Page 14 of For a Scandalous Wager (Breaking the Rules of the Beau Monde #3)

CHAPTER 13

E velyn thought she might never sleep again for reasons so clear her chest ached with it. She had suspected from the beginning the room belonged to Rochester. It looked like something he’d decorate, even the royal-blue color down to the luxurious velvet bedspread. So decadent, just like him. Too beautiful to look at and too wantonly reckless to look away.

Confidence bloomed in her when she first woke, saw the color, and realized his explanation hit the mark, just as she had hit the mark wearing that blue dress. She imagined him lying in this bed and thinking of her, the sheer color alone reminding him of her every day.

She remained in her room the next day, and Rochester did not come. Margaret, acting as her chambermaid, announced that his lordship had stepped out, that Miss Markham was to be made comfortable in the house, and that no room was off-limits if she took up wandering except, of course, the bed chambers belonging to Hudson and the staff.

But she never left the room. At noon, she relegated herself to watching the front drive for signs of him, and with her face partially hidden behind the sheer curtains, she watched the people, too. Carriages, some coaches, hacks, and a bustle of activity the Season brought to London. The city did not sleep. Not in the spring.

Thankfully, it hadn’t rained again. She looked down and sighed at the peach dress. It was the only piece of clothing she had, besides the extra chemise. Poor planning, she supposed. But who escapes through windows with carpet bags in tow?

Rochester was right; she did feel free and at peace. That is until yesterday afternoon when he’d kissed her in the billiard room. With her eyes covered, her senses had come alive. She could smell him, sandalwood and man mixed with the scent of wood polish that smelled every bit as good as he did.

With his arms crossed underneath her breasts and her back against his chest, she’d felt lightheaded, dizzy almost. But when he molded his hips to hers, feeling the branding length and hardness beneath his trousers, she lost all train of thought. She may not be well acquainted with the marriage bed, but she wasn’t ignorant either.

More than anything, he made her feel things like longing and passion and desire.

She left her position as sentry and took up pacing instead. If only a book would do, she’d have gone downstairs and searched the library. But her body was hot with the memory of his skillful mouth on her. She felt foreign to herself, out of sorts, and overwhelmed, and she knew the staff would recognize her odd discomfort immediately. The anxiety of wondering what his reaction in the light of day might be ate away at her peaceful, calm reserve.

She pulled the sheers aside and looked intently at the park across the street. No faces, only top hats, and parasols were evident, but she’d recognize his swagger anywhere.

“I have to be somewhere tonight, and I’m not leaving here without you,” Rochester’s voice echoed in the hallway before she heard the hinges on the door, sending a jolt of pulsating panic through her already anxious state. “But first, you need a change of clothes.” He strolled past her into the room.

“Wait,” she rushed, taking several hurried steps. “We’re going out in public?”

He’s been gone all day, and he thinks to leave her with that confusing plan? Not a chance. She stopped him as he reached the dressing room.

“Don’t be a goose. You’ll be hidden behind the clothes and a coach.”

“Like a stowaway?” She advanced on him until he disappeared behind the dressing room door.

He leaned out the doorway of the wardrobe. “Trust me, for a change, will you?”

She threw him a dubious look for all his passing indifference.

In record time, he emerged clutching riding breeches and a white lawn shirt. “Put these on.” He tossed them on the bed.

“Are you mad? I’m all for an adventure, but besides being men’s clothing—your clothing—they will never fit. You’re a head taller than I am, not to mention your body.” Her hands swept the air in front of him like someone pointing out details at an analytical conference. And then that reminded her of the analysis. Her face warmed, and she crossed her arms.

His brows went up at that as he gazed at the length of her body. That was, however, the extent of his pause. He turned to leave, then shot back, “Do you need assistance with your dress?”

She regarded him in stunned silence. What she needed was assistance with this plan. What was he doing?

He slanted a wolfish smile. “I’m happy to help.”

She picked up the shirt and threw it at his retreating backside.

After the door clicked into place, she took inventory of the clothes, picking up the shirt and shaking it out in front of her. The shirt had promise. Large, yes, but at least the length would not be an issue tucked in. However, the breeches were out of the question. She reached behind her to work at her dress, curious now about the shirt.

“I’ve answered the problem of the breeches,” Rochester burst on the scene again without so much as a knock, which he didn’t seem to notice. “These are from a young footman, still too large but manageable with a cord or thong to shore them up.”

Before she could utter a word, he tossed the footman’s clothing onto the bed, turned her about by the shoulders, and, with some nimble knowledge, made quick work at the buttons down her back. He worked so efficiently that she had no time to ponder a proper protest. She felt her skin twitch with every touch of his fingers, although he didn’t seem to notice that either.

Before he reached the bottom, she regained some sense and turned about, swatting his hands away. “I think I can manage it from here. I’m rather resourceful that way.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, flustered, finally. “My apologies. I got carried away.”

