Chapter 21
Four more days of undisturbed happiness passed. Finally, the stars had aligned. Henry could spend his days with the woman who made his heart soar to new and strange heights. Shortly after lunch, Lottie had gone for her riding lessons with William, which allowed Henry to take Eva on a walk through the garden. Arm in arm, he steered her down the gravel path toward a very special place.
“Oh, and I once went headfirst into a tree while trying to snowboard,” she said.
“What on earth is a snowboard?”
She giggled. “Do you know what skis are?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, think of it as one wide ski.” She broke away from his arm and mimicked a sideways posture. “Both of your feet are side by side and you ride the snowboard sideways on the snow.”
“Good God, no wonder you went headfirst into a tree.”
“It isn’t so bad. It just hurts a lot when you fall … or in my case, hit a tree with your head.”
“And I thought you were intellectually inferior because of your gender, not because of a crack to the head. Or wait, two cracks to the head now.”
She gasped and smacked his arm. “Oh my God. I’m pretty sure I’d beat you at a world-history quiz.”
“I’d be daft to go against a woman who once claimed to have the world’s knowledge at her fingertips.”
“Afraid of a challenge, I see.”
“It isn’t exactly a challenge when you have one hundred and thirty-seven years on me.”
“That isn’t so much of an advantage when you consider there are a bazillion years of history before the both of us.”
“A bazillion? That is another reason why I would never win. You would make up historical facts and numbers to suit your answers.”
She smiled and slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. “I’m starting to think you’d rather make up excuses instead of accepting that a woman may be smarter than you.”
“Is that so?” He picked her up by the hips. “In that case, it would be wise of me to shut up to appease your feminine ego.”
“Nuh-uh! That’s not how it works.” She laughed. “Put me down!”
“Not until you confess that I have the bigger brain.”
“I confess you’re more handsome than I.”
He smiled. “Hmm, that is a good start.”
She squinted and put a finger to her chin. “Sorry, but that’s it. I can’t think of any more redeeming traits.”
“A pity.” He set her down and poked her nose. “But you are saved for now, since we have arrived at our destination.”
Just as she turned to look, he cupped her face in his palms and kissed her. “I love you,” he whispered.
“I’ve thought of another redeeming trait,” she said.
A burn touched his cheeks. “And what may that be?”
“You’re a good kisser and an even better lover.”
“I am starting to think you admire superficial qualities over those of the thoughtful kind.”
“Henry Asheford, I can’t divulge all my secrets, nor can I flatter you too much—” Her voice halted as she turned to face a white stone mausoleum behind a green wrought-iron gate. Her smile fell.
“I would like to introduce you to my mother,” he said.
“This … this is where she rests?” Her voice was barely a whisper amongst the rustle of the trees.
“It is.”
He took hold of Eva’s hand and opened the gate.
Framed by yellow and white magnolia trees, the mausoleum was a curved building with large Greek pillars. Carvings of ivy and roses were etched into the stone. Henry opened the green metal door and descended the stone steps.
In the centre was a stone tomb with a large, sorrowful angel at the head. It wore a toga that draped over the edge of the tomb. A single wing almost matched the span of Henry’s arm. In one clenched hand sat a fat dove.
Eva remained by the entrance. She had turned pale.
Had he made a mistake in bringing her here?
Slowly, she glanced up at the rose-coloured stained-glass ceiling. “Does it depict a constellation?” she whispered, as if she were afraid to awaken the dead.
“Columba,” he said. “Latin for ‘dove’. It was Grandfather’s wish to design it as such.”
“How beautiful,” she said.
She came to him and laid a hand on the dove in the angel’s hand. It barely fitted in the palm of her hand.
“What was your mother’s name?” she said.
“Rosalind Elizabeth Corbyn.”
“A pretty name.”
There was a pause. Eva looked up at him, tears marking her eyes.
“I apologize. This was too much,” he was quick to say.
“No.” She buried her face into his chest. “I’m touched that you would bring me here. I’m just overwhelmed by emotions I don’t understand.”
“We can leave.”
“No.” She looked at him through wet lashes. “I want to meet her.”
He exhaled sharply. “She would have been fond of you.”
Eva looked at the tomb. “Did she know about time-travelling?”
“I am not certain.”
“Somehow I doubt she would have been fond of me.”
“I do not doubt it for one minute.” Henry placed a hand on her back. He looked down at the tomb, taking in the details of his mother’s name etched into the stone. “Mother was a strong-willed woman and always accepted those different from us. She would have been exhilarated by your confidence and independence; I am sure of it.”
“That explains you, then.” Eva smiled and leaned toward the tomb. “Rosalind, if you can hear me, I’d like to thank you for raising an exceptional son.”
Henry’s heart clenched painfully.
“He’s not only handsome, a good lover and—”
“Do not tell my mother that!” Henry pulled Eva back into his arms.
“Hey, I wasn’t finished telling your mom about all your redeeming traits.”
“I no longer care to hear them.”
She kissed him, turned her head and placed her palm on the tomb.
“Your son is also a kind, caring man with an honest soul. I am sure when you look down at him from heaven, you’re proud of what you see.”
His throat grew thick. “I thought you did not believe in heaven.”
She looked at him and poked his dimple. “No, but you do. Now stop interrupting me while I speak with your mom. There’s more I want to say.”
His lips moved against her hair and he kissed her temple. God, how he loved this woman.
“Rosalind, your son also likes to think that he’s smarter than me,” she said. “Whether that may be true or not, I must confess that he does have some wits to him, so again, I thank you for raising a smart boy.”
“You are absolutely wicked,” he whispered in her ear.
“And you love it.”
“I am unquestionably mad about it,” he said. “In fact, I could marry you this instant.”
A shadow passed over her face.
The look in her hazel eyes gave him a sensation of being doused with a bucket of cold water. He suddenly regretted saying those words. “I apologize, I do not know what possessed me to say that,” he said slowly.
“You … you want me to be your wife?”
He furrowed his brow. Was she actually considering it? “I do.”
“You sound unsure.”
“I am not.”
She frowned. “Then why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you took a tequila shot and forgot to suck on a lemon.”
The edges of his lips twitched. “Because you are looking at me like you’ve drunk curdled milk.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’m too young to marry.”
“You are soon to be twenty-four.”
“So?”
“A fine age for spinsterhood,” he said, stone-faced.
“Henry Alexander Asheford,” she said sternly. “Out of the history of proposals, this must be the worst.”
“Are you in the habit of being proposed to?”
“As of late, yes.”
A flare of jealousy licked his heart. He knew she was teasing, and yet he could not help but humour her. He dropped to one knee and grabbed her hand.
“My little imp, my fallen star, my strange, foul-mouthed woman, my fire that fuels this worn and weathered heart … Evaline Quinn, will you do me the honour of allowing me to be your husband, your protector, your guardian, your lesser intellectual half? Will you marry me?”
Her laugh burst through the chamber. “That is a million times better!”
“Not a bazillion?”
“A bazillion and more.” She cupped his face in her palms and leaned down. “But I have a counter proposal for you.”
“And what may that be?”
“Stand up first.”
He rose and dusted off his trousers. “If your counter proposal is of the indecent kind, I ask that we take it outside.”
“Please, I am a cockish wench of the respectable kind.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Henry Asheford, will you do me the honour of being my boyfriend?”
“Boy … friend?”
“In my world, that’s what usually comes before marriage,” she said. “In one way, it’s basically like marriage but without the official ceremony or certificate to seal the deal.”
“And you would be my girlfriend?”
“A most loyal girlfriend.” She poked his cheek.
“Hmm.”
“So, what do you say?” she whispered.
“Eva, my girlfriend.” He smiled. “Yes, it does have a nice ring to it. How could I ever say no to that?”
***
“How about something modern?” Eva said, pressing a few piano keys.
“Oh, love, everything you play is modern to my ears.”
Henry crossed the parlour to pour himself a whisky. After returning, he leaned toward her, demanding a kiss.
She glanced around the room. The parlour’s dark curtains had been drawn shut and the door was closed.
“No one shall see,” he said.
“And if they do?”
He shrugged. “Then rumours will fly that Mr. Asheford was seen kissing his sister’s friend.”
“I can recall a time when you were strongly against such a scandal.”
“There was also a time when I was strongly against acting on my desires, but I’ve thrown the baby out with the bathwater on that one, haven’t I?”
“What does that even mean?”
“Kiss me, Eva.”
She did as commanded because how could she not? He felt too good. And he was her boyfriend. What a ridiculous statement to make. Henry Asheford, nineteenth-century gentleman with a crime lord for a father, was her boyfriend.
Satisfied, Henry flashed a smile and sprawled into the chair next to her.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” she muttered as she turned to the piano.
“You’ll sing for me, of course.”
“I’m not a record player … or as you would say, a phonograph.”
“No, you are my girlfriend.”
She looked at him. “I suddenly regret asking you to be my boyfriend.”
“Somehow, I do not believe you.” He sipped his whisky. “And it is too late to take back our oath for my mother was a witness to the ceremony.”
“I guess that means we’re stuck with one another for eternity.”
The corners of his mouth twitched, but he remained quiet.
That was her cue to start playing and she knew exactly which song would knock his socks off. Venus by Sleeping at Last. It was a love song written by the singer for his wife. Years ago, Eva had been so smitten by the album that she had practised every song for days on end on her electric piano.
She rested her fingers on the opening keys. Her heart thudded hard. She drew in a deep breath and began playing. When the verse ended, she kept playing without daring to look at Henry. She could feel his eyes burning a hole through her. When she got to the most emotionally gripping part of the song, Henry promptly stood and brought his lips to her neck.
She fumbled the keys.
“Keep singing,” he whispered.
And she did.
She continued singing as his fingers entwined with the curls of her hair. His breath came hot against her ear. The sensation of his lips against her skin triggered a longing pull low in her belly. She missed another note … and another, and as the song came to an end, she was grateful for the slowing rhythm because there was no way in hell she could go on.
With the final press of the high notes, she stood from the bench and was pushed back onto the keys with a cacophony of mashed notes.
Henry’s lips were all over her.
She arched her back and allowed her head to fall back. There was a desperate hunger in his kissing, and he spared no part of her body with his exploration. His hands slipped the length of her corseted waist toward the ruffle of skirts, and with his knee, he pushed her legs apart.
She gasped. “On the piano?”
“Yes,” he growled.
“But the door is not locked.” She pulled his head away from her cleavage. “And someone will hear us.”
His face darkened.
“Henry…”
“I want you,” he said, his gaze hard and intent. “I want you so horrendously bad that every inch of me hurts.”
As she opened her mouth to say something, his hand slipped beneath her skirts and found her sweet spot. The jolt forced her thighs together as she gave a surprised moan.
He spread them apart again.
“God, I’ve corrupted your innocent, modest mind,” she gasped.
His mouth was soft against the edge of her jaw. His auburn stubble grazed her skin, sending a shiver along her spine.
“No, my imp, you’ve set me free,” he said.
Just as he was about to enter her, there was a knock at the door.
Holy mother of God.
Eva pushed Henry away. Cursing, he tucked himself back into his pants and angrily buttoned his trousers.
The knock came again.
“Yes, what the devil is it?” Henry shouted.
Panic gripped Eva. She fixed the loose hair on her face, planted herself on the piano bench and buried her burning face in the sheet music. Did she moan out loud? Had he made a sound? She had been too lost in their passion to pay attention to any noises.
Henry opened the parlour door just enough to stick his head through the darkened gap.
“A letter’s come for you, sir.”
Eva glanced up from the piano and saw Mary, one of the servant girls.
A young, timid thing with a round, pale face and a bonnet covering her mousy hair. Her curious blue eyes observed Eva.
Her stomach roiled. She dropped her gaze back down to the piano.
Rumours will fly.
Henry thanked the servant girl, shut the door harshly and went to the fireplace. He held a grey envelope in one hand. With a swipe through his hair, he paced.
“I apologize,” he said with an odd tone. “I must tend to business.”
“Henry?”
He would not look at her.
“Is everything all right?” she said.
The heavy silence stretched between them. She considered going to him but quickly decided against it.
“I will come to you soon,” he said.
That was her cue to leave. Disheartened, she stood from the piano and left the room without another word. She crept to her bedroom through the dark corridors of Asheford Hall, wondering why Henry looked like he had seen a ghost.
***
Hell. Surely, this must be hell and he had a front-row seat to be tortured by the devil. He drew closer to Eva’s room like it was the last thing he would ever do as a free man. At this thought, his chest violently ached, as if the devil himself had shoved a hand through his ribcage and iron-gripped his heart.
He did not knock at Eva’s door. There was no time for that. He barged in like a madman and shut the door.
“Henry?” Eva lifted her head from the mountain of pillows. “What time is it?”
He supposed he was mad. A sane man would answer her question with the correct hour. But he did not want to speak about the time. He did not want to even consider its existence. Time had brought them together and now it would rip them apart.
“Henry?”
He kicked off his boots, tossed his shirt to the floor and wriggled out of his trousers. He stood naked at the side of her bed.
A sane man would not do this either.
“What’s wrong?” Eva sat up in bed.
“I need you.”
She crawled over the bed, kneeled before him and placed her hands on his chest. “You have me.”
No, I do not. Not anymore.
“Come to bed,” she whispered.
He lifted a finger and stroked the softness of her cheekbones. In the weak moonlight, he could barely see her expression. He hoped she was not too concerned about his well-being.
“Please, tell me what’s wro—”
He brought his finger to her lips. He also hoped she would not ask questions. The thought of talking about his father’s letter tore him apart.
He kissed her.
Tears pricked behind his closed eyes. How he would miss the sweetness of those lips, the softness of her skin, the warmth of her touch, the sound of her laugh…
They fell back into the bed.
He teetered between the lunacy of love and the hatred of duty. Together, the two poles drummed the sounds of war and clashed on all fronts within his soul. Like an avalanche, the fear of losing what he desired most pummelled through his defences and he lost himself in the madness of it all.
“Slow down,” Eva whispered in his ear.
Her voice made him snap back to reality. He was inside her with a hand at her neck. A feeling of terror made him freeze.
Christ.
“I’m sorry.” He withdrew his hand.
She only clutched his torso tighter.
“I’m sorry, Eva,” he said again, knowing that he was apologizing for a lot more than rough sex. “I’m sorry.”
“Hush.” She brought her lips to his forehead.
She gently pushed him off and resettled onto his lap.
As soon as they reconnected as one, he sat up and wrapped his arms around her body. Together they rocked in raspy breath and he held on for as long as possible until he crumbled beneath the whirlwind of pressure.
Duty would forbid him to ever love Eva again.
And it hurt like hell.