Page 3 of What a Lord Wants

His head swirled with everything his maestro was saying and with what he wanted most from his life. He couldn’t find the resolve to argue.

Giuseppe reached for a second glass, filled it with the last of the wine, and held it out to Dom in challenge. “Which has your heart, Domenico? Your art, or a woman?”

Chapter 1

June 1823

Mayfair, London

“Wait here.” Evelyn Winslow peered out the carriage window. “I’ll only be a moment.”

“We’re already running late for the breakfast,” Penelope Daniels protested as she followed Eve’s gaze, then made a soft sound of awestruck appreciation at the sight of Mercer House.

London home to Dominick Mercer, Marquess of Ellsworth, the townhouse fronted seven bays on Park Lane, with a grand north wing stretching behind toward a private mews and what was rumored to have been one of the city’s finest gardens. No one had seen the gardens nor the house’s grand reception rooms since he inherited two years ago when his brother Timothy passed away. Everything about the house was private. The marquess rarely accepted visitors, and heneverhosted any sort of party.

Oh, it wasn’t that Ellsworth was a recluse. Not really. He attended sessions in the Lords…occasionally. And he attended society soirees…sometimes. If he wasn’t all that social, it was only because he’d lived in Italy until two years ago and was simply selective about the events he attended. So selective, in fact, that even now at the height of the season Eve couldn’t remember seeing the man at any of the events she’d been fortunate enough to attend as the guest of the dowager Duchess of Trent. Not once.

All right. Perhaps the manwasa bit of a recluse. But today was her day to finally meet his Most Elusive Lordship.

“Everyone arrives late for breakfasts,” Eve reminded her. “It will only take a minute.”

Penelope pouted. “Why is this so important that it can’t wait untilafterthe breakfast?”

“Because I have to collect Mariah and Robert’s wedding gift. The marquess is giving them a painting.”

Penelope screwed up her nose. “That’s an odd gift for a wedding.”

“It’s quite valuable, actually, and from his personal collection. The late marquess and Robert’s father were close friends. Besides,” she added with chagrin, “I promised the duchess I would collect it for her this afternoon.”

Elizabeth Carlisle had been overwhelmed this summer with planning Mariah and Robert’s rushed wedding, celebrating the birth of one grandchild, and expecting the birth of another by fall. So Eve had offered to help ease her load by fetching the painting herself, which was too valuable to trust to porters.

Truth be told, she’d also been desperate to experience any sort of adventure, even one this small.

After all, she’d only recently been allowed to leave Papa’s townhouse on her own for outings like today’s breakfast with Penelope or for the charity work she did each week. Since they’d all returned from Scotland nearly two months ago, Mariah had kept a close eye on her, until her sister became too busy with the family’s shipping business to insist on accompanying her everywhere she went.

Lately, Evelyn had begun to feel like a prisoner in her own skin. Her every move was watched, as if society was holding its collective breath while it simply waited for her to misstep and ruin herself. This time for good.

Even today, she would have to be on her best behavior at Lady Bertram’s breakfast instead of being her true self.

It was all for her own good, she knew that. But why did her own good have to be so blasted boring? Oh, what she wouldn’t give for just one afternoon’s escape from perfect propriety!

But that was the price a lady paid, Mariah kept reminding her, for running away with a man.

“I’ll be right back!” Seizing whatever fleeting freedom she could grab, Eve flung open the carriage door and dashed to the ground before Penelope could stop her, before the tiger had even put down the step.

She hurried onto the imposing portico that was meant to resemble an ancient Greek temple and reached for the brass knocker.

The wide door flew open. Two men carrying a large painting wrapped in brown paper and twine nearly trod over her. She jumped out of the way, only to end up right in the path of a brawny man carrying out an elaborately carved chair hoisted onto his shoulder.

“Watch out!” Another man called out to her as two more sets of porters joined the parade in carrying out more covered paintings and a gold brocade settee with feet carved into paws.

She sidestepped out of the way to move out of the way, but the corner of the settee nipped her in the shoulder. She staggered backward a step, off-balance. Tripping over her own feet, she fell off the edge of the low portico and tumbled ingloriously to the ground. She landed on her bottom with a jarring thud.

Oh bother! Dirt and mud marred her cornflower-blue dress, and her poor bonnet—thathad fallen off her head and been crushed beneath one of the men’s boots. One of her favorites hats, ruined.

Her shoulders sagged as she snatched it off the ground. Even when she tried her best to be proper, fate schemed against her.

Wiping away the dirt clinging to the back of her skirt—and failing, which meant that Penelope would be even more aggravated with her for making them even later to the breakfast because she now had to return home to change—she slipped through the front door between exiting porters.