Page 51 of To Dare the Devil

“Tell me then,” Burt said, patient as ever.

And so he did.

Starting with Grace.

19th June 1842, Fort William, The Highlands, Scotland.

“I hope you’re not coming down with something.” Mama fretted as the carriage took them back to their hotel. “You still looked flushed, though you don’t seem to have a fever.”

“I’m sure it’s just a headache, Mama,” Evie assured her, avoiding her gaze and that of Muir, who was watching her with concern. “I just want to lie down in a dark room.”

For a very long time, she added to herself. She was still shaking. Her body was vibrating with shock and… and she was not certain what else. Liar. Oh dear. She did have a fever, and she knew who was to blame. Louis César. The place between her thighs throbbed uncomfortably and his touch still burned her skin, all the places where his mouth had been. Her hand went to her breast and covered the spot where he’d… heavens, what had he done? She’d felt the pull on her skin, a powerful sensation that had been as much pleasure as pain. Had he bitten her? It had not felt quite like a bite, but she did not know, had not dared look, but she felt his mark upon her like a brand, like ownership. Helpless delight and fear rippled through her at the thought, and she did not know which was the right one to heed.

When she had seen him standing there, in that narrow backstreet, she had thought she was dreaming. She had dreamt of him. When it had dawned on her he was real, she had felt nothing but a jolt of pure happiness and then… relief. It was like exhaling after weeks and weeks of holding her breath or living under a thick pall of cloud and suddenly seeing the sun come out. She knew then, in that moment, as she had never really understood before, the effect he had on others. She had loved him as her friend first, had not seen his beauty as others had seen it, for she’d been too young to be interested in him as a man. Not now, though. Oh, not now. Now she saw, and she understood, and she recognised the power he could wield over her with a tremor of fear.

As soon as they arrived back at their hotel, Evie made her excuses, dismissed her maid, and stood in the quiet of her room, breathing hard. Had all that really happened? Had he really been here, in Scotland? Had he come all this way, just for the chance of seeing her?

Evie moved to the full-length looking glass and stared at herself. She touched a finger to her lips and shivered. They felt sensitive still, and she remembered his teeth nipping at her, his tongue caressing. Heat surged through her, and the insistent throb he’d provoked between her thighs had not ceased with leaving him. It had followed her home and now became louder again, echoing her heartbeat, as if calling for him to come and finish what he’d begun. With trembling fingers, she undid the buttons on her gown, drawing the material aside to reveal the swell of her breast. A small but definite red oval marked her skin, and a jolt of possessive pleasure surged through her. She touched a finger to it, her breath hitching as she remembered his mouth upon her, the feel of his powerful, hard body against hers, his arousal pressed so intimately against her sex as his hands explored her. The dizzyingly expensive scent of him had intoxicated her mind until she had thought she would go mad with wanting him, needing him closer, needing more of him. She could smell him still, the heady, masculine scent of him lingering on her clothes and she breathed it in, giddy all over again. Her body had come alive in his arms, had demanded wicked things she had never realised she wanted. She was not ignorant of what happened between men and women, her mama had seen to that, but never had she understood the lengths people went to, the terrible risks they took to be with the one they desired. The words of poets and writers who described the madness and pain of wanting and needing and longing had never really made any sense to her. Evie understood them now.

She had wanted him beyond sanity, needed him to rid her of the hollow feeling that clamoured for him, for his body to fill hers, to take her and use her however he wished, so long as he made her his. She had been mad with it, out of control, willing to give him whatever he wanted because she wanted it too. He could have lifted her skirts and had her against the wall, and she’d not have stopped him, and that… that was terrifying.

Lord, but he was dangerous.

This… This was why his mistresses looked so smug, so pleased with themselves, why they were so eager to proclaim their place in his bed. This was why her father had packed the family up overnight and taken them away to Scotland. Now, finally, Evie understood his concern for her. Louis had warned her repeatedly what kind of man he was, but she’d not really heeded him, because he was safe, her Louis, her friend, but that wasn’t true. Not anymore, at least. Good heavens, she had once been naked in the same room as him at Beverwyck when he had helped her with that awful dress, and she had never realised the danger she courted, though he had warned her. She’d realised it gradually over the months since, had sensed the change in him, the way he looked at her, touched her. The increasingly lavish gifts he gave ought to have been warning enough, never mind the things he had tried to say, and she had refused to let him, refused to hear him.

Why, though? Why her? Of all the women he could choose, why her? Because you were the only one he could not have, you’re a novelty, whispered a spiteful voice in her head. But people grew tired of novelty. Novelty became dull in short order, and what then? Louis had loved no one in his life, save his brother and Aggie, and that was different. He’d never cared romantically for anyone. He left his mistresses without a backward glance and with his heart entirely untouched. And would his wife have to endure that constant parade of lovers?

