Page 47 of What a Lord Wants

Eve tucked her bare feet beneath her on the chaise in the studio and drew a deep but shuddering breath that did nothing to ease the sickening lump in the pit of her stomach. Her reputation had unraveled.

The church bell struck midnight as if in agreement, each strike echoing inside her hollow chest…Gone, gone, gone…All hope of being able to recover any shred of dignity among society…Gone, gone, gone…

She wrapped her arms around herself but found little comfort. Oh God, how horrible a week it had been!

Rumors had sped through society about her letters, which everyone considered far too familiar for an unmarried miss, even to the man who was courting her. And apparently, also greatly amusing, based on the way everyone had laughed at her.

Thank God no one had yet to discover that she and Burton had run off together, but enough other damage was being done to make that inconsequential to her destruction. Damage that truly pained her…like the note from Penelope Daniels that she’d received just this afternoon, in which Penelope wrote that her mother refused to let them be friends any longer. It was only a matter of time until her other friends did the same.

So she’d sneaked out of the house to the studio, to the one place that had become a haven for her. Here, she was safe, cocooned by the smells of linseed oil, varnish, and turpentine that she’d come to love, in the dim light of the single candle glowing on the worktable. Alone. Because Dom wouldn’t come here tonight, certainly not when he had other women at his disposal to entertain him. Like that beautiful woman who had been on his arm at the Hawthorne ball. A woman who most likely had no hesitations about removingherclothes to be painted. Or for other things.

She’d let herself inside with the key Dom had given her after Jacopo left for Italy, in case he was ever out when she arrived for their sessions. Proof that Dom had thought her special after all, if he was willing to trust her to come and go to the studio as she pleased. If he was willing put up with all the trouble she’d given him, all the late arrivals, all her modesty about revealing herself…

Oh, how much it hurt!

Certainly, Burton had proven himself to be a grand arse with his little stunt. He’d wanted to wound her as much as possible without giving away their elopement, and he’d succeeded. Petty vengeance for not being the heiress he’d thought her to be.

She simply ached from it, but not for herself. What pained her was that she’d let down Mariah and Robert, who had done so much to protect her. In the end, she wasn’t ruined the way they’d feared, but the damage was the same. She would never be accepted by society now. She’d forever be known as the pathetic woman who wrote such cloying love letters to Burton Williams as to be laughable. Everything her sister and father had wanted for her was now destroyed. Because she’d dared to share her heart.

But worst of all, she’d lost Dom.

No—how could she lose someone she never had? He’d seen her as nothing but a means to an end, while she…

She’d been a fool to care about him.

The sound of metal scraping in the lock jolted through her. Her eyes flew open just in time to see Dom pause in the wicket doorway, surprised to discover her there.

He stared at her for a moment through the dimly lit shadows, then slowly stepped inside the studio and shut the door behind him with a rattling clank.

“What are you doing here?” he asked quietly.

No trace of anger heated his voice, and she was glad of it. She’d come here seeking comfort, not another battle.

Waiting for her answer, he slipped out of his overcoat and tossed it onto a nearby chair, along with his beaver hat and gloves. He still wore his evening finery, right down to a white satin brocade waistcoat and trousers beneath a dark green cashmere jacket.

An uneasy juxtaposition gripped her at seeing him—the Marquess of Ellsworth in all his exquisitely tailored best, standing where a paint-stained Vincenzo should have been. For a moment, she felt as if she were staring at a stranger.

“What areyoudoing here?” she returned on a soft breath.

His mouth twisted as he reached up to unknot his cravat. “Mrs. Peterson’s musicale ended, and I wasn’t ready to go home.” He dropped the neckcloth onto the worktable and crossed to the little stove in the corner. “You should be in Mayfair with your family.”

Balancing on the balls of his feet, his cashmere jacket stretched tight across his back, he opened the little stove door and shoved in several chunks of coal. He didn’t glance at her as he started the fire, didn’t say a word. The silence grew oppressive.

“If you want me to leave,” she whispered, unable to bear the tension any longer, “I understand.”

“I don’t want you to leave.” He shut the stove door, then sat back on the floor with a heavy sigh, his forearm resting over his bent knee. “I never did.”

Finally, he turned his head to look at her. His face was unreadable in the shadows and dim light cast by the stove. But he wasn’t smiling, that much she could see. His dark hair shined like brimstone in the light, and the planes of his face hardened in the shadows until they resembled marble.

“I was hoping to run into you tonight,” he said quietly. “I thought you might have attended the musicale with the Duchess of Trent.”

“No.” There was no invitation to the musicale, and most likely no more would be forthcoming for the rest of the season. Yet even in her desolation, hope panged foolishly inside her. “You went there because of me?”

“I certainly didn’t attend for the music.” He reached inside his jacket. “I wanted to return your letters.”

He held them up, now tied in a bundle with a ribbon.

Her heart skipped. Dom had taken them from Burton, in order to give them back to her? Why? Surely he’d be happy to think she’d been punished by fate for the trouble she’d put him through, for a painting that should have been his masterpiece but that now could never be shown.