Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02] (17 page)

Nevertheless, he would go, and he would look, because it was all he had ever done. It was his life, such as his life was. And when Evangeline, along with the fleeting sense of contentment that her presence brought him, was gone, his miserable life would be all that he had left. It was, he supposed, better than nothing. After all, he had managed to sustain himself reasonably well on gambling, drinking, and trouble for any number of years.

He knocked back half his whisky, fighting down the urge to pack his bags and return to Essex that very night. It could be easily done; the moon was nearly full, and the sky was clear. But he could not do it, for he had left her only two days earlier. He could not justify staying at Chatham any longer than he had done. As it was, both he and Evangeline were fooling no one about the reasons for his protracted visits, save maybe themselves. Winnie Weyden merely cast him sidelong glances and curled her mouth into a mischievous half smile every time she saw him. Hell, the servants were beginning to behave as if they worked for him. The children persisted in acting as though he were a permanent fixture in their lives.

That hurt. And it worried him.

Slowly, he dropped his forehead to the glass once more. In three days, he was due to return. Immediately upon his arrival, he wanted to tell Evangeline the truth. She deserved to know. There was only one ugly alternative, and it was dreadfully ugly indeed. He could seduce her before she learned his identity.

Elliot was certain he could seduce an innocent. He had the expertise and notoriety, but perhaps not the heart, for just such a role. And, oh God, yes! Evangeline was ripe for his seduction! He had seen raw desire shimmer in her fiery blue eyes. He had recognized her passion in the way her soft, full lips parted invitingly when she tilted her head to look up at him. At first, he had been shocked that such a woman could want him. Him! But her incipient need was unmistakable.

This time, he would have to do a little more than simply hold her hand in the dark or flaunt himself in all his wet, naked glory. Elliot weighed his strategy carefully. Evangeline was strong and willful, but her unleashed passion would fast overrule her less carnal qualities. He felt sure of it. And it was a vision Elliot had conjured up in his mind time and time again. Evie, her thick blond hair spread across his pillow, her lithe, slender form reclining in his bed. Her small breasts were high and full, her hips elegantly flared. Elliot knew it instinctively and felt himself harden at the image. He would tempt her, and she would take him. With his consummate skill, he would please her, and with her innocent heart, she would give him the ultimate peace. And once the deed was done, she would be his, and the truth would matter a little less.

Evangeline would be left with no alternative. No alternative at all.

Good God, what was he thinking? Elliot raised his head from the glass, nausea roiling in his stomach. What had he been contemplating? Was he truly capable of defiling an honorable woman and forcing her into marriage? For that was most assuredly what it would come to. Restrained temptation was one thing, but he was well past sexual fantasy and fast crossing the bridge to outright wickedness. He was painfully aware that Evangeline did not deserve to be tainted by his touch, and yet the obsession would not leave him. Was he really that desperate to have her? Or was the evil just deeply and indelibly ingrained in his character?

No! In two days, he would leave for Wrotham-uponLea, and within five minutes of his arrival he would tell her everything. It was resolved. He was going to hurt her, had already hurt her, did she but know it. Elliot was many bad things, but he was not by his nature a liar. He would tell her.

Tell her what? That the object of her growing affection was none other than that
vile
,
sniffing hound
, Elliot Armstrong, marquis of Rannoch? Oh, that would get her attention, no doubt about it. Moreover, he already had some inkling of the low esteem in which her family held the marquis of Rannoch and those of his ilk. Given their seemingly deliberate reclusion, Elliot had been surprised to find that the denizens of Chatham had any knowledge of or interest in the antics of society; nonetheless, Mrs. Weyden had made their feelings about Rannoch quite plain.

And Elliot would make no apologies for what he was. Indeed, what would be the point? He was not some callow youth led into a life of debauchery out of ignorance. No, he had chosen his path with great deliberation and reaped the fruits of his lifestyle with abandon. It was his means of protection; it was his prudently chosen defense against the harsh truths of this ugly world. He had no need to search his soul. Elliot always knew precisely what he was about, even when it was not very nice.

His reputation was well earned. There was nothing malicious in what was said about him; much of it was true, and in time the remainder would no doubt come to be fact. Yes, he was on that slippery slope that had so disturbed his mother and tempted generations of Benhams. However, in his case, it was not the slope to ruin, though he had indeed sent many a man down it. No, Rannoch himself was on the slippery slope to hell, and heretofore he had not much cared.