He cares for you, she told herself, knowing it was true. Louis loved her, she could not fail to see that, but how did he love her? As a friend, as the woman who would be his wife, the mother of his children? And if so, how long would it last? If she put herself in his keeping, how long before he grew tired of her? He had never lied to her, and in this she trusted him still. She could not believe he would take a mistress behind her back, but would that mean he would tell the truth, that she wasn’t enough for him, when he realised he’d made a mistake? Or would he simply endure and pretend he loved her still, all the while regretting his decision and resenting her?

No, they were friends, they would always be friends, but Louis was dangerous in ways she’d never truly contemplated. If she loved him, her life would be one of turmoil, for she could not imagine him sitting at home by the fireside with her and a parcel of children, and that was what she had always wanted. Safety, security, a loving home. She had never wanted adventure or excitement, but Louis would bring her that with his secrets and his dark past and all the things she did not know about him. She knew he was a good man, and he had told her she knew him better than anyone save his brother, but she did not know about his life before she’d met him other than that parts of it had been dark and he carried the shadows of it still.

She closed her eyes, wishing she could will away the desire thrumming under her skin, because she could not deny that she wanted him, or that she loved him as her dearest friend, but she was not at all certain she wanted the life he would offer her. Oh, dear. Whatever was she to do?

19th June 1842, Covent Garden. Parish of St Giles.

The words were bitter and so vile, Max wondered if even good-hearted Burt could forgive him, once he knew it all. Well, he was burning bridges left and right today, he may as well set light to the last one and be done with it.

“There was a girl. A beautiful girl. Innocent and utterly besotted with me. She used to trail after me like a lovelorn puppy. It was amusing, at the time, to let her think I felt the same way. To see her eyes light up when she saw me. She was so naïve she hid nothing of her feelings.” He shook his head, disgusted with himself. “I knew better than to dally with a proper young lady. Even I, as wild as I was, knew that much, but she was kind and she made me feel like I was worth something. I never meant for it to be more than that, Burt. I swear that much is true. It was just a game, a cruel one, but one that would have bruised her heart, nothing more.”

“Right,” Burt said, nodding gravely. He looked unhappy, but Max thought he believed him, though the Lord knew why.

Max ran a hand through his hair, trying to marshal his thoughts. “My mother was never a strong woman. She always fancied herself unwell, and she suffered with her nerves. After father died, she worried that when I came of age, I would mismanage the estate, that we would be left in penury.” He laughed at that, and Burt’s mouth quirked. “She did not know what that meant, of course. Her idea of being poor would have been having to make do with buying one diamond necklace instead of three.”

“It’s a tough life,” Burt said with a sigh, his eyes twinkling, but no trace of malice or disgust.

For a moment, Max felt it on his behalf, for the mother who was so damned frivolous and self-centred, but she had known no better either and he had learned to pity her too.

“I decided I must follow in my father’s footsteps, and perhaps then she would stop worrying and see I was a son she could be proud of. So I spent time with the trustees, the estate manager, learning what my father had not bothered to teach me, if he knew himself. I learned how to manage and run the many estates. I worked hard until I understood and knew I could take care of it all without making a mess of things and that Mama and the rest of the extended family would be safe. I’d never really worked at anything before that, not with any dedication, but I worked at that for months.”

Burt nodded his understanding, but said nothing, so he carried on.

“On my twenty-first birthday, I came into my majority, and everything became mine in full. Mother gave me this,” he said, pulling out a heavy gold fob watch. He turned it in his hand, smoothing his thumb over the inscription which bore his title and his birthday. No personal message, of course. His parents did not approve of sentimentality. That was shockingly middle class. The upper orders did not have emotions. He’d always preferred his grandfather’s watch, but someone had stolen that the night he’d been attacked.

“I knew she was anxious, worried I would make a mess of it, so I sat her down and explained what I had done, that I had learned how everything worked and I would not make a mess of it. Foolishly, I explained about our money, how we invested it to make it work for us, the interest we would gain that year, et cetera. I told myself I was putting her mind at rest, but I was showing off a little too, wanting her to realise that I was not a fool, that I had worked hard to educate myself. That I had done it for her.”

“She didn’t appreciate the effort?” Burt suggested, his voice gruff.

Max let out a little huff of laughter. “She did not. I was accused of behaving like an accountant—a grave insult, as far as she was concerned. Only the poor worried about money, a gentleman did not concern himself with it. I should leave all that in the hands of men who were paid to do it for me. We had a blazing row, both saying things we ought not.”