Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

Why, oh why had she agreed to this wretched outing?

Under her breath, Evangeline cursed herself, the Fates, and anything else she could, as she sipped sickeningly warm ratafia and watched Viola flirt with Lord Huntington across the room.

Surely, it was culpability that had brought her here.

The thought of the upcoming season in London might turn Evangeline's stomach, but she could put up with a harmless country assembly or two if it would make her sister happy. And Viola certainly looked happy. Even among the group of local gentry in Chichester, she stood out like a fresh flower in a barren field.

Evangeline's own gown itched abysmally at the neckline—or that could be from Beasty Buttercup's fur—she'd stopped at the shelter to check on the kittens before directing her coachman to the local civic ballroom at the town hall. Reaching up a discreet finger, she scratched at the offending spot, not that anyone would see. She was currently ensconced behind the biggest potted fern she could find and intended to stay there as long as she could.

"Goodness, Effie, hiding already?"

"Gah!" She nearly screeched at the voice in her ear, her heart stampeding like a herd of elephants. "Vesper, you scared the spit out of me! And I'm not hiding . I'm simply saving people from bleeding out willy-nilly from the blunt hammer of my tongue. It's rather altruistic of me to stay out of the way, I'd say. You know how terrified of me they all are."

"They are not ," her friend said, plopping down in the chair beside her in a sea of aqua tulle. The color was shockingly bright, but it complemented Vesper's blond hair and rosy complexion. Unfortunately for Evangeline, it was very eye-catching, and she loved her clever, quiet little nook. With any luck, she'd have only an hour or two to go before Viola had had her fill of dancing and flirting.

"Lady Harriet ran the other way when she saw me arrive," Evangeline said dryly. "And Lord Filbert paled to the color of ash when I complimented his cravat. Conversation withers when I appear. Ladies shudder and gentlemen gird their loins."

Vesper rolled her eyes. "You are being histrionic on purpose. No one girds anything."

"They should." She grinned and waggled her fingers. "I'll cast my devious spell over them all and make them dance until their naughty bits fall off."

Her friend snorted. "I think you secretly love this dreadful reputation you've constructed, Effie dear. If they truly knew you as I do, they might not be so unfriendly. You have to let people in sometime."

"Why? I have you, the girls, and William as well, and Viola, too, when she's not being a brat. That's quite enough people for me."

"You can't wed any of us," she pointed out and then thought for a moment. "Well, you could marry Mr. Dawson."

"Bite your tongue. That would be like marrying my brother. And besides, he's quite besotted with Viola, and you know I don't intend to wed." She gnawed on her lower lip, a latent shiver chasing down her spine at the memory of hard muscles and a warm mountain hearth scent that made her mouth water. "However, of late, I've decided I might be convinced to procure a lover to discover the, er, ins and outs of copulation."

Vesper knew her well enough not to take that bait, though her cheeks pinkened and she let out a choked cough. She clearly knew what copulation entailed, being married herself, but the normally flippant and vociferous Vesper had been surprisingly closemouthed on the details of her marriage with her studious paleontologist duke.

Not that Evangeline blamed her… some things were too private to share. That didn't mean she hadn't gone scouring the library on her own, however, and devoured a rather enlightening handful of wicked novels on the subject, including several erotic vignettes by their resident expert on the subject herself, Briar. Her friend's short stories had been eye-opening to say the least, but Evangeline had never had any actual interest in sexual congress.

At least not until…

She put that thought right where it belonged. Her designs on a lover had emphatically, categorically, unequivocally nothing to do with him .

"I didn't expect to see you here," Vesper said, thankfully changing the subject and steering Evangeline away from any more forceful adverbs to the contrary. "You abhor these things."

Evangeline's mouth quirked with an unwelcome burst of conscience, considering Vesper's own request for her birthday ball in London. "Viola does not, and she shouldn't have to suffer my failings."

" Failings? " her loyal friend shot back. "What that man did to you, that entire set of toad-faced ratbags, was unconscionable. They tormented you, Effie, for no reason at all but for sport. They are responsible for their behavior, not you."

Vesper's impassioned speech drew her attention, and Evangeline noticed her friend's deeply flushed cheeks and overbright eyes. "Heavens, Your Disgrace, are you in your cups?"

The duchess gave an unrepentant grin and tapped her reticule. "In the flask is more apropos."

"What's in there?" Evangeline asked with interest.

Vesper removed a small silver receptacle. "I stole it from Jasper's study. Want a sip? I bet it beats that sad swill you're drinking."

Under cover of the dense fern, Evangeline accepted the palm-sized flask and took a bracing sip, eyes smarting as the Earl of Lushing's potent and clearly expensive brandy nearly went down the wrong way. Instant heat bloomed in the back of her throat and into her belly. She wasn't much of a drinker, apart from the occasional glass of champagne or revolting ratafia, but a little liquid courage never hurt anyone.

"That is potent," she gasped after another bracing sip, handing the flask back to Vesper.

"My brother always has the good stuff."

They stared at the dancers getting ready for a polka, including her sister and Huntington, and Evangeline wrinkled her nose. "Where's Greydon?"

"He's off talking to Jasper and Vale."

The duke was here? Evangeline felt her heart kick up a notch within her breast. Or perhaps that was the heady effect of the very excellent brandy. Hunching down, she swallowed past the expanding knot in her throat, her eyes scanning the dancers, looking for that distinctive head of copper-bronzed hair. Notwithstanding hair color, he would stand out by virtue of his size alone. The man was a mountain whom kittens liked to climb.

A grin broke over her lips.

"What is that smile for, or better yet, whom is it for?" Vesper demanded, perceptive blue eyes widening and then narrowing. "Wait one deuced minute. Is that for Vale ? Effie Raine, you sneaky little minx, you fancy him! I knew there was a moment between the two of you at the shelter!"

"Keep your voice down," she hissed back. "And no, I don't fancy the duke at all. He's brash and unpolished and takes far too many liberties."

Vesper's eyes nearly fell out of her head. " Liberties? Do tell."

"There's nothing to tell. Forget I said anything."

But her friend was like a hungry dog with a bone. "Don't think you can lie to me, you scamp. I know every tic and tell of yours, and right now, you won't even look me in the eye and your nostrils are flaring like a bull about to hunt down a red rag."

Evangeline snickered. "They are not."

"Are too. Like a lady bull about to go full tilt."

"There are no such things as lady bulls."

Vesper sniffed. "Then there should be."

"Right, those would be called cows," Evangeline replied wryly.

The polka was now in full swing, and she couldn't help the fond smile at the sight of her sister's glowing countenance as she swirled in front of them with a new partner who wasn't Huntington, thank goodness, and completed the deft turns and complicated patterns. Despite her troublesome interest in the man, Viola deserved a season. Evangeline just wished their father hadn't put the burden on her to attend.

Being at peace with a hurtful event didn't diminish the memory of it.

Evangeline could not help her unusual looks or the fact that she often spoke without thinking. When she had an opinion of worth, she gave it. It was a side effect of learning, she supposed. All that knowledge had to go somewhere. A beat of warmth pulsed through her as she recalled the unguarded admiration on Vale's face as her father had spoken of her aqueduct design. He hadn't acted as though she were some kind of repulsive anomaly for using the brain she was born with.

Honestly, the design wasn't a stretch of ingenuity. She'd simply recommended a canal system that others had already been using for centuries in other parts of the world like India. England wasn't a monolith, even though it acted like it. Still, the duke hadn't looked at her as though she were an abomination for having a mind of her own. Unlike Huntington and his awful set, who had ridiculed her for daring to voice an opinion.

Evangeline scowled at the gentleman in question, who was watching her little sister from the periphery like a hungry hawk on the hunt. She grimaced. Evangeline truly hoped that Viola's infatuation was fleeting. Suddenly, the notion of shepherding her sister away from Huntington sank in, and Evangeline tapped her chin with her fan. There might be some merit to going to London, after all, where handsome, eligible gentlemen would be available in droves, and Huntington would be besieged by rivals. That vision alone buoyed Evangeline's spirits.

"Viola looks so happy, doesn't she?"

Her friend made a disagreeable noise in her throat. "Too bad she has her sights set on such a colossal dandyprat of a man."

Evangeline snickered. "You're not wrong about Lord Cuntington."

Vesper burst into raucous giggles at Evangeline's inventive nickname for the cad. "Doesn't your veterinarian friend have a tendre for her?"

"Yes, and Viola's oblivious. She wants more than what he can offer." Evangeline shook her head. "Whatever that means."

Vesper sipped from her flask again. "What's wrong with wanting more? You did once. You dreamed of finding someone whom you could spend the rest of your life with."

"That was different." Evangeline's brow pleated. "I was… young and idealistic."

"And she is, too."

Guilt rushed through her anew. The season didn't seem so insurmountable when the alternative of Viola ending up with Huntington was so much worse.

The duchess straightened suddenly, patting her cheeks and smoothing her impeccable coiffure. Evangeline followed Vesper's stare to the gentleman who had claimed her friend's attention with a single crook of his finger and a smirk. Vesper blushed and primped some more.

"It appears that Greydon is summoning me. Do I look foxed?"

Evangeline begrudged Vesper those thick, glossy blond ringlets that would stay put in a hurricane. Her own hair was like gossamer spiderwebs that would hinder any attempt to pin it down. Right now, she was certain there were flyaway wisps all around her face and nape, and she hadn't moved since she'd arrived. "No, you look lovely as always."

When Vesper left to join her handsome husband in a Viennese waltz, Evangeline felt a sharp pulse of envy. Not the ugly kind, the wistful kind. She'd long resigned herself to being unwed and alone, but seeing her dearest friend so blissfully happy made her feel like something was missing in her own life. Esteem. Affection. Love. All those things she'd once craved, to Vesper's point. Then again, she supposed that was what kittens and puppies were for.

They loved unconditionally.

The lump in her throat swelled, and she almost wished for another bracing nip of Vesper's brandy. Or perhaps that was what was making her more dispirited than usual. Liquor had a way of doing that—lifting you up and then hurtling you down when you least expected it.

Evangeline gnawed her lip, peering around the fronds to the clock on the far wall. Midnight. Perhaps she could leave. Viola would get home safely. This was Chichester, after all, and not London. But as she watched her sister in the current embrace of Lord Huntington, her spine prickled. She could never leave her sister alone… not with a man like him. Vesper was right—he was arguably worse than a turd—but her sister was headstrong. Telling Viola she could not have something because it was rotten to the core would only make her want it more.

Perhaps she could endure another hour… for Viola's sake.

At least she was safe behind her fern.

But then the fragrance of warm hearths filled her nostrils, and she knew who had breached her haven even before she turned. Only the Duke of Vale smelled like a combination of her favorite things—fresh, crisp air after a rainstorm, a blazing fire in the grate, and the faintest scent of dark melted chocolate. Her chest squeezed, pulse hammering and lungs tightening, a sense of raw awareness skimming over her skin.

A rolling burr layered with gravel skated over her. "Dance with me, Evangeline."

Gage had watched her hiding out behind that fern like an otherworldly, mystical nymph. He had sought her out instantly, as if he were a planet bound to her sun, lost to her gravity, and when he'd finally seen her, something inside of him had settled into place. He'd arrived late after an issue with his tenants and their flooded wheat crops, but the minute he'd set foot inside the ballroom, he'd sensed that she was there. His skin had tightened, and his nerves had leaped with awareness.

It was curious. And alarming.

In the past handful of days, Gage had longed for a sight of her, found himself riding past her shelter home, hoping for a glimpse of that shining hair and incandescent smile with an armful of cats, dogs, or ravens, or whichever stray she'd rescued that day. He was fast becoming obsessed.

It's for the agreement , he'd told himself.

Earlier, he had pretended to listen to what the Duke of Greydon and Lushing had been saying, but he'd been distracted, wondering what she had been thinking or saying to the Duchess of Greydon. And now here he was unable to resist asking her to dance… and using her given name like a boor. But the desire to seek her out had been like an insistent beat in his head, humming in tune with his own heartbeat, driving him toward her like a beating drum.

Ice-blue eyes lifted to his, a wash of color spreading across her pale cheeks. That slender throat of hers worked, showing that she was not as serene as she'd appeared from afar. A smile curved one side of his lips as he noticed the tuft of orange fluff caught in the modest neckline of her bosom. Buttercup, that sneaky little fiend, had been tucked there against her pearlescent skin.

Gage's blood ran hot.

Was it possible to be jealous of a kitten?

"Pardon me," he rasped, and lowered his hand to pluck at the unruly bit of fuzz.

Her breath hitched when his gloved knuckles grazed the plump flesh at the edge of her bodice, more rosy color painting her collarbones and décolletage. Gage marveled at whether the berry hue quickly spreading over her porcelain skin would be the same color as her nipples. Would they be taut beneath her dress? How would they taste? His mouth flooded with water even as the soft scent of lilies with a hint of spice curled into his nostrils.

"Oh," she whispered, and Gage realized with dismay that he'd been leering at her breasts like a lust-filled lecher, hand frozen in midair as though about to pluck a deliciously ripe fruit from its vine. He snatched his hand back and curled it into a fist.

With a grunt, he cleared his throat and swallowed, offering the small tuft as evidence that he wasn't a complete scoundrel. "Apologies, my lady. You had a bit of fur there."

"Beasty Buttercup," she said, pupils blowing wide, melting away the icy blue. Was that because of desire, or had she taken offense to his outrageous liberty with her person? Aware of the many people in the ballroom and the accompanying wagging tongues, Gage was grateful for the cover of the fern.

"How is Beasty?" he asked.

"Healthy. Rambunctious. Naughty in the extreme." Her lips curled. "She has already ruined three dresses, one embroidered chair, and despoiled poor Hannah's favorite shoe."

"Despoiled?"

She bit her lip, eyes alight with mirth, and his cock twitched. "Defecated in it. Hannah has threatened to toss her back into the alley and let her learn the rules of survival."

Gage chuckled. The strains of a waltz filled the room as more couples took the places of the ones leaving to refresh themselves. Greydon and his wife had disappeared from the ballroom. It didn't surprise Gage one bit. In the moments he'd been conversing with the duke, the man had hardly taken his eyes off his wife, who had been glued to her friend's side. Perhaps such possessiveness was contagious, because he had the sudden need to do the same. To whisk Evangeline away.

But that wasn't the goal here.

His only goal was to convince her to go to London.

"So will you dance, or will you cut me down with your refusal?" he asked.

A small frown pleated her brow. "You were serious?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" he countered.

The rounded slope of her shoulder lifted, drawing his eye to the elegant line of her nape. "There are many other debutants and suitable ladies in attendance, Your Grace. Dancing with someone like me will not earn you any favor. Trust me, your efforts will be better served elsewhere, lest you be unfairly doomed with the spectral, cursed touch of Lady Ghastly."

"I don't like that designation," he said bluntly, taking her hand and placing it over his arm to lead them toward the ballroom floor. To his surprise, she let him. Gage already knew that Lady Evangeline was not one easily led. His pride thrilled at the concession. "Please don't call yourself that again."

A startled gaze met his, a deprecating smile crossing her lips as though she did not believe he meant it. "Does it offend your ducal honor, Your Grace?"

"It should offend any man's honor." He lowered his voice as he settled them into place. "I mean it, Lady Evangeline. Do not give power to something that mean-spirited… or it will forever haunt you. Trust me, I know about the power of painful designations."

She stared up at him with mild surprise. "You do?"

"Don't you think I know half the guests here call me the Destitute Duke behind my back?"

"How terribly unimaginative," she said in a droll tone, though something fierce glinted in her eyes. Something protective . "Lady Ghastly trumps that by a mile. I win, Your Grace."

"Is this a competition of undesirable names?" he shot back. "Duke of Empty Coffers and Lady of Winter and Ice."

A smile twitched to life. "Ah, I see you have lost the point of the game, sir. The second is neither ugly nor undesirable. You're poor and I'm plain, that's how the plot works."

"You could never be plain."

She peered at him askance, her mouth going tight as if she doubted him. The flash of stark desolation in her eyes followed by her words confirmed his suspicion. "You needn't flatter me, Your Grace. I'm already here and I will dance with you. No need to oversell it."

"Tell me you don't believe those idiots," he demanded in a low, furious voice.

"But they're right. I am ghastly and frigid and off-putting. I'm no gentleman's perfect prize, and I have long made my peace with that."

"Beauty is bought by judgment of the eye," he said. "And my judgment says otherwise."

"You're quite the proficient flirt. Do they teach you such empty flattery in the wilds of the Highlands?" Sarcasm gilded the edge of her words.

"It's not empty if it's true."

Her mouth thinned more. "Then it seems that we are a match made in hogs' heaven, aren't we, Your Grace? The spinster and the supplicant."

"I'm certain I can perform exceptionally well on my knees." Gage took immense pleasure at the look of shock rolling across her face followed by a heated spark of interest, those flattened lips parting on a silent gasp.

Blazing eyes met his, her pupils so huge, the blue was barely a ring, but she tossed her head. "If you're trying to rattle me with whatever tactics men use in a lackluster attempt at seduction, it will not work. I am immune to such nonsense."

The wild look in her eyes suggested otherwise, however.

It was obvious she was still wary of him, but Gage was sure that if he kept chipping at her defenses, he might eventually make some headway. Rome wasn't built in a day, after all.

Once the music began, Gage moved her effortlessly into the first roll and turn. He fought not to notice the slender curve of her waist, or the soft pressure of her gloved fingertips on his shoulder. It was a losing effort. After their rousing verbal sparring, Gage wanted to crush her to him… to say to hell with the requisite twelve inches of distance and feel every delectable part of her pressed against every part of him—breasts to his chest, hips hitched beneath his.

Hell.

Gage cleared his throat and focused on how poor he actually was. The reality was always sobering. "To your earlier designation, admittedly, my coffers have seen better days, but money does not define who I am."

"You are a duke, Your Grace."

He grunted. "I'm a man first."

An insightful gaze speared him, and Gage regretted saying that. She wasn't like other women, who took things at face value or pretended to listen and didn't hear a word. Evangeline paid attention and that made her quite dangerous. That hardworking brain of hers was never idle for long.

His poverty might not define him, but the lack of fortune challenged him in other ways. It allowed men like Huntington to feel they held some sort of leverage over him. To some degree, that was true. He owed payment on Asher's gambling debt. But that didn't mean Huntington had power over how he chose to see himself. At the thought of the man and his bargain, the building pressure in his groin decreased.

Thank fuck.

Something of his thoughts must have been transparent in his face, because his partner smiled brightly, her changeling eyes turning back to a more placid blue. "I hate to prick your bubble, Your Grace, I've only ever heard the name Daredevil Duke associated with the Croft name, though I cannot recall where."

Phantom pain bled through his chest. Asher had worn that mantle with pride, pushing the limits whenever and wherever he could. "That was my brother," he said. "They called him that. He ran with a fast set."

"Ah yes, that's where I saw that nickname. I read about the accident in the papers." Gentle fingers flexed on his shoulder through another twirl. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

"Thank you."

The accident. His lungs compressed as Gage's eyes searched the throng for Huntington, finding him near the refreshments table, privileged entitlement stamped all over him. His sullen stare was fastened to Lady Viola, who was dancing with another gentleman. With a start, Gage recognized the veterinarian from the shelter, William Dawson, when the couple came into view. Huntington's fists were clenched, and he looked like a child deprived of his favorite confection.

That did not bode well for the doctor.

"Your sister seems taken with Lord Huntington," he remarked.

"Yes." Her tone was resigned. "Mr. Dawson is a much better fit, but he's the third son of a viscount. Huntington is in line for a very solvent marquessate, and my sister has lofty goals of marrying well."

"Doesn't every lady?"

"The well in that is defined differently by each lady, Your Grace," she said, glaring at him as if he'd said the wrong thing. Again…

"Did I offend you, Lady Evangeline?" he asked.

She laughed deprecatingly. "No, I am continually astounded by how shallow men think women are. Some might wish for fortune, and others for titles or position. But quite a few wish for companionship and affection, though both are rare in aristocratic marriages."

"And you? What do you wish for?" he asked with genuine curiosity.

The music came to an end and she curtsied, shutters descending over her eyes. "There's only one thing I wish for, and that is my sister's happiness."

Evangeline pressed a hand to her trembling stomach as she settled onto a settee in the retiring room. Her true wish had been on the tip of her tongue: I wish for you to take me to a private room and demonstrate your skill on your knees.

It was a scandalous wish. Men could presume to be so bold with their carnal desires, but women were shamed for theirs. How would he have reacted had she told the truth? Ordered him to pleasure her? Evangeline had never felt such a liquid rush of desire, licking along her veins and incinerating everything in its path when he'd so wickedly teased her after she'd called him a supplicant. Now the word would never be associated with anything else but lust.

From. One. Dratted. Dance.

But the minute his huge palm had gripped her waist on the ballroom floor, she'd been unable to think or function. All she could imagine was that hand slipping up her ribs to her breast or down her hip and lower still. In truth, she had been desperate for more of his touch… even if she couldn't quite work out what he wanted from her. The attraction was clear, of course, and seemed quite mutual, though the duke's motives remained murky.

But by God, his physicality overwhelmed her every good sense.

She ran a hand down the column of her neck and suppressed a delicious quiver.

Despite her lack of experience, Evangeline was no stranger to pleasures of the flesh. Self-fulfilled pleasure, that was. Years ago, she'd been thoroughly educated when she'd blazed through a racy private journal written by an actual French courtesan, and more recently, thanks to Briar's secret hobby, romance novels with heroines seeking their own pleasure weren't in short supply. But Evangeline had never felt such bone-shaking need as she had during the entirety of that waltz.

She'd had to fight to keep her knees locked and her own hands from wandering the expanse of that deliciously broad chest. What would it be like to feel that huge frame of his crushing hers? Nude. A heated blush filled her already scorched cheeks, and Evangeline gratefully accepted a cooling cloth from one of the attending maids. She was surprised her skin didn't sizzle at the contact.

"Effie dearest, are you well? You look quite ill." Her sister collapsed in a heap of pink organza beside her. Even flushed and sweaty, Viola was the picture of health and beauty, while Evangeline was sure that she looked like she was overcome with fever.

"I'm fine. A bit hot."

The understatement of the century.

"It is rather warm in the ballroom," Viola said with a cheerful sigh. "I've danced every single dance. My feet are aching. I was happy to see that you came out from your fern to dance with the duke. How was it?"

"It's not my fern."

Viola giggled and poked her with an elbow. "By now, you and that fern are practically betrothed, sister dear. I do hope you haven't let it make any untoward advances. I've been told that ferns can be quite forward, touching you when you least expect it with their wandering fronds. You better hope you don't end up with little frond-haired babes."

Evangeline couldn't help it, she burst out laughing. It was good to see Viola happy. This version of her was much more preferable than the alternative. "You are quite ridiculous. And yes, I did accept His Grace's invitation to dance. It was—" Incredible. Divine. Euphoric. "Satisfactory."

" Satisfactory? Good Lord, Effie. Your fern has truly ruined you for other men." Viola gave her a long-suffering look. "A waltz should be titillating, heart-pounding, thrilling . It should make you feel like you're flying, that you're about to burst out of your skin on the next twirl."

Viola's adjectives were much better than hers. Evangeline shot her a circumspect look. "Did you feel that way with Mr. Dawson or Lord Huntington?" she asked tartly.

Viola stilled for a moment, but then rolled her eyes with a false, shrill laugh. "Why, Lord Huntington, of course. I danced with William as a favor. He looked rather lonely there by himself. Think of it as my good deed for the week. You should probably dance with him as well, Effie. Honestly, you two would make a good match. You're always together and I've seen the way he looks at you."

