Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02] (31 page)

“Oh, Elliot,” she whispered, wrapping her arms tight about his waist, “come back to me.” With her womanly instinct, Evangeline angled her hips enticingly, and Elliot answered by sliding fully inside her again. His loving had made her slick and silky with wetness, and she savored the feel of him, hard and warm inside her. Evangeline listened as he drew a slow, ragged breath and moved again, then she let herself tighten against him, and relax, as they began an ancient rhythm. Beautiful. Evangeline thought it was beautiful.

Elliot lifted his head to watch her expressive face as she moved beneath him. Evangeline’s passion was innate; her timing and grace as she arched against him were almost feral in their beauty. Each time he drove into her, his control almost slipped. Evangeline moved with him in smooth, perfect motions which belied her inexperience. But she was inexperienced; the undeniable barrier of her maidenhood, now torn asunder, confirmed her virginity.

Yet Evangeline knew precisely what she was doing. Doing to him. She pivoted her hips and urged herself against him, drawing him into her with all the skill of a practiced courtesan. God, no. Elliot had taken many courtesans, and it was nothing like this. This was better. This was give and take. A sense of togetherness that Elliot had never before known. Making love. Yes. Therein lay his inexperience, yet it felt like lovemaking to him.

He sensed, even if Evangeline did not, the growing tension in her body and prayed that he could hold himself in check long enough to pleasure her once more. Biting his lip again, Elliot tried to focus on matching his rhythm to hers, on instinctively sensing the need within her every sigh and movement. Ah, she had twined her legs about his waist now. Each stroke was exquisite beyond description. It felt pure and good to love her.

Relying on a male intuition that had not been much used, Elliot paced and deepened his rhythms, hoping to bring her over the edge with him. He did not know what else to do. He had so little experience to guide him. Blindly, he relied on Evangeline to show him what she needed, leaning close to whisper against her hair. “Yes, Evie, yes,” he encouraged. “Come with me.”

When she came, it was with an explosion of force. She seemed literally to shatter against him, to splinter in his arms, seized by a deep, shuddering climax that drew him down with her into an abyss of hot, pulling need. Evangeline trembled uncontrollably in his arms, and he heard himself rasp out her name. And then blessed relief; he was coming apart with her, within her, spilling his seed into her womb and crying out as if he had never before spent himself inside a woman.

He collapsed against her and felt her, still trembling beneath him. She cradled his face in her hands and sought his mouth with hers, waiting for his breathing to calm. Her heart beat hard against his. Or was it his heart that pounded so wildly? As she pulled her mouth from his, he felt her reach up to spear her fingers through his hair, now damp with sweat. For a long, timeless moment, they remained thus, and he felt the remaining tension slip from their still-joined bodies.

“Elliot, my love,” she whispered at last, her tone reverent. He froze, then lifted his face from hers and stared at her.“Ah, yes. My love . . . for I do love you,”she murmured drowsily. Evie’s eyes were closed, her lashes lush against her skin. She was drifting very near sleep now. Only a smear of dampness marred her perfect thigh, and Elliot was struck with the realization of what it represented: innocence lost. Slowly, Elliot rolled to her side to let his heart still, keeping one leg hooked possessively over her.

She loved him? He did not believe it. Not really. Her goodness and purity were astonishing. He, an irredeemable blackguard, had dared to defile her, a woman he could not begin to deserve, and in response, she had whispered love words to him. Elliot knew that he should be ashamed, yet he thrust away the ugliness of what he had just done and clung greedily to those very words. With a newfound urgency, Elliot pulled her closer still and settled her into the crook of his arm. What had just passed between them had surely felt true and beautiful. More than a mating, more than just a gratification of sexual need. But love? How could she love him? She did not know him. And yet she had said the words. He closed his eyes and savored their sweetness and magic. Such words were a rare gift, and he would forever treasure them, whether or not she meant them tomorrow.

Against his ribs, Evangeline stirred, only half awake. She slid one hand up the length of his chest, letting her fingers play across the skin, taking comfort in the smell of him and in the taut strength of his muscles. Slowly, she let her eyes come open and tilted her chin to look up at him. In the darkness, he was watching her.

She had said that she loved him, Evangeline realized with a start. And the vow had been prompted by something more than the beauty of his loving. But she would think about that tomorrow. Snuggling closer, Evangeline skimmed her hand higher to caress his harsh jaw, and then down his neck and across the top of his shoulder.

High on his shoulder, she felt a second scar. No, not exactly a scar. Just a superficial wound. She felt him flinch ever so slightly and let her hand slide away. “Elliot,” she mumbled sleepily, “you must be more careful.”

His words sounded strained. “ ’Tis naught, Evie. A flesh wound,” he answered, threading the fingers of one hand gently through her hair. “Sleep, sweet. I want to love you again before I have to let you slip from my bed.”

“Umm,” she answered, snuggling deeper into the covers. And then she did sleep, deeply and dreamlessly, beside him. When she awoke, the storm had ended and the lamp was out. Elliot, still awake, feathered his mouth across her face, then made love to her again with his mouth, his hands, and his body, filling her with an aching sweetness and bringing her to blessed release.

