Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

E van found himself in the conservatory. It was a bad habit he had—one destined to leave him miserable.

Grace had loved the conservatory. He'd found her there often, when she'd been alive, starting when she was a small girl. She would hide from her nurses among the greenery, especially when it rained, lying on her back and watching the droplets spatter against the glass.

And he would lie with her, even though he was too old for such things, even though, as the elder brother, he should have scolded her to return to her nursemaid, or later her governess. He should have returned to his own studies, or his own pursuits, not engaged in the childish fantasy of a little girl.

He never did, though. And he never told anyone where she liked to hide.

Instead, he would lie next to her, the smell of earth and life around them, and quietly keep her company as she did her best thinking.

Now that she was dead, Evan compulsively returned to conservatories to do his own thinking—and to torture himself with his failure to protect her.

And it was torture, truly, to sit here with the knowledge that his beautiful, wonderful, vibrant sister was dead and that one of the women she'd truly trusted—a group that numbered only three, despite Grace's popularity—had become an unrepentant fortune-hunter.

And it was torture that he could not stop thinking about Lady Frances, even knowing how much his sister would have despised who she'd become.

"Oh, there you are." A low, purring voice drew him out of his miserable thoughts.

He looked up, blinking in surprise. Beatrice.

Oh, bollocks .

He had been more or less ignoring his mistress since they'd arrived at the house party the day before, botched attempt at an encounter notwithstanding. Proper affair etiquette—insofar as there was such a thing—dictated that he should have sought Beatrice before this, apologized for the missed connection the night before, arranged another liaison.

But he'd been preoccupied with Lady Frances and her schemes—something else he should lay at the woman's feet, except he could not regret his lack of attention to Beatrice.

He only regretted that she was here with him, now.

Beatrice evidently felt no such reluctance. She approached him eagerly, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing her (admittedly impressive) bosom against his chest.

"I've been looking everywhere for you, darling," she complained, jutting her lip out in an exaggerated pout that would have suited a child but was entirely unbecoming on a woman of three and thirty years. "Where have you been ?"

Evan gently disentangled her arms from his neck, taking a measured step back.

"I've been here," he said evenly. "I've seen you throughout the day."

Beatrice ignored his tacit request for space, pressing close to him again and running her hands all over his chest.

His perverse mind threw up the memory of Lady Frances' fingers against his flesh the night before, making him shivery before he hastily pushed the thought away.

Beatrice, naturally assuming that this reaction was for her sake, gave him a feline smile.

"Have you been feeling neglected, darling?" she crooned. "Well, you have nobody but yourself to blame; if you'd sought me out, like you were meant to do, I could have taken proper care of you. Instead, you've paid me hardly any attention at all. I cannot imagine what on earth you've found to be more diverting."

The pout was back at this, just a flash of it before Beatrice pressed up on her toes, clearly intending to kiss him.

Evan, driven by instinct, reared back before her lips could touch his.

Emotions flickered across Beatrice's face—rage, confusion, slyness—before she pasted on an innocent look and blinked up at him.

"Tell me, darling," she cooed. "Whatever could be wrong? Let me kiss it better."

The instinct to avoid her embrace did not ease as Evan put space between them, this time removing Beatrice's hands from his person with more obvious intent. Instead, the discomfort grew and grew until it became something very like revulsion.

What, he suddenly wondered, feeling as if he were coming out of a dream, am I even doing here?

He squared his shoulders.

"Beatrice," he said, working to keep his tone firm but not unkind. "I think we should stop seeing one another."

This time, the emotions in her visage were slower, easier to parse. The rage was more pronounced, the hurt more obviously false.

"But darling," she said, the catch in her voice unconvincing. "Why would you ever say such a thing? We get one well together, do we not?" She reached for him again, this time brazenly extending a hand towards his trousers. He took another step back, dodging. "We certainly please one another," she added, tone sly with innuendo.

It's not enough. You are not enough .

He couldn't say those words; for all that Beatrice's behavior in this moment put his teeth on edge, he was not cruel enough to speak thusly to a woman who had shared his bed.

He forced his tone into gentleness once more.

"I did enjoy our time together." This, at least, he could say honestly. "But I fear the time for enjoyment has passed. Perhaps I underestimated the effect of having your husband here, but it shows me the extent to which our connection is a liability, one I cannot overlook."

This was more like half-truth. He cared little for Southgate, and, indeed, knew Southgate cared little for his wife's engagements.

"Oh, my husband is nothing—" Beatrice scoffed, but Evan cut her off with a sharp shake of his head.

"No," he said firmly. "No. We are done here, Beatrice. I am sorry if this hurts you—" He knew it didn't, not really; there had never been an emotional connection between the pair of them. "—but I feel it best that we consider matters between us concluded. Return to your husband."

When the rage hit Beatrice this time, she did not attempt to hide it. Her face, usually pretty enough, twisted into a mask of disdain.

"I am not a toy for you to throw away, Evan Miller," she sneered. Her words were affronted, though Evan suspected that any such offense was merely for show. He didn't think he'd hurt her feelings, but rather her pride.

Still, her pride was, he supposed, worth appeasing if it avoided a scene.

"Of course not," he said, trying to force a faint smile to his face. "As I said, I enjoyed our time together. I merely feel that it is best we part."

She glared at him. "It is someone else? Have you taken another lover."

"Good Lord, no." The words burst from him, their honesty undeniable in their reflexiveness. He made himself speak evenly. "No. It's not that. You're a lovely woman, Beatrice—you know that." This briefly fractured her offended front; she preened at the praise. "But it is time for me to move on."

She stopped preening and returned to glaring but found him, evidently, sufficiently convincing.

"Fine," she snapped, raising her chin defiantly. Again, his wretched mind threw up an image of Lady Frances. Her defiance was much more compelling. Perhaps he ought to send Beatrice her way. The older woman could take acting lessons.

"Fine," Beatrice said again, apparently divining that she did not have his full attention. "But when you regret this day—when you realize that you've made a hideous mistake—do not come crawling back, do you hear me? I shan't have you!"

"Of course," Evan agreed trying—and, he assumed, failing—to look properly cowed by this threat. "Good day, Beatrice."

She did not wish him a good day in return. Instead, she spun on her heel, let out a loud hmph! and stormed out of the conservatory, leaving Evan, once more, blessedly alone with his ghosts.