Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02] (14 page)

Was he a man with vices, then? Was he given to excessive drink or gaming? Such a virile, well-born man would undoubtedly have a mistress or at minimum acquaintances among the demimonde. This thought gave Evangeline pause. Indeed, it troubled her far more than it should have done, but she was not naïve. She had been raised, not in the stilted artificiality of English society, but in a more bohemian Continental environment. Marie van Artevalde, who had not suffered fools gladly, made certain that her eldest daughter was not one of them. Consequently, Evangeline well understood the world and all of its realities, and for that she was infinitely grateful.

What of Elliot—did he have a mother? A home in the Highlands? Who loved him, and had he ever been in love? Yes, he had once been very deeply in love, Evangeline realized with a little stab of discomfort. She remembered how she had seen anguish flare in his brilliant gray eyes when he told her that his betrothal was over. Why would any woman end her betrothal to such a man? These questions nagged at Evangeline unmercifully, and the intensity of her obsession frightened her. Heavens, the man was a client, a guest in her home! If he wished to become anything else, he was more than capable of making his interest known. Though occasionally withdrawn, Elliot was by no means shy. Moreover, he already knew that he could charm her; that much had been evident during his last visit.

Though drawn to him, she was very careful not to make any prolonged eye contact with Elliot, and she tried, with limited success, to hide her unease. Following the meal, Evangeline ordered Tess to fetch port and two glasses, then tactfully relinquished her guest’s entertainment to an eager Gus, cautioning herself yet again that it would be prudent to keep a cordial, professional distance between herself and Elliot Roberts.

Elliot found that his second evening at Chatham began much as the first had done, passing in quiet familial harmony with the exception of the raucous hazard lessons. Much to his satisfaction, the charming inhabitants seemed even more welcoming than before, an effect that was enhanced by Wilson’s timely report on James Hart.

Though never one to take pleasure in another man’s misery, unless Elliot himself had deliberately set about to cause it, he had been nonetheless pleased to learn that Hart’s betrothal had quickly come to naught. Hart’s young fiancée, having fled a fortnight earlier to Gretna Green, was now wed to the youngest son of her local rector. It explained why Hart had failed to keep his appointment with Evangeline. Undoubtedly, a wedding portrait was the least of the poor fellow’s concerns, a fact that lessened the probability of his somehow showing up on Evangeline’s doorstep. Elliot’s ruse was safe for now.

Elliot leaned back in his drawing-room chair, stretched out his long legs, and tried to relax as he surreptitiously watched Evangeline devote her attention to Frederica’s playing. When that task was finished, she took up a basket of mending and moved to share the sofa with Winnie. Her companion sat, curled up with a newspaper, while the cats drowsed by the hearth at Mr. Stokely’s feet. Fritz danced back and forth between the pianoforte, where Nicolette now played, and the card table, where the boys sat transfixed by Elliot and Gus as they demonstrated the nuances of gentlemanly gaming.

After a quiet hour had passed in such amiable pursuits, Elliot put away the dice and challenged Frederica and Nicolette to a hand of whist. Theo amicably agreed to partner him, so Gus and Michael surrendered their seats to the ladies. The foursome played happily for another half hour until, absently, Elliot found his eyes drawn from the cards to rest on his hostess. With a teasing grin, she was looking very pointedly at Mrs. Weyden.

“Are you reading the gossip rags again, Winnie?” admonished Evangeline, trying to peer around the newspaper her companion clutched somewhat awkwardly.

“Umm,” denied Mrs. Weyden, rather absently. The widow’s back was angled toward Elliot, and he could see her duck furtively behind the paper.

Evangeline and Gus exchanged humor-laden glances, and Evangeline began to tease her companion. “Are you not? Yet that is surely what you appear to have, tucked in behind that old copy of the
Times
,” insisted Evangeline in a bemused tone. “Of course, I may be mistaken.”

“Umph,” came Winnie’s ambiguous reply.