Afterward, they remained entangled in each other until it was time for her to slip away to her own bed.

By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked

this way comes
. . .

—W
ILLIAM
S
HAKESPEARE

E
vangeline had come to believe that happiness was often short-lived. Nonetheless, the maelstrom of trouble that descended upon Chatham Lodge came far more quickly than even she might have guessed. After a night of pure bliss in Elliot’s arms, Evangeline had crept quietly back to her own bedchamber in the hours just before dawn. After seeing
Leopold
packed and shipped, she breakfasted alone with a taciturn Etienne, who hung over his coffee like a dejected dog. The comte, undoubtedly frustrated by his rather ephemeral and inconstant
affaire de coeur
with Winnie, made no further mention of France. He and Winnie had argued again, it was clear. With a little stab of annoyance at Winnie, Evangeline pretended not to notice his disappointment, then kissed Etienne’s cheek goodbye and saw him on his way to London.

After he guest’s departure, it was time to retire to her studio for a period of solitude before the children arose. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts of Elliot. She wanted to sit quietly and relive every moment of the previous night—except, perhaps, for one. Would he be the same this morning? Would her impulsive, artless vow have changed anything between them? She and Elliot were lovers now. Did not lovers share words of love, even when they did not entirely mean them? Elliot, though, had not said them. Evangeline had. And she was a little bit afraid that she had meant them. Nonetheless, she did not regret having said it. She had known intuitively that he needed to hear it, even if he did not.

In her discomfiture, she reminded herself that Elliot had asked her to marry him. But Evangeline had the impression that that was something a proper English gentleman felt compelled to say when he wanted a woman physically and did not wish to content himself with a mistress or a common prostitute. And although he never willingly discussed the ending of his betrothal, Evangeline understood that no one could easily recover from the loss of someone so obviously beloved. Yet she was not fool enough to believe that a man like Elliot did not have physical needs.

That was it, almost certainly. Elliot had lost the woman he truly loved. He had offered for Evangeline because he was fond of her and found her physically desirable, and, most likely, he would have obligingly married her. But Evangeline, with her blatant invitation, had made such a sacrifice wholly unnecessary. Perplexingly, however, Elliot had not looked relieved at her refusal. In fact, he had seemed quite angry, but as Winnie so often said, men were prideful creatures. Moreover, Elliot had quickly recovered from any disappointment he might have felt. That much had been obvious from the moment she had slipped into his room, into his arms, into his bed.

His bed. Oh, Lord. Evangeline had never known such pleasure. Already she was planning ways to be with him. Until she was forced by her step-grandmother to return to Flanders or her life took some other unexpected turn, Evangeline desperately hoped to keep Elliot as her friend and her lover. Squeezing her eyes shut, Evangeline refused even to consider the possibility that she might lose him. It was too painful to think about. Other than her family and her work, Elliot was her only need. She had a promise to keep, and she would do so, no matter the cost, but she needed Elliot. Oh, yes, she needed him very much.

For the remainder of the morning, Evangeline forced herself to work, busying herself by stretching canvases and touching up Elliot’s portrait. It was essentially finished now, and could have been done weeks ago, but she was loath to part with it. After an hour had passed, the rest of the household began to wake and ramble down into the dining room for breakfast. Eventually, Nicolette drifted in to say good morning, then sauntered out into the sunshine of the terrace, leaving the doors open at Evangeline’s request. The morning after a storm always seemed glorious, and she wanted to take full advantage of the sun, the breeze, and the extraordinary clear light.

Michael and Elliot soon followed, and the moment Michael’s attention drifted away, Elliot planted a discreet kiss on her forehead. “Mmm,” he said softly. “Sleep well, Evie?” His wicked, knowing smile warmed her in a way the sun never had.

“Indeed, Mr. Roberts,” she replied nonchalantly as Michael rejoined them. “And I hope that you slept well, too?”

Elliot agreed that he had slept exceedingly well, then cheerfully acquiesced to Michael’s plan that they join Nicolette on the terrace to sort out costumes for their Shakespearean comedy. Evangeline watched them go with a measure of disappointment, for she would have liked to have kept Elliot to herself for that special morning. But he was good for Michael, and that was important.

Elliot, she had come to realize, was a complex man. Evangeline had never ventured out into society, and that decision had been hers, not Maxwell Stone’s. Winnie’s girlhood friend, Lady Bland, had twice offered to bring Evangeline out, but Evangeline had graciously declined. Until she had met Elliot, Evangeline had considered all gentlemen of the English aristocracy to be shallow, vain, and, in most cases, profligate. Elliot, however, was different, and Evangeline now felt a tinge of guilt for having mentally painted every Englishman with the same brush.

For the remainder of the morning, Evangeline continued to work in her studio. The children dashed in and out of the house, asking all manner of questions and lugging out mysterious books and boxes, but on the whole, the day seemed pleasant and ordinary. At about half past eleven, Evangeline thought she heard the rumble of carriage wheels rounding the circular drive but paid it little heed. Bolton by no means elevated butlering to any glorious height; however, