Page 76 of Wicked Designs
“Ash, not today, please. I’ve heard enough of your scolding. Can’t I just enjoy Emily? She is happy, I am happy, you ought to be happy.”
When Ashton’s gaze did not subside Godric continued. “No matter if Emily was to have a dozen babies pulling at her apron, she would never lose that innocence. It is something not even time in bed can cure, and I am glad for that. It makes each moment precious.” It was the first time he’d admitted such emotion aloud, but Ashton only smiled.
“As long as you see the value of it for what it is, that Emily is indeed precious, there is still hope for you.” Ashton’s blue eyes were grayer today, and filled with contemplation and concern.
Godric patted his friend’s shoulder. “I’ll not do wrong by her, Ash. You have my word on that.”
“I am glad to hear it. So long as you treat her kindly you will both be happy.”
“Perhaps.” Godric knew Emily more and more each day, and while she was gentle to a fault, her rebellious streak was not so much a streak as an impossibly deep river, a river that would never dry up, and never turn its course.
The truth was, he could not do without her. Being with her was like winning the right to breathe. He had to have her, all of her, for as long as he could.
The outing had beenan enjoyable one. Cedric was delighted at their catch of perch and wanted to stay out longer, but when the skies above the manor darkened, the group decided to return to shore.
Lucien studied the clouds. “Nasty turn in the weather.”
Emily glanced at the marquess. “Do you think it will storm tonight?”
“We could certainly use the rain, but it will make the roads dreadful for any sort of travel.”
A low rumble of thunder rippled across the meadow as they walked back to the manor. The sinister crash from the skies churned Godric’s stomach. Deep in his bones he sensed something was amiss.
Simkins met them in the hallway, his face strained. “Your Grace, you have a visitor.”
“A visitor?” Godric nodded to Cedric and Lucien to take Emily to the drawing room. “I’ll only be a minute.”
Simkins struggled to maintain his composure. “Yes, Your Grace. She is in the parlor.”
“She?”
“It is Miss Mirabeau to see you.”
Godric cursed. What the devil was she doing here? He made it clear she was never to darken his doorway again.
Godric patted Simkins’s shoulder. “Thank you, Simkins. I’ll see her now.”
They had once been lovers, but she hadn’t understood him and the way he approached his servants. He’dsuffered her bad attitude towards his household. Having been born to a family of exiled French aristocrats, she had different expectations of relationships between the classes. Godric viewed a few of his servants like extended family and Evangeline had most vehemently objected to such closeness. The memory of their final fight over her treatment of Simkins left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Evangeline sat primly on the couch near the fireplace, but her demure expression did not fool him one bit. She loved to play at being a lady, but during their time together, Godric hadn’t wanted a lady.
“Miss Mirabeau, good evening.” She stood up, offering her hand to him. He ignored it and bowed stiffly.
“Why, Godric, we are friends. You mustn’t be so formal.” She laughed as though amused at his cold reception. Her French accent was softer when she spoke with him. He used to love hearing her breathe his name in the heat of passion.
“I’ll be happy to drop formalities. In fact, let us be brief. You’re not welcome in my house. What are you doing here?” He wanted her gone, now. She’d no right to come here and disturb his life. Godric especially didn’t want Emily to find out about her.
Evangeline turned away from him as she retrieved her fan, swaying her shapely hips. Her dampened salmon-colored gown revealed too much of her body but the sight did not move him.
She dug a letter out of her reticule and handed it over to him. Her eyes ran up and down him as he read.
He placed the letter back into her hands. “I never sent this.”
She looked confused, and reached out, putting a hand on his forearm, “But…butmon amour, this is your hand. After all of those letters you’ve written to me, how could I not recognize it? Do you remember…? How you used to tell me all of the wicked things you wished to do to me?” She pushed her chest forward, though it was hardly necessary.
The thought of bedding this woman no longer held any appeal. “Those days are long past and I wrote no letter asking you to come here. I will instruct your coach to come around.” It must be some new scheme of hers. Likely she’d forged it herself in attempt to create a reason to come out here and rekindle their relationship.
“Mon dieu. I didn’t bring mine. I came on a hired coach. It only just left before the storm started. I could not possibly leave.”
