Page 5 of The Spinster's Seduction(The Lover's Arch #4)

Charles tucked his hands behind his back as he strode into Norfolk House. Evelyn had sent him a note requesting him to call on her, but first, he must obey the demands of filial duty.

His mother, the Duchess of Norfolk, sat with tea and cake in the drawing room, her eyes lighting when she saw him. He had several brothers and sisters, but as they all resided elsewhere, he was the child his mother saw the most.

“You came,” she said, and kissed his cheek. “You look well.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.” He took her hand and brought it to his mouth. Although he had, at times, a fraught relationship with his father, he had always adored his mother. She stood up for him when the duke attempted to criticise his way of life. Still, he knew better than anyone that such things could not continue; he had passed the age at which youth could excuse him, and a disregard for his situation in life could no longer be attributed to immaturity.

In short, his mother no longer had the power to protect him from his father’s wrath, and he understood that in very clear terms.

“Well?” he asked as he sat. “What did you bring me here to berate me about this time?”

“Charles! I never bring you here to berate you.”

“Quite right. You bring me here so Father can do it instead.”

She pursed her lips. “Your father just wants to see you settle down and be happy. And in truth, so do I.”

“Well, I have agreed to the marriage you helped arrange, so I can only assume you are overjoyed at the prospect.” He took a bite of the fruitcake and placed his plate on the table before them both. “Tell me, how do you like my future bride?”

“My opinion is far from the only one that matters.” She pierced him with a sharp, blue-eyed glare. “What do you think of her?”

“I?”

“You are the one who will be marrying her, Charles.”

He took another bite of cake as he contemplated his answer. Over the years, he had never cultivated a liking for any of the eligible ladies that were thrust in his way. Lady Rosamund was no different. Her only redeeming feature, save for the fact his mother liked the match, was that she seemed to have no particular liking for him, either.

But what could he say? Every year, it was as though the pool of ladies grew younger. Some gentlemen preferred that, fresh and malleable, but the very idea of it made him feel like a lecher, leering over schoolgirls.

At least Lady Rosamund shared his disinterest. The difference between them was that she was prepared to do her duty in order to receive the title, and would do it with a smile on her face. And Charles could not accept his unpalatable duty with equanimity.

Yet to admit such a thing to his mother, for whom he harboured a soft spot, felt untenable.

“I have no doubt she will make a worthy duchess,” he said eventually.

“Charles.” She gripped his hand. “That was not what I was asking.”

“Why is everyone consumed with whether I am in love with my bride?” He raised a brow at her. “You know as well as I do my reasons for marriage. Why bring love into the matter?”

His mother sighed, rubbing at her temples. “For years, I’ve been hoping that you might fall in love. Is that such an unreasonable thing for a mother to wish for?”

“For my mother, yes.” He kissed her cheek. “Come now, why the melancholy? I have never aspired to a love match. ”

“Your father and I—”

“We mere mortals cannot have your luck,” he teased. “But don’t feel sorry for me. I have a charmed life, and have the liberty to be extremely selfish, which is a privilege I do not take lightly. I shall do my best to give the name of Norfolk whatever honour I can, and I promise you I shall endeavour to be happy for the rest of my days. Is there a better promise I can make you than that?”

“ Will you be happy, Charles?” his mother asked, looking at him carefully. “That isn’t a promise you can make with abandon.”

“If not happy, then I shall at least strive for content. I feel reasonably confident I will succeed.”

“And now?” she pressed. “Are you content now?”

He thought of his life, the way he had fashioned it to be. What it would become. And, oddly, his mind strayed to Evelyn, and what she might answer if he were to ask that question. She would say that she was perfectly content, and she would mean it. And although he had said as much to his mother, the idea of Evelyn being only content when she deserved the greatest happiness made his stomach turn.

“I am perfectly content, Mama,” he said, his voice clipped. “As far as I am able, at least. Many have said that I do not possess a heart.”

She frowned a little as she reached past him to pour some tea. Her once-dark hair had greyed over the years. He remembered how he had been as a boy—and wondered how many of the greys might be attributed to him. “That answer does not satisfy me,” she said.

“I’m sorry to hear it. But if you think marriage is going to guarantee me happiness, I think you will be mistaken. It is duty, no more.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “But you are not heartless.”

“I’m more tempted to believe I am,” he said wryly, and rose. “I must be going. Are you meeting with your ladies again, plotting to take over the world in your drawing rooms?”

The corner of her mouth twitched. “Not domination, precisely. Rather, women’s suffrage.”

“Heavens, then I truly must depart or you might eat me alive for the crime of being born a man. ”

“Not a crime,” she called after him. “A privilege. Remember that.”

So much of his life came from privilege. Even now, with this engagement chaining his hands, he knew he ought to feel lucky that he would be a duke, and that every mistake he had ever made had been cushioned by his father’s wealth and influence.

It was an invitation for recklessness. Selfishness. Boredom.

“Marriage should not just be about material gains,” his mother said as he left the room. “Even if you cannot love her, you should at least feel some affection for your partner in life.”

A fool’s dream. He left the house, knowing his next destination would be likely to bring him as much turmoil as that had.

The weather was especially cold, even for February, and Evelyn tucked her hands firmly in her muff as she walked beside Charles in the frigid winter air. The atmosphere between them seemed almost as chilly. He had arrived in a bad mood, and all her coaxing was not enough to prompt him from it. Even the prospect of a walk had done little to ease his scowling.

She sighed, her breath billowing white before her face, and glanced at the iron clouds overhead. A light snow had fallen overnight, casting the world in a romantically wintry hue, but wind promised snow, and being cold and wet would not be romantic.

“Perhaps we can go home,” she suggested. Better they try again another day—or perhaps the weather was a sign that she ought not to attempt it at all, and she should just accept his refusal.

To think it had come to this, that she—a lady of sense—had been tricked into putting her hopes into a collection of stone and mortar. She could hardly credit it. Perhaps she was mad. Loving Charles, in all his insolent, indolent, selfish glory, had finally compelled her to lose her mind .

The corner of his mouth twitched into a rueful smile as his gaze travelled across her face. “I’m atrocious company, aren’t I.”

“Yes, you are. And you do not even have the decency to pretend otherwise.”

A laugh barked from him. “I thought you hated all forms of dissemblance.”

“My preference is for you to enjoy my company enough to wish to converse with me.”

“I’m sorry. You deserve better company on this horribly chilly afternoon.”

“I do, don’t I?” she said, glancing up at him with a smile. “Even this walk might have been enjoyable, weather and all, if my partner had been more agreeable.”

“You are quite and justly right.” He sighed and tilted his head back to the sky. “It’s selfish of me.”

She nodded serenely. “It is.”

“Brat,” he said, pinching her fingers where they lay on his arm. “You do nothing for my ego.”

“It is important one is aware of one’s faults,” she said.

“Now who is abominable company? Young ladies ought to flatter their gentleman companions.”

“You would bore of me far too easily if I did.”

He blew the air from between his teeth and shook his head, laughing a little under his breath. “So I would. Never change, Evie. It is your character, not mine, that has allowed our friendship to endure this long, and I would not be without it.”

So he’d said before. But she refused to let his words give her hope—if anything, he would use them as reasons for why he shouldn’t seduce her, and that would be a travesty.

“What happened to put you in such a foul mood?” she asked instead.

He reached out a hand and brushed his fingers along the snow-laden leaves of a bush, looking at the melting shards of snow on his fingers with distant interest. “I visited my mother before coming here.”

“Ah, I see. ”

“I suspect you do not, my dear. After all her fuss about my marriage, she is now telling me I ought not to marry if I do not like the girl.”

“Well,” Evelyn said, frowning a little, “I think that is sensible.”

“It is not sensible. The entire ton is buzzing about our forthcoming engagement, and though I have not yet approached her father, that's more a formality at this stage. She expects a proposal; my parents expect a proposal; the whole of London expects a proposal.” He rolled his shoulders. “And the truth is, I may as well marry her as anyone. She at least knows the score.”

“Then why are you feeling so out of sorts over the subject?”

“I suppose it made me wonder something. Are you happy, Pidge?”

“Am I happy?” She laughed a little. “What a ridiculous question. Is anyone happy all the time?”

“How about some of the time?” he urged. “Or are you at least content?”

“Content.” She mulled the word over in her mind. There were many things about her life that she liked. For example, she liked how quiet it was. She had her friends—Charles and Lady Durham being the two of note—and she had her hobbies. She enjoyed music and often visited the theatre and music halls with either Charles or her father. When at home, she had her embroidery and books. Many, many books; through them, she experienced worlds she might never have access to in real life.

But she also knew her circumstances were less than ideal. When her father died, she would have but a small jointure—she would still be independent, but would have to give up many of the luxuries she currently enjoyed. Then was the matter of . . . Well, loneliness, to state it plainly. Sometimes, when she watched the world, she felt as though all her life she had been an observer. She read of love, saw her fellows fall headlong for each other, and knew she would never experience it for herself.

Mostly, she was resigned to this way of things. But sometimes she wished she could have just a little more of the world for herself before she died.

“I am content,” she said, after a long moment. “This is my life and I am doing what I can to enjoy it. And indeed there are many things to enjoy about it. Your friendship, for instance. ”

He looked at her sharply. “Have you abandoned this ridiculous notion you spoke to me about a few days ago?”

“About seduction?” She tilted her head as she recalled Lady Durham’s advice on the matter. You cannot, by any stretch of the imagination, allow him to think that you might be willing to give up on this venture if he does not honour you with his agreement. Let him think that you are willing to seek the services of someone else. A bit of jealousy would do the man good . “Should I have? Perhaps you did not wish to oblige me, but that is not to say another gentleman would not.”

His nostrils flared. “Who else would you ask?”

“I’m not yet certain. Do you have any recommendations?”

“No gentleman would ever agree to such a thing.”

“Then, I suppose, I shall have to ask someone who is a little less virtuous.”

“A little less virtuous?” He caught her elbow, turning her to face him. His necktie lay sleek against the lower skin of his neck, and his cheeks were flushed with the cold, eyes bright and hard. “Evelyn, do you know what you are saying?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she spied the archway, glistening with frost. “You are getting worked up over nothing,” she informed him, taking a step away from him. “You rejected my proposition, and my virtue is none of your concern. You are not my brother.”

He reared back as though he had been stung. “I am aware of that , Evie.”

“Then what is your objection?”

“My objection ,” he said hotly, “is that they would not treat you as you deserve to be treated.”

Evelyn stared at the ancient arch, Roman in appearance, as they approached. A slight step preceded it, and beyond lay a small garden, snow-covered and beautiful. She felt as though the world had forgotten about this place, frozen in time and all the more lovely for it. As though history could live and breathe in this place, despite all the odds.

“Where are we, anyway?” he demanded as he came up behind her. “I have never been here before.”

“Nor I. But is it not beautiful? ”

He barely cast it a glance before taking her arm. “I suppose so. But Evie, listen to me—”

She tugged free from his grasp and approached the archway. For a moment, she felt as though she was advancing through history, through time itself, as though once she emerged through the arch, she would enter a different realm. Perhaps one of the faeries, trapped to dance and drink their sweet wine forevermore. Some part of her mind knew she was being ridiculous, her over-active imagination telling tales of a world that did not exist, but she could not suppress her feeling of wonder. She placed one hand against the frost-slicked stone and stepped forward.

Too late, she saw the ice glistening below.

Her foot shot out from underneath her, and she toppled, her hand scraping helplessly across the icy rock. The sky tilted as she fell, and she might have landed hard if strong arms hadn’t grabbed her arm, hauling her around and into his chest. Evelyn collided with Charles, her world utterly topsy-turvy, a shriek caught in her throat. Her fingers curled into his lapels to steady herself, but instead of releasing her as she’d expected, his arm curled around her waist, holding her in place.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. There was nothing but the sound of their breathing and the wind against bare branches. Evelyn tipped her head back to find Charles looking down at her, his face tight and hard with shock. His gaze met hers in a blaze of heat that looked like anger—or perhaps something else

“What were you thinking?” he demanded, his temper like the rush of a pepper against her tongue. Yes, the heat in his eyes had certainly been anger. “You should have been more careful in this weather.” Yet still didn’t he let her go, holding her against the warmth of his body.

She smiled up at him, feeling as though she’d been trapped in honey, sticky and sweet. “I’m all right,” she said.

The wind picked up, and it began to snow. Large, thick flakes that dusted his hair and danced along his lips, melting instantly against the warmth of his skin.

“Charles?” she whispered, and he blinked, as though seeing her for the first time. His lips parted on an intake of breath, and she had the sudden, heady thought that she could kiss him now. That, perhaps, he might want her to. Or at the very least, he might not push her away. And if they kissed, then surely then he would agree to ravish her in all the ways she wanted.

Surely.

“Evie,” he said, throaty suddenly, and she felt already as though she was drowning, the air rushing from her body. “You have snow on your nose.” Slowly, he reached up to brush it off.

“Kiss me,” she said.

His entire body went rigid. “Excuse me?”

Oh no. Her fingers tingled, and she curled them into fists, willing away the shaking. She had already decided what she wanted, and this would be her last adventure before she settled into the second half of her life. This ought to be easy to say.

He skated his fingers along the curve of her cheekbones. “You don’t know what you’re asking of me,” he murmured.

“I think I do. I’m asking you to teach me how to kiss. Properly, not like Julian did when I was fifteen.” She wrinkled her nose. “For instance, I have heard that the use of tongues while kissing is pleasing, but my recollection of the act is very different.”

His expression darkened. “That boy has been your only kiss?”

“No one else has expressed any wish to kiss me,” she said, serene at the prospect. In all her years, she had never wanted to kiss them, either. “I’m odd, you see.”

“I do not see,” he said, tone unusually harsh, and then he brought his mouth down on hers.