sat for her naked, and Evelyn was most furious with herself that she had not even taken the slightest peek at… Well. That .

She was damned forever to be the man’s artist, not his… not anything else.

“Waiting for someone, are you?”

Evelyn blanched. The man was standing unpleasantly close, her hurried thoughts meaning that her mind had not notified her of his increasing presence.

He was not a man known to her: tall, leering, with a smile that told her more than enough, and swinging a cane around in his hand as though he were attempting to join a circus.

She repressed a smile. That was not kind. But it was accurate. And it was in her nature to notice these sorts of things.

“Yes, thank you,” she said as politely and yet as curtly as she could manage. “My chaperone.” The last thing she wanted to do was invite further conversation.

Apparently, her curtness did not signify. The man grinned. “I’ve been waiting for someone for a while, and you look like you just fit the bill.”

Evelyn attempted to smile. “Is that so?”

Where was Laurent? Or Richard? It would be so much easier to extricate herself from this most unpleasant man, whoever he was, if Richard were to turn up about now.

A hazy smile, a genuine one, slipped across her face. Perhaps on a white charger, dressed as a medieval knight, or a Greek god, or—

“I was certain you would come around to my way of thinking.” The man smirked.

Evelyn’s smile immediately vanished. Ah . Had he thought that smile for him? “Oh, I am afraid you quite misunderstand me, sir.”

“Oh, I think we can move directly to first names, don’t you?” replied the most irritating, and most incorrect man. “You see, I’m Horace Lister, and—”

“‘Lister’?” repeated Evelyn.

Well, that name rang a bell. Had not her mother told her a story about how a Mr. Lister, presumably this man’s father or uncle, had been most injudicious as to attempt to steal a kiss from the now Duchess of Axwick?

That did not bode well.

Neither did the way that the man, Mr. Lister, placed a palm against the brick wall right by Evelyn’s head and leaned forward with a simper. “You may have heard of me, yes. I am a renowned lover.”

“I believe there has been some mistake,” Evelyn said weakly. It was most inconvenient that this was the time her heart was to plummet and hide into her chest. She needed bravery! She needed boldness! She needed—

“So sorry I was detained, my dear, I hope you have not been waiting too long?” said a smooth and most welcome voice.

Evelyn sagged with relief against the wall, then attempted to rally. It would not do for this Mr. Lister to believe she could not have defended herself.

She had never punched a man in the jaw before. By all accounts, it was not difficult.

“Richard,” Evelyn exhaled happily.

“‘Richard’?” Mr. Lister lurched back as though scalded, actually raising his hands clenched into fists before turning and seeing the man who had spoken. “You’re not the Duke of Axwick.”

Richard blinked. “Should I be? Are you ready, my dear?”

“My dear”? It was a phrase so pedestrian in the mouths of others. Evelyn had heard her father call her mother “my dear” only once, and the look of daggers which the Countess of Lindow had shot him in reply had ensured her father had never used it again.

Yet in Richard’s mouth…

Desperately hoping her cheeks did not look as crimson as they felt, and at the same time delighted that Mr. Lister, with his pinched expression, was looking so perturbed, Evelyn accepted Richard’s proffered arm. “I have been waiting a while, yes. But Mr. Lister has done his best to entertain me.”

Perhaps it was a low blow. Evelyn was never to know just how badly the man took it. Richard was promenading her forward into the building and its cool, welcoming hall.

Only when the door closed behind them did the most startling thing happen.

Richard dropped her arm and just as swiftly grasped hold of her shoulders. He brought her close, far closer than Evelyn thought was probably acceptable in public, forcing her to tilt her head back as she kept hold of his attention.

“He didn’t hurt you?” Richard asked urgently, a desperation pouring through his tones that Evelyn had never heard before. “That man, that Lister, he didn’t touch you?”

“No,” Evelyn said hastily, the heat in her cheeks now delight that he was so concerned.

As he dropped his grip on her shoulders and blew out heavily, he shook his head. “The blighter is known throughout Society for his rash and impetuous nature, and his convenient lack of hearing when a woman declines his advances. I was worried there, for a moment.”

Evelyn was not sure whether to be concerned that she had in fact been in great danger with Mr. Lister, or piqued that it appeared Richard would have worried for any young lady left in the company of such an odious man.

It had been pleasant, if only for a moment, to feel special.

And then something he said rattled at her mind.

“The blighter is known throughout Society…”

But… But that would only make sense if he, Richard, were a part of Society. For all she knew of him, he was no gentleman. Surely, she would have seen him long before now if he had been. How, then, could he know this fact?

Evelyn swallowed. The attraction is not knowing , she told herself firmly. He could have read the Society pages. The gossip sheets. Heard the rumors. He presumably could read, couldn’t he?

Besides, nothing is ever going to happen. Best to leave it as a delicious mystery.

“You are late. Laurent took off at a most inconvenient time, leaving me alone and a target for that man,” she said aloud, hoping to distract herself from the torrid thoughts threatening to trample her mind: thoughts of Mr. Lister leaning forward and Richard rushing forward with a pistol, shooting the man dead, then kissing Evelyn so furious against the wall…

“I… I was momentarily otherwise engaged,” Richard said vaguely, not quite meeting her eye.

Evelyn frowned. They were still standing in the entrance hall; if she wished, she could depart at any moment. And he was not being honest with her. There was a lilt in his voice that she had never heard before, one smacking of dishonesty. That, or at least purposeful vagueness.

A vagueness designed to elicit no further questions.

Richard had taken a few steps forward before Evelyn’s words halted him.

“‘Otherwise engaged’? You… You are modeling for another artist?”

The sudden fear was not one she had expected. After all, had they not already had this misunderstanding but in reverse? Had she not laughed when Richard had presumed Leopold was a strange man modeling for her? Had it not seemed amusing?

It did not seem amusing now. He was hers—her model , Evelyn adjusted swiftly in her mind as her pulse throbbed in her ears. It was difficult enough for a lady artist to find a model, but to lose him within months to another artist could not be borne.

“No, I was not modeling for another artist. You are the only person I take my clothes off for,” Richard said in a hushed tone, winking.

Blazing heat soared through Evelyn and her footsteps halted. “You are laughing at me.”

“I am… I am, yes,” he said, his features softening as he saw her genuine fear. “I… As I said, I was otherwise engaged.”

“With what?” Evelyn persisted.