Page 12 of The Spinster's Seduction(The Lover's Arch #4)
You humiliated me.
You’re selfish. You hurt me.
The words plagued Charles as he returned home, dissatisfied and frustrated.
He’d always been a selfish being. When he considered someone else’s feelings, he did so out of affection for them alone. And so few people inspired that affection, save Evelyn. Yet, even though she was one of the few people he would have walked on broken glass for, he had contrived to hurt her. And in such a way that she had cried.
He had made her cry.
He didn’t often feel like a blackguard, but she made him feel the full weight of his sins. She had wanted more from him; she had not seen his invitation as a mark of favour and a way of being together in a way that would allow for intimacy. No, she had seen it as a means to humiliate her.
His mistress . The term made his head ache.
She may have thought he’d humiliated her, but she had done an excellent job of humbling him.
Confound it all.
All he had been doing was what she had asked of him. And for this, he might have lost her, just as he was learning how much he needed her. Deeper than desire, though he had not known how much his body would crave hers—she had become integral to his survival.
And she objected to his very character. He had hurt her, and it was a knife to his own ribs. A bullet in his own damn heart.
But even now, his body called to hers in a way he could not ignore. God help him, he had ruined their friendship, possibly irrevocably, and still he could not stop thinking of her. His body throbbed for her. Only her—another woman could not sate him.
He cursed to himself as he passed the threshold of his house, handing off his gloves and hat to a servant and moving straight to his study, where, if he was frank, very little work usually took place. His life was one of dissipation. Drinking too heavily, regretting it at dawn, then doing it all over again. He knew his vices: he gambled too recklessly, rode too fast, tired of his employments too quickly. The only constant in his life was Evelyn. Had been Evelyn.
He sat on the large leather chair behind his desk and closed his eyes. There was nothing he would not do for her. And yet . . .
He had made her cry .
Frustrated, angry at himself, he drew the nearest paper towards him and glanced over it, then seeing it was a bill, thrust it aside once more. He loathed this restless, gnawing hunger. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw heartbreak in her eyes. He saw her naked before him, legs parted, breathless with desire.
Cursing once again, he unbuttoned his falls. After sating this most base of needs, he would address himself to the matter of his life—what he was making of it, and what he had already ruined. But for that, he would need clarity.
At the first stroke, his head fell back against the chair. All the desire he had poured into Evelyn now fuelled him, and with the memories of her lingering in his mind, it took very little time to bring him to the brink.
If only they had not been interrupted. If only he had been able to sink inside her, to know how she felt around him. If only he’d kissed away her moans and brought about another peak of bliss.
His breath caught, hips jerking. His hand pumped faster .
She had been perfect, and he had dreamt of her for so long. Out of respect, he had never let himself imagine her when he took himself in hand before—but now he needed imagine nothing. He knew her. The way she looked beneath him. The way she sounded. The way she had offered herself to him with such innocent, breathtaking enthusiasm.
They were no longer just friends.
If only he had made her his. If only he had told her how long he’d wanted that. Wanted her .
Perhaps he had always loved her the way he had as a boy. A malady forgotten but never treated, now resurging with a vengeance. The reason he had never married was not because he disliked the prospect, but because he disliked the prospect with any other lady. He had been waiting for her—not by design, but by instinct.
He ought to have told her.
His climax came upon him too suddenly, and he almost missed the handkerchief he had snatched up for the purpose. He shuddered, a low moan escaping his lips as he expelled himself in the waiting material.
For a long moment, he sat motionless, pleasure spilling down his limbs as he panted.
He loved Evelyn Davenport.
No, not just loved—he was in love with her. Wildly. Desperately. Beyond all reason. The thought of living without her was insupportable. His happiness, what little of it there was in this world, entirely depended on her. He’d known it for years, but now it struck him with devastating clarity.
He, who had never allowed himself to believe that marrying for love was the act of a rational man, would have sacrificed his estates, his title, his every earthly pleasure in an instant so long as he could live out the rest of his days with her.
What the hell was he going to do?
With the intention of seeing his mother to discuss how best to cancel the prospective engagement, Charles called at Norfolk House the next morning. Unfortunately, he was not the only caller, and when he entered the drawing room, he was confronted with the sight of Lady Rosamund and her mother.
“Ah,” he said, halting in the doorway.
His mother sent him a quelling glance, as though she sensed his urge to flee. “Charles, I’m so glad you’re here. Were you hoping to speak with your father? I believe he has gone to one of his clubs, but he will be back presently, I’m sure.”
No doubt the duke had left the moment the Countess of Lavenham, Rosamund’s mother, had arrived. Polite as he was, he had no patience for fuss and fancies, and Lady Lavenham possessed little else.
Charles wished he could make a similar escape, but that would be impossible.
“Ladies,” he said, bowing. “I had not expected to find you here.”
Lady Lavenham fluttered her fan, an unnecessary gesture in the cool air of the room. A hearty fire burned in the grate, but it did little to combat the chill from outside. “Oh dear me,” she said, “as though it is so unexpected to find us visiting soon-to-be family.”
Lady Rosamund’s smile didn’t falter, but she glanced at her mother in what Charles suspected was a silent rebuke. “We thought we should call to discuss next week’s arrangements,” she said smoothly.