With a knowing wink, Gus joined the banter. “Why, Mama, that paper is a week old! What grand news does it convey that holds you so enthralled? More tales from Downing Street? Raffles’ return to Singapore? Ah! I have it now, Evie! Mama must have a newfound concern for the price of corn on the ’change!”

From his chair by the fire, even Mr. Stokely was forced to suppress a discreet snort of laughter.

“Oh, plague take all of you!” muttered Mrs. Weyden at last, peeking from behind her paper. “If you must know, it is just a bit of gossip! There’s no help for it—’tis my undying vice.”

“Oh, no, no, Mama!” cried Theo dramatically. “I brought the afternoon post in for Bolton, and I noticed an exceedingly plump package bearing Lady Bland’s seal. Confess it now—she’s sent you the scandal sheets!”

Gus laughed, then addressed his mother in a hushed, conspiratorial tone. “Do read us all the news of society, Mama. And let us not miss one nasty rumor, not one scandalous
on dit!
”

Winnie snorted her indignation. Her subterfuge discovered, she held the
Times
lower now, and Elliot could see the pile of clippings and papers in her ample lap. “Really, now, Augustus!” she answered archly, still scanning her correspondence. “Is it your hope that we shall read of some other hapless mother whose son has been pitched out of Cambridge on his—er—oh, my, what’s this?” Winnie began to softly mouth the words to herself.

“Oh, do read it to us, Mama,” wheedled Theo again as he picked through his cards. “It must be something especially wicked!”

Gus, rising from his chair by the hearth, leaned across his mother’s shoulder to kiss the top of her head. Then he cleared his throat with mock ceremony and began to read aloud from over her shoulder:

“
What has become of the infamous Lord R______? Only his charming uncle remains in town. Rumor holds that the handsome Scottish peer, who has not been seen in his usual haunts, may have retired to the country to court a bride. Can it at last be so?
”

As Gus finished reading, he lifted his head to stare at Evie, his mouth open.

“Rannoch!” hissed his mother from behind her newspaper, lowering it into her lap with a vicious crush. “What drivel, Evie! That vile, sniffing hound. I cannot think what decent woman would have him—”

From his table across the room, Elliot suppressed a choking sound, mislaid his trump, and lost a critical trick to Frederica. “Drat you, Elliot!” grumbled Theo, tossing his hand down in disgust.

“Our game, sir,” chortled Nicolette, fanning out the cards.

“Rannoch?” puzzled Mr. Stokely absently. “I cannot say as I’ve heard of him.”

“Rannoch?” asked Gus, studying his mother’s face.

“Isn’t he the blighter Lady Bland is always reporting on, Mama? She’s forever mentioning him in her letters—the marquis who abandoned his fiancée whilst she was, ah, you know . . .” His words trailed away, and his face turned pink.

“Indeed,” answered Winnie acidly. “The very same, and that’s not the half of it.”

“Winnie!” Evangeline’s voice held a sharp note of warning.

Ignoring her, Gus absently rubbed his jaw. “Aye . . . but wasn’t there something more about him, Evie? I recollect having heard the name bantered about elsewhere.”

“To be sure, you have!” interjected Winnie, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Why, Rannoch is the one who became embroiled in that sordid affair with . . .”From his position across the room, Elliot could no longer make out her words, but he could see Evangeline’s eyes flash with anger.

“Winnie! Gus! A blighter he no doubt is, but Lord Rannoch’s business is none of ours. Please hush this instant!” Evangeline’s voice was sharp. “And Gus, do stop hovering, and go stir up the fire. Winnie, I want you to look at this stitch, for I cannot seem to get it aright.”

As Nicolette swept up the cards for the next round, the vile Lord Rannoch, sniffing hound that he was, seemed quickly forgotten. By almost everyone.

An affair with the moon, in which there was

neither sin nor shame.

—L
AURENCE
S
TERNE

F
or the remainder of the evening, Elliot pondered Winnie’s remarks and tried not to feel insulted by her words. After all, they were essentially true. Furthermore, he wondered which of his sordid affairs they might have been referring to. With an inward sigh, Elliot realized that it could be any one of two dozen. Did Winnie know, or could she learn, about all of them? The thought made Elliot sicken.

Elliot reminded himself that any decent family would look down upon a blackguard like the marquis of Rannoch. And while the Stones and the Weydens were more than decent, they seemed detached from society in general. He had sensed that much immediately upon his arrival. Yet they spoke his name as if it were regrettably familiar to them. Why would they know or care about the marquis of Rannoch? The Stones and the Weydens lived the kind of life Elliot thought he had long ago ceased to desire. Indeed, it was a lifestyle he had coldly and deliberately rejected, one he now could never have.

Yet in place of what he might have had, Elliot found himself living a lie of the heart. He found it painfully disconcerting to realize how a man’s youthful desire for hearth, home, and family could so easily become an anathema and then, just as quickly, become an unattainable fantasy once again. But this fantasy into which he had so deceitfully ingratiated himself, were it anything more than just another illusion, was something Elliot Armstrong would never have the opportunity to enjoy. Oh, he could get a wife quite easily, despite Mrs. Weyden’s pointed and somewhat accurate jibe. Nonetheless, it would not be a woman like Evangeline Stone. It would be a town-bred chit who was short on looks, low on fortune, and desperate for a title. Such a girl could not afford to be too selective about whom she wed.

Yet even more than his concerns about Mrs. Weyden and her gossip, something else troubled Elliot. Despite her obvious pleasure at his arrival, Evangeline had begun to withdraw from him. He had sensed it clearly throughout dinner, and it was that circumstance, more than any other, that hurt him tonight almost beyond bearing. In the short term, Mrs. Weyden’s comment paled in significance.

Evangeline watched as the night grew late and one by one the children drifted off to bed. Elliot, who had grown very quiet during the evening, seemed to linger at first, then rose abruptly and said good night. Rising from her chair, Winnie put down her reading and went to make a final check of all the children, while Gus secured the door locks and Evangeline gave breakfast orders to the cook.

A quarter hour later, all tasks complete, she followed the others up the stairs to bed. It would, she was certain, be another restless night. She turned from the secondfloor landing and went down the long, dim corridor to her bedchamber.

“Miss Stone?” The deep, soft voice slid from the night like a warm caress.

Evangeline felt her heart stop. “Mr. Roberts?”

“Yes,” he answered quietly, rising from the darkened window seat just beyond her door.

“You have been waiting for me?” she asked uncertainly. “Is something amiss?”

Slowly, he approached her from the shadows, the width of his shoulders silhouetted in shimmering moonlight. “No. Indeed, your hospitality is all that a guest might wish for, with but one exception . . .”

Evangeline watched, transfixed, as he moved toward her and into the lamplight with his disquieting grace. “My apologies,” she managed to answer politely. “You have only to tell me what is needed—”

Elliot came nearer until he stood looking down into her face. He was very tall, and Evangeline realized with a start that her head did not reach his shoulder. If she could put her arms about his waist and lean her head against his broad chest, her ear would rest very near his heart. She wanted that. She wanted to hear Elliot’s heart beating, strong and steady, as she knew it would be.

Suddenly, his voice pulled her back from the edge of foolishness. “Miss Stone,” he asked gently, “could you manage to stop avoiding me? It’s rather obvious, you know.”

“I meant no offense, Mr. Roberts,” she stammered nervously.

Suddenly, Elliot looked uncertain. His silvery gaze broke away to stare down at the tops of his boots. Tentatively, he reached out to rest one hand lightly upon her shoulder. “Miss Stone, I should very much like us to be friends.” He lifted his dark eyes to hold hers. “Please.” His voice softened. “Just tell me what I need to do to accomplish that. To become more than a subject for your canvas. To earn your trust.”

She felt the warmth of his hand burning through the muslin of her dress. “Mr. Roberts,” Evie said, trying to keep her voice soft, “we are indeed friends, and of course I do trust—”

“No,” he quietly interposed, dropping his hand abruptly. “You do not. I make you uncomfortable, and that was never my intent. Moreover, you scarcely looked at me during dinner. I think you deliberately sought to avoid my gaze.”

He was entirely correct. She had meant to avoid him, but not for the reasons he had given. And there was no explanation she could give to justify her behavior. Elliot looked hurt, and she began to apologize further, but he quickly cut her off.

“Evie—forgive me—Miss Stone. I realize that we have not known each other for very long. Moreover, I have no right to trespass upon your good graces. But please do not shut me out as though I’m just another client.”

“Indeed, Mr. Roberts, you are a good deal more than that.”

“Am I?” he interrupted, studying her seriously. “Then I pray you will not ignore this fragile chance we have for . . . for friendship.”

“Friendship?” she repeated, surprised to hear the breathlessness in her own voice.

Elliot’s gaze drifted slowly over her face. “Yes,” he answered softly.

At a loss for words, Evangeline merely nodded, watching as Elliot shifted uneasily.

“Walk with me, Miss Stone?” he asked abruptly.

“Come, bear me company for a small part of this lonely evening?”

“Walk with you?” Her voice quivered as she tried to hide her astonishment. “Why, wherever would we go?”

Even in the flickering light of the wall sconce, Evangeline could see a mischievous smile tug at the corner of Elliot’s full, sinfully handsome mouth. “In the gardens,” he whispered, leaning into her. “Beneath the light of the moon. Where is your sense of romantic adventure, Miss Stone?”

“I do not think that we should—”

“Ah, Miss Stone! Do something wildly irresponsible for once.” Without taking his eyes from hers, Elliot placed his hand on the doorknob of her bedchamber and flashed her a wicked grin. Slowly, he pushed the door open on silent hinges, his big hand splayed against the wood. A wave of desire and uncertainty shook her.

“Your cloak,” he answered in response to her disquiet. Elliot gently tipped her chin up on his finger and looked down into her eyes. It should have been a sweet gesture, but in the darkened corridor it felt like something quite different. “You are safe with me, Miss Stone,” he whispered. “The pleasure of your company is all I seek tonight. But do go in and fetch a cloak, for you shall find the night air far less benign than I.”

With her heart pounding, Evangeline flew to the wardrobe and hastily pulled a woolen cape from its hook. Whatever was she thinking, running off to walk in the dark of night with a man whom, in truth, she hardly knew? It was reckless, for any number of reasons. Nonetheless, Evangeline was beginning to think that perhaps she had been far too prudent for one lifetime.

Elliot was right, she realized a few moments later. The night still held the faint chill of spring. Evangeline stood on the upper terrace of Chatham’s rear gardens and pulled her cloak more securely about her. The gardens were beautiful, with moonbeams spearing through the trees to shimmer across the surface of the ornamental ponds. The shadows of the lush summer rosebushes snaked across the long, twisting path which dropped from terrace to terrace until it disappeared into an ancient wood beyond. Though charming by day, Chatham Lodge was noted for the beauty of its gardens, and tonight they were enchanting in the pale, shimmering light.

Although she could not see him, Evangeline’s every sense was acutely aware of Elliot standing above her on the steps. She could feel the heat radiate from his body, carrying with it the earthy, intoxicating aura that was uniquely his: subtle cologne, expensive tobacco, warm wool, and untamed sensuality. Drawing deep of the night air, Evangeline indulged in a rare moment of luxury, breathing in the seductive essence, basking in his warmth as he stood so near.

She suppressed a shudder of unexpected pleasure when, after a long, silent moment, Elliot bent to speak softly into her ear, placing his hands lightly upon her shoulders. “Where do we go from here, Miss Stone?” he asked in his deep, silky voice which seemed pitched to both seduce and soothe.

Turning quickly on the narrow step to face him, Evangeline almost lost her balance, but Elliot merely tightened his grip and gently turned her to him.

“What do you mean?” she asked uncertainly, sliding one hand up to steady herself by grasping his elbow.

The soft light only served to emphasize the strong angles and planes of his face as his mouth curled in a quizzical smile. “Where shall we walk, Miss Stone? You must lead the way.”

“Oh!” Evangeline felt her face go warm. She wanted him to kiss her. The realization was disconcerting.

Elliot saved her from further embarrassment. “For example, this terrace path—where does it go? Shall we follow all the way?”

“No, I shouldn’t think—not all the way.” Struggling to retain far more than her footing, Evangeline raised her hand to point toward the trees just beyond the last terrace. “The path continues through that narrow strip of wood and through our meadows. Beyond them lies the River Lea. It would be unwise to risk it in the dark.”

Elliot nodded as he pulled a cigar case from his pocket. “Then we shall circle the gardens only,” he answered, casting her a sidelong glance, then returning the case, unopened, to his pocket.

Evangeline looked up at him and smiled. “If you would care to smoke, Mr. Roberts, pray do so.”

Despite the dim light, she could see his teasing grin. “It would be exceedingly wicked to smoke in the presence of a lady. Are you certain?”

“Yes, indeed,” she responded, greatly relieved to have his attention focused elsewhere. She watched as Elliot’s graceful fingers drew a cheroot from the elaborate case. “Light it from the hall lamp,” she suggested, pointing toward the door from which they had come.

In the pale light, Elliot nodded. He was gone but a moment, his movements silent and lithe. When he returned to the steps, he boldly took her hand and led her down the steps and onto the path. They strolled through the dark, Elliot silently smoking and Evangeline acutely aware that he had not released her hand. She felt foolish, almost young and giddy, as they continued thus around the back terraces, along a stone path past the kitchen orchard and through the front gardens. Silently they wandered, hand in hand, for about a quarter hour, until Elliot gently urged her north along the tower.

“There is great beauty in this place, Miss Stone,” he whispered as he looked up at the ancient and imposing tower walls. He paused to stare at the nearly full moon through the spreading branches of a young oak. “I find such an ethereal peace here, yet I cannot quite find the words to explain how I feel.” A heavy stone bench sat just beneath the tree, and Elliot pulled her down toward it.

“Yes, the tranquility is most welcome. Certainly, I found it so when first I came here,” agreed Evangeline softly. “It is said to have been a royal hunting lodge, you know. The Epping Forest is very near.” She deftly arranged her skirts, then settled into the curve of the seat. Though Elliot did not touch her, she could sense his arm, warm and strangely comforting, stretched across the back of the bench.

Elliot regarded her in silence, exhaling an agonizingly slow stream of smoke that appeared soft and white against the restless night air. “How long?” he finally asked. “How long have you been at Chatham?”

Evangeline watched the smoke curl and melt into the tender spring leaves of a low-hanging limb and tried not to think of Elliot’s masculine heat and seductive scent which drifted on the evening’s chill to tease at her senses. She tried not to recall how suggestively his powerful thighs had flexed when he sank onto the bench beside her. She tried not to think about his lean hips and narrow waist, his hard, flat stomach, which rose up to a broad, muscular chest. Nevertheless, with every breath, she became increasingly aware of him in a way that was new and disturbing.

Elliot cleared his throat softly, and Evangeline recalled his question. “Many years,” she answered abruptly. “Since we came from Flanders.”

“Why did you leave, Miss Stone, if I might ask? Did your father’s English background make it prudent to evade Napoleon’s boot heel?”

Evangeline gave a brittle laugh. “In some small part, I suppose. But mostly we were just fleeing memories.”

“Why did your parents decide—”

“I decided, Mr. Roberts,” she interrupted. “My mother was dead, and God help us if I chose wrongly . . .”

Elliot paused for a long moment. “I see,” he responded at last, his voice but a whisper in the dark.