Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

Even in the moonlight, even with her pressed against him, he knew better. Her soul was not his. Reality was the illusion. She’d been maddened by moonlight and taken by surprise. At any moment, she would come to her senses. But until then…


Until then, he was going to kiss her, for no reason except that he loved her and she would let him. He wouldn’t let any note of bitterness destroy the sweet taste of her.

He could sense when she began to withdraw. Her hands stopped clutching him closer. Her kiss grew less fevered. Finally, she pulled away from him. Only a few inches, but it was far enough that he could no longer smell her sweet scent. She wasn’t a part of him—not any longer.

“Westfeld,” she whispered, and with that word—his title, instead of his Christian name—the barriers between them returned in full force. “I—I don’t—I didn’t know what I was doing.”

He couldn’t help himself. He molded his hand to her face. “Elaine.”

She bowed her head and leaned against him, and he brushed his lips to her forehead.

“It happened,” he said. “I understand. I shouldn’t—” But he couldn’t bring himself to apologize for kissing her. He should have kissed her, damn it. He would hold that memory inside him forever—a moonlit kiss, half dream, half solid truth. And so he ran his gloved thumb along her lips, reluctant to relinquish his hold on her.

“Don’t speak,” he said. “Of all the things I wish for in this world, I want you to find happiness. I suspect you never will have that with me, and I’ve resigned myself to the matter.”

“Evan—”

“Don’t feel pity for me. Someday, I’ll find someone I can make happy—truly happy. I’m sure of it. But for now, I’m perfectly content to have had this one moment with you. I won’t ask for anything else.”

“Oh,” she said. “Evan.”

“Elaine,” he said softly, “can I make you happy?”

The breeze against his collar was light and insubstantial, close to nothing. He felt her cant away from him ever so slightly.

He’d had no hope of her. Still, her silence was a resounding refutation of his every dream.

“There we are,” he said, pulling away from her and offering her his arm, polite and gentlemanly once again. “Then I shall settle for making you happier.”





ELAINE WAS NEVER QUITE SURE how she made her way home. Her mother’s happiness burbled over in the carriage, but Elaine barely felt capable of containing the beat of her own heart.

She watched the Mayfair houses roll past, one dark shadow passing after another.

They went by Westfeld’s house along the way, a few short streets from her own home. The front windows were alight, and she could imagine him arriving home to his butler and his servants and…and was there anyone else? His mother stayed in the country; he had neither brothers nor sisters. And at this moment, with the memory of his lips still burning against hers, she was all too aware that he was not married. She could see the savage edge of his smile. I am not going to pretend that I want you for anything other than mine.

Her hand rose and curled at her throat.

Was that what she had made him do? Pretend?

The carriage jolted to a halt in front of her own home. Once she was safely ensconced in her room, the evening ritual required none of her attention. She was washed and undressed. Her hair was combed and then braided. But when she tried to sleep she felt his mouth on hers. The sheets against her skin brought to mind the strong band of his arms around her, the tightly-controlled tension of his muscles. And when she shut her eyes, she could see his eyes boring into hers.

He loved her. He loved her still.

Sleep eluding her, Elaine pushed out of her bed and threw her window open to the night air. The wind against her shoulders was as cruel as a cold exhalation.

She could look into his eyes forever. She tingled when he was near. She had stopped scoffing in disbelief at his pronouncements months before. Instead, when he’d told her all would be well, she had wanted to believe him.

His kiss had been as soft as breath itself, and nearly as vital. When had that happened? When had he begun to light a room by entering it? When had she begun to look for him when she first arrived at a party? When had she started to think of him first when she heard something amusing?

Over these last months, she’d altered, too. She no longer held back, hiding her head in the sand like some stupid creature. If she had hated him for what he’d made her into all those years before, she had come to love herself. Whatever resentment she’d harbored had blown away.

He loved her, and it hurt him.

He was close, so close. She could trace the route to his bed down streets lit by dim gas lamps. As she leaned out her window into the chill, the row of three-story houses vanished into the murky night before she could identify his. Ten years ago he’d hurt her. But today…