Good God. The house party. All the arrangements were in place, and the design of the thing was for him to propose. Ghastly idea—and that had been his thoughts before he knew he wanted to propose to another lady entirely.
He chose a seat at a safe distance. “Of course,” he said. “I should have expected as much. Naturally.”
His mother’s eyes narrowed in warning. “Charles.”
You are selfish. And you hurt me.
He had no choice .
“Lady Rosamund,” he said. “Would you take a turn about the room with me?”
She turned her gaze to his, and he thought he caught a flicker of apprehension before she rose. “Of course.”
She accepted his arm, and he drew her to the window, far from the listening ears of their respective mothers. This was the closest thing to privacy one could get with a young lady.
He thought again of Evelyn leading him into her bedchamber, unsure yet certain all at once. Perhaps she did not know what she was doing, but that had not changed what she wanted . At the time, he had not fully recognised the privilege for what it was.
He turned to face the young lady at his side. She was, to every trained eye, beautiful. She was also young enough to be his daughter. The prospect of marrying her—being intimate with her—filled him with quiet horror.
“I feel as though I ought to be plain with you,” he said. “I’ve allowed things to progress too far and for too long, and for that I’m sorry. But neither of us had a hand in our courtship, aside from to agree with it, and I expect you wish to marry me as much as I wish to marry you. Which,” he added, “is not at all.”
Two arched brows rose. “I see you were not mincing your words when you said you would be plain,” she said dryly.
Perhaps that had something to do with Evelyn—her dislike of circumvention had taught him to speak his mind. That bled into every aspect of his life. Even when she wasn’t there, she steered his behaviour with an unerring hand.
“I have discovered that it is better to be upfront with one’s meaning,” he said.
“You have no desire to marry me?”
“I do not. Do not think it a reflection on you,” he added at her expression of consternation. “You would make another man—a younger man—a very fine wife. If I may, I think you are a trifle young for me.”
“I am twenty.”
“And I am nearly forty. ”
“I see,” she said, tapping her closed fan against her bottom lip.
“I would not make you a good husband, Lady Rosamund. Whatever my intentions, you would be unhappy.”
She fixed him with a piercing gaze. “I know you are in love with Miss Davenport.”
Shock made him cough. “Excuse me?”
“I always suspected it after seeing you together.” She ran a slim finger along the feathered edge of her fan. “Half the ton does, I imagine, but you never offered for her, and when my mother approached yours about a prospective match, you agreed.”
He had, more fool him. His mother had argued that duty demanded he wed and sire heirs before too much more time passed, and he had bowed to pressure and expectation. He, who scoffed at the notion of marrying for love—who had unknowingly loved Evelyn his entire life.
Ah irony, cruel mistress.
“I did not know then where my affections lay,” he said, and Lady Rosamund’s brows creased.
“You were unaware when your every action displayed it?”
“And you would be content to build a life with me under these circumstances?” He shook his head. “You deserve better than that. Yes, one day you would have been a duchess, but at what cost?”
She looked at the window, crusted with melted ice. “And so you are here to ask me to relinquish my claim on you?”
In reply, he took her hand and kissed it with as much grace as he could muster. “Regardless of your actions, I will not be proposing,” he said. “But given my attentions have been marked, I know this will prove… an item of gossip for a while. I’m sorry for that. If there’s anything I can do to ease the sting, let me know. Say you threw me over—that I was too old, too licentious, too scandalous for your liking. Say whatever would set your heart at peace.”
She withdrew her hand from his. “I am not the lady you think I am if you believe I would need to blacken your character for my peace of mind. Let the gossips say what they will.” She hesitated. “But I do have one request. ”
“Anything.” At her cocked brow, he added, “Within reason, and within my power to grant.”
“My mother is . . . keen for me to marry a gentleman of high social standing. A duke is the obvious solution, of course, but she would settle with a marquess or earl.”
At ‘settle’, Charles’s lips twitched. He had long known that his only draw was his title, but it amused him to hear it stated so plainly. “And so you hope I might find you a substitute?”
“Do you know of any young gentlemen who might be amenable to a match?” She did not put an emphasis on young , but he heard it nonetheless.
“My cousin, Richard Barrington, is set to become the Marquess of Sunderland,” he said. “I know he is of an age to require a wife—he is thirty now—and while he is not perhaps as young as you might hope—”
She raised a brow. “The Earl of Mallen?”
“Precisely.”
“He would do, if he could be convinced.”
“My lady,” Charles said gallantly, “your charms would be enough to melt the hardest of hearts.”
“Save yours, of course.” A smile slipped free, different from the insipid ones she had given around her mother. Perhaps she was not as bad as he’d imagined—and perhaps his cousin would deal admirably with her, after all.
“Save mine,” he agreed. “I shall speak to my father and see if I can recommend a connection. I expect Mallen will be amenable. He has no existing affections that I know of.”
“Thank you.” Lady Rosamund studied him, curiosity plain on her face. “I have a question, Lord Rotherham. Now you are free to propose to Miss Davenport, will you do so?”
“Yes.”
“And will she accept?”
“That,” he said dryly, “I am yet to discover.”