“And yet you’re as quick as a tailor.”

“They are just buttonholes, Evelyn. Do you see a valet? I am also resourceful when need be.” He waggled his eyebrows. Then snapped his fingers. “One more thing.”

With her mouth agape and one hand holding her dress to her chest, she watched helplessly as he disappeared into the dressing room again, this time returning with a pair of shoes. And then surprisingly, he sat on the settee by the fire, bent down, and pulled off his Hessians.

“What are you about, Rochester?”

He looked over his shoulder. “You need shoes,” he said, rising. “And these will cover the baggy breeches. We’ll stuff paper in the toes. A little cloddy to walk about in, but they’ll serve the purpose.” He put the boots by the bed and studied her standing there, her dress loosely held to her chest. But his eyes held no mischief or passion, just a thoughtful vee between his brows. And as before, he didn’t leave, just returned to the wardrobe and emerged with a great coat.

“Brilliant,” she said, a little befuddled, now pinching her dress together in the back.

“I know you’re teasing, but it is quite brilliant.”

Befuddled, she blinked rapidly and shrugged, then said mockingly, “What self-respecting gentleman would appear without a cravat?” She hardly meant it, but that sent him for another trip to gather a pristinely white silk cravat.

“Rochester.” She demanded his attention. “Don’t you think you’ve rather forgotten yourself?”

“And all this time, I thought that’s what you wanted.” He grabbed the shoes. “I’ll be back to help with the cravat.”

She had no living clue as to what he had in mind, but half afraid he’d return while she stood in her chemise, she made fast work of it. She swam in the shirt. The bottoms weren’t much better. But with the long tail of the white lawn tucked in, and after getting the buttons fastened on the fall of the breeches, she surveyed the transformation in the mirror. She didn’t for a moment think she’d pass as a man if that was his proposition, especially in daylight.

He knocked, this time stopping to tilt his head this way and that when he saw her standing there in men’s clothing, the cravat whipped over her shoulder. His gaze worked back and forth over her body. Then he sighed.

“Not good enough?” She almost felt slighted. How ridiculous was that?

He came back with a stunning waistcoat. Evelyn recognized it from the Christmas house party two years ago. Ruby-red satin, intricately embroidered in a filigree pattern with gold thread. And it poignantly reminded her of the shilling she’d wagered over billiards—make the shot, and I’ll make your day is what she’d whispered to him as she slipped a coin in his coat pocket. The idiot had missed the shot, and to this day, she still wondered if he’d meant to.

She was nearly out of breath by the time he hurried her into his coach. The greatcoat had no hood, so Rochester had replaced it with a cape. He pulled it fully over her head, covering her hair and shading her eyes.

“You couldn’t look like a man if you tried, Goose,” he said, joining her.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

“I’m obligated to watch a boxing match for a friend, and if I miss it, he’ll wonder why.”

“So, you’re bringing me? How does that work?”

“Strong’s establishment has private rooms with balconies for viewing fights on the floor. It won’t be an issue getting you in because I use a special entrance for, shall we say, special guests?”

“Ladies?” she sounded aghast, but her heart pounded with excitement.

He scratched his head, looking at her sheepishly. “Correct.”

“To watch men brawl?”

He nodded.

“And how many times have you done this?” Then she corrected herself. “With ladies, I mean. Not that it’s any of my concern, mind you. I’m simply curious what kind of ladies would follow a man to watch fisticuffs.”

He wet his lips. “Well, Goose, you are right now. So, I’d say that’s at least one.” He ducked his head when she struck his knee, which wasn’t untoward if you considered that she’d have done the same had she been holding a fan. He looked gratifyingly uneasy.

She smiled at his discomfort, which gave her courage. “Are you at all curious about my analysis of yesterday’s kiss?”

He looked up under his lashes, his hazel eyes dancing and the shadow of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

She braced her elbows on her knees, propping her chin on her hand. Not quite as vulgar as a man, she did keep her legs together. “Not Casanova.”

“No?” he asked mockingly but with genuine surprise. “Well, damn it all.”

She chuckled, feeling a good measure of joy because what she thought would be an embarrassing conversation had been completely turned into a teasing normality. And, in truth, he sounded disappointed. This also gave her courage. “Mr. Rochester.”

He looked up, chewing his lip thoughtfully, and sighed.

“It was better than Casanova. Did you ever doubt it?”

He rubbed a knuckle under his chin, watching her with amazement. “I never know what to make of you, Evelyn.”

“I should hope you never figure that out because any woman who isn’t a complicated mystery is not worth the time. I imagine.” She tilted her head, cradling her cheek.

He appraised her. “I can appreciate that. Your challenge is accepted, my lady. I shall seek to unravel the mystery.”

“Careful, it might cost you.”

“I always keep a shilling for such gambles.”

“I hope it’s not the one you already owe me.”

“We’ll see.”