God above, her sister was utterly oblivious.

"With forbearance or resignation at bringing him another animal to treat for free?" she replied sardonically.

"No, silly. With fondness and a great affection."

"Because we are friends , Viola."

"Friends can make good spouses."

Evangeline huffed a laugh. "Trust me, William does not want me. His heart is well and truly owned by another, if only she'd open her pretty eyes and realize it."

Whether it was by design or not, her sister ignored her comment and rose to straighten her dress and fix the pins in her hair. She had lovely tresses, the hue a deep gold-brown, unlike Evangeline's own colorless white-blond strands. And Viola's stayed put, unlike her fairy floss. She raised a self-conscious hand to her fluffy coiffure and winced.

"Here, let me," Viola said, deftly smoothing and repinning the sides of Evangeline's flyaway hair. "Mama always used to say your hair could never hold pins or a curl. It's as slippery as corn silk. There, that's much better."

"More like spider silk," Evangeline muttered. "Thank you."

Viola fixed her own perfect curls with a deft touch and blew a kiss at her reflection before winking at Evangeline. "See? I knew you could have fun if you only gave it a chance. London will be much the same. The two of us together for a season. Wouldn't that be wonderful, Effie?"

It was rather excellent manipulation, but Evangeline wasn't immune to the sweetness of her sister's sentiments, even if they proved to be false. She'd missed two years of Viola's life… and this felt special. The onslaught of emotion only compounded her earlier thoughts of getting her sister away from Huntington before she became thoroughly distracted by the Duke of Vale. "Yes, it would be."

Viola's eyes brightened. "Then you'll go? To London?"

"The notion is growing on me," Effie admitted with a smile.

The squeal that left her sister could shatter glass as she threw her arms around Evangeline, and for a moment, she let herself savor the feel of her sister's embrace. It had been so long since Viola had hugged her or vice versa. Squabbles and petty disagreements didn't leave much room for affection, but at the end of the day, those things didn't matter.

After Viola left the retiring room with another ungodly squeal, Evangeline slouched against the velvet squabs of the settee. Well, in better news, the inconvenient bloom of arousal had finally disappeared, replaced with her usual pragmatism and common sense. The first order of business was… to avoid the object of her unfortunate and ill-fated lust. That dreadful pining was simply not on .

She was a steadfast spinster.

You're one-and-twenty, hardly on the shelf.

She had a plan for an independent future, sans husband.

But you could be a duchess. Think of the independence then.

She was an educated, self-sufficient woman with a shelter to manage.

Who could make excellent use of those hard muscles and that luscious mouth.

Her thighs shuddered as an indecent lick of heat swept between them. Sometimes, she hated her own brain. With a sigh, Evangeline lifted another damp cloth to her brow, wishing she could stick it between her legs instead. That part of her clearly needed a thorough cooling.

Maybe London wasn't such a bad idea for her as well. While she couldn't have the Duke of Vale, for obvious reasons, perhaps a suitable distraction of comparable virility would do.

There were clubs like the Earl of Lushing's Lethe, which might serve her needs. Evangeline had heard rumors of Vesper's brother's leanings when it came to the underground club that he managed—one that catered to vice in all forms.

During her second season, she and Vesper had snuck into Lethe once for an underground boxing match. It had been like attending a theater production with finely dressed aristocrats, flowing libations, and women of the demimonde dressed in scantily clad costumes mingling with the guests. Utterly shocking! But the show stealer had been the ring at its center—the complete incongruity of a boxing ring in the middle of a fashionable party. Unfortunately, she and Vesper had been caught by Lushing before they could see the actual fight, which Evangeline had been looking forward to.

But more specifically, there were also parts of the social club that catered to fulfilling the sensual desires of both their male and female membership, no holds barred. Briar had alluded to that scandalous bit of gossip a while ago, though how she knew of such a thing remained a mystery. Evangeline put it down to the fact that Briar was practically obsessed with the earl even though she swore to high heaven she wasn't. Perhaps Briar would have more insight on how Evangeline could secure an invitation to one of those parties.

A single evening of pleasure would be an excellent reward.