Impetuously, he turned from the window and strode from the room, turning left into the corridor and bounding up another level of the sweeping circular staircase. When he arrived at the third-floor landing, Elliot took up the hall lamp and turned right. Quickly, before he could change his mind, he walked past the schoolroom and opened the door just beyond. Stealthily, he eased inside and put down the lamp beside his daughter’s bed.

It is the end that crowns us, not the fight
.

—R
OBERT
H
ERRICK

Z
oë looked unusually peaceful in her sleep. By the light of day, the child occasionally looked apprehensive, and far older than her seven and a half years. Pretty little Frederica d’Avillez was, what, eight or nine? Certainly no more. Yet they were altogether different children, and Elliot again suffered the sickening suspicion that the difference was his error, that he had in some essential way failed his daughter, his own flesh and blood.

Settling himself carefully onto the small half-tester bed, Elliot looked about Zoë’s well-appointed bedchamber. Tastefully decorated in pink and gold, the room was filled with soft white furniture imported from France. Books and toys lined the walls, fine silk slippers sat heel to toe in Zoë’s wardrobe, and all manner of lacy littlegirl things filled her chiffonier. Miss Smith, Zoë’s governess, slept in an adjoining room, and Elliot had been assured that the woman provided the best education money could buy. All this, however, was not enough. After his time at Chatham Lodge, Elliot was slowly beginning to understand what Zoë needed from him, but often the knowledge brought him little hope and even less comfort. In truth, Elliot sometimes feared that he had nothing more to give, that it had already been wrung out of him. Shut off. Forever disconnected. He was trying, but he needed help.

Evangeline
. Evangeline would know what to do, and suddenly he wished that she were with him. He needed her. God, he needed her for so many things. Impulsively, he leaned down to kiss Zoë’s plump, pink cheek, and as he righted himself, Elliot was dismayed to see that her eyes were flickering open.

“Papa?” In the darkness, her whisper seemed as uncertain and ephemeral as Zoë herself.

“Go back to sleep, Zoë.” He patted the blankets reassuringly. “I did not mean to wake you.”

“Is anything wrong, Papa?” Her huge brown eyes blinked in confusion as she pulled herself up onto one elbow. One dark, bouncing ringlet fell from her nightcap and tumbled over her face.

Elliot smiled. “Oh, no, sweet. I just came up to kiss you good night and to tell you that I love you.” He watched Zoë nod and smile, as if nightly, or even daily, visits from her father were the norm. They should have been, but they were not, and both of them knew it. Slowly, she rubbed one eye with the back of her pudgy hand, then settled herself back into her pillow, pulling the covers up to her dimpled chin. Big, innocent eyes, unblinking now, stared up at him.

“Zoë,” he blurted out uncertainly, “are you happy here?” Elliot wanted to bite back the words at once, but it was too late.

The little girl looked up at him a little anxiously and said nothing.

“It is perfectly all right to tell me, Zoë,” Elliot whispered reassuringly. “Strath is a big, empty house. Sometimes I get lonely, and I just wondered if, perhaps, you did, too.”

“Miss Smith tells me I must be grateful that I have a home,” answered Zoë reluctantly. “And because I am allowed to stay here, she says I must work very hard on my studies and be very good. I should not complain or cause trouble.”

Elliot made a mental note to discharge Miss Smith directly after breakfast. “Zoë,” he whispered, chucking her softly under the chin with his knuckle. “I love you, and your home will always be with me, regardless of whether you are bad or good, silly or smart. Did you not understand that?”

Mutely, the little girl shook her head, her chestnut curls tumbling loose to glint in the candlelight. Elliot looked at her and felt true shame. Despite his belated determination to be a better father, fear and insecurity, two emotions no child should suffer, still tormented his child. And it was his fault. Awkwardly, Elliot leaned forward and pulled her tiny frame to his chest, wrapping his arms around her as if he feared she might vanish in the night. It was often thus with Zoë. To Elliot, it was as if she did not belong on this earth, let alone in this house, and now he feared that she might feel it, too.

She was like a delicate feather, this daughter of his. “I love you, Zoë,” he whispered again, this time into her curls.
And I wish I could be a better papa. But I am afraid and ignorant and frozen inside
. Those words he did not say. Instead, Elliot held his tongue and after a long moment forced himself to lessen his grip and pull away. It was too much; he did not wish to frighten her. Or himself.

The Great Subscription Room of Brooks’s was awash in the
haut monde
. Tonight, England’s nobility and gentry mingled, shoulder to shoulder, about the gaming tables and throughout the adjoining card room, as they did almost every evening, in season and out. Elliot arrived late, and in an exceedingly ill humor. He did not want to drink and gamble; he wanted to stay at Strath House and wallow in the misery of what his life might have been like.

Nonetheless, he could not do so. He had given his word to Winthrop, in a vain attempt to end last night’s mind-numbing barrage of questions about where and with whom he had been keeping himself. Evangeline did not deserve the kind of mischievous havoc Major Winthrop, Lord Linden, and Sir Hugh were capable of wreaking, and he knew perfectly well that his cronies would not hesitate to have him followed should their curiosity get the better of them.

Pray God they had not already done so. Elliot had not missed the significance of society’s interest in his antics. Winnie Weyden’s little scandal rag had taken a year or two off his life, and he knew perfectly well that either Hugh or Linden had been responsible for the printing of such drivel.

With a weary sigh, Elliot strode through the rooms searching for his uncle. As they invariably did, everyone stepped quickly from his path, even those few who, according to the strictures of English society, outranked him. It had always been thus; men either averted their eyes or nodded reverently, depending upon their preferences, but no one looked him in the eye. No one sat down with him absent an invitation. No one challenged him to play or duel without great forethought. And no one ever, ever laughed at him to his face.

Not anymore.

Just inside the card room, Hugh and the others had already taken a table, as well as a bottle, and sat in impatient readiness. Elliot slipped into his seat without comment, and Hugh filled his glass. Slowly, Elliot eased into the rhythms of the game. This one was for sport, not money. Elliot never took advantage of his friends, and Winthrop and Linden were the best of friends, steadfast and true, despite their incessant efforts to appear otherwise. The play was fast, and the conversation desultory, for the better part of an hour.

“Well, well!” boomed an obnoxiously jovial voice. Lord Barton, a club regular, approached their table. “Here’s a nasty pit of vipers, indeed! Huddled all together tonight, gentlemen?” He paused just inside the salon, his florid face split in a wide grin, a nearly empty wine glass in hand. “Have you no innocent victims as yet?”

Elliot lifted his gaze from the table to eye the newcomer grimly. “There is no such thing as an innocent victim in this sport, Barton. You know it well.”

“Nonetheless, the night is young,” drawled the dandified Linden enticingly as he finished dealing with a sharp snap. The blond viscount cut a shrewd glance up at the visitor. “Care to join us, Barton?”

“Hah! I’m hardly such a dotard as all that, Linden. The four of you can sell your souls for someone else’s gold this evening.”

“Have you a suggestion, my lord?” asked Major Winthrop dryly, never bothering to lift his gaze from his and. “Who among us looks plump in the purse tonight?”

Casually, Lord Barton raised a bejeweled quizzing glass to survey the busy room, then gestured with his wine glass through the doorway toward the gaming alon. “Yonder stands young Carstairs. He is eager, rich, and I daresay rather ignorant. Try your luck at—” Barton paused to narrow his gaze, grunting disdainfully. “No, never mind, gentlemen. Poor lad has just become carrion to the new Baron Cranham. They’ve fallen in together even as I speak.”

“Cranham, eh?” Sir Hugh’s voice was gruff. “What the devil is this club about, I should like to know? Letting such a one slip through the doors! Why, the very purpose of this club is undermined by permitting the likes of him to crawl in off the street and taint—”

“Good God, Hugh!” Elliot barked as Lord Barton drifted away. “You sound as supercilious and sanctimonious as Mother. I marvel that you don’t sprout angel wings right on the spot.”

Major Winthrop looked at Elliot strangely, then lowered his gaze to his hand. “None of us has more cause to hate Cranham than do you, Rannoch,” he murmured speculatively. “What I wonder is why you haven’t called him out already.”

Elliot regarded his dark-haired companion in silence for a long moment. “I want no quarrel with Cranham, Winthrop. I challenged him ten years ago, and he fled. He knows his own shame. ’Tis done.”

Sir Hugh snorted derisively, then just as quickly hushed when he noted Elliot’s hard glare. “I plan to mind my own business,” added Elliot, the cold finality unmistakable in his tone, “and I suggest, gentlemen, that the rest of you do the same.”

And so he did. For the better part of two hours, Elliot inded his own business. He was not, however, fool enough to take his eyes from Cranham. With a discreet vigilance, Elliot watched the enemy. The new baron seemed unaware of Elliot’s presence in the room, but Elliot sensed that it was not so.

Cranham and Carstairs had drifted nearer and now stood only a few feet away, observing a heated game of hazard. Cranham was already known to be under the hatches financially, and the pair had been drinking prodigiously since midnight, a combination that, in Elliot’s opinion, inevitably bode ill for someone. Both gentlemen were now well in their cups, but Cranham was showing signs of serious intoxication. With any luck at all, Elliot ruefully considered, his old adversary might just drink himself to death and save someone else the trouble of killing him.

Suddenly, Hugh flung his cards onto the table. “Well, that’s it, gentlemen. Much afraid I’m all in.”

“Agreed,” said Lord Linden, sweeping up the table. “Call for your carriage, Winthrop. Let us all go down to Madame Claire’s and get a private room and some champagne! She has a brace of buxom new lasses, one of whom can reputedly suck the brass off a cheap candlestick.”

“Aye, well, I’ve a cheap enough one for her right here,” suggested Hugh with a leer, waggling his grizzled brows enthusiastically.

Major Winthrop lifted one dark eyebrow skeptically. “I don’t know, old chaps. Perhaps we might try—”

Elliot shoved his chair back with a harsh scrape. “I do not share women,” he said irritably, his voice a low growl.

From the table just inside the adjoining salon, someone cleared his throat with apparent deliberation. “One does not always have a say in such matters, Lord Rannoch.” The tone was contemptuous but unsteady. “For example, you shared Antoinette Fontaine, and quite generously, too. But, then, perhaps you were unaware of your hospitality?”

Elliot heard the unmistakable voice, rose calmly from the table, then crossed the narrow space between them. Cranham’s insult had not been unexpected. In fact, it had been almost anticlimactic, and Elliot was glad to have done with the opening salvo. As he had known all along, it was inevitable that he would have to kill the bastard. He was not happy about it, but Cranham would insist.

Beside him, his friends and his uncle shifted uneasily in their chairs, but they did not rise. Elliot was more than capable of handling the new baron, and they knew it. Elliot eyed Cranham derisively. “As it happens, Moore,” he answered dryly, deliberately omitting his title, “I want no quarrel with you, and I hope you enjoyed Miss Fontaine. She is a far better class of whore than the last one we very nearly shared.”

Behind him, Lord Linden burst out into a snicker. The crowd around Cranham nervously dispersed, leaving the gentlemen to their argument. Cranham’s face flamed with rage. “How dare you insult my—my—”

“Your what?” asked Elliot silkily. “Your taste in women?”

Cranham brandished his fist in Elliot’s face. “You weren’t fit to lick the ground Cicely Forsythe trod upon, you ignorant Scot! I’ll not stand by whilst you impugn her, damn you!”

Elliot widened his eyes and arched his brows deliberately. “Lick the ground she trod upon? Come, come, now, Cranham! That’s doing it a bit too brown! I may be an inveterate blackguard, I’ll grant you that, but as I recollect, the only ground Cicely was about to tread upon was the path to the altar. On my arm, with your bastard in her belly.”

“You’re a damned liar, Rannoch! You took her innocence, then abandoned her. I loved her, and she loved me.”

“Aye, and some believe fairy folk roam the Highlands,” muttered Elliot with a toss of his hand. Slowly, he turned to walk away.

“I would have wed her,” rasped Cranham.

“Would you have, indeed?” asked Elliot softly. He spun back around to face Cranham. “How regrettable that there was not merely one but two social obligations forestalled by your untimely departure for Bombay.”

Cranham, red-faced and almost slavering now, took a step toward Elliot and began to jab one finger at his chest. “She wanted to marry me, damn you to hell! Her uncle forbade it because I was poor and untitled! My father had me bound, gagged, and shipped off, just to spare his family the embarrassment. You bloody well know that’s true.”

Elliot felt a flicker of sympathy for the drunken, irate man who stood before him. “The latter may possibly be true, Cranham, but I pray you will not lie to yourself about what Cicely wanted. Her desperate uncle would have cheerfully wed her to a Covent Garden costermonger. It was Cicely who made a coldly calculated gamble on my goodwill and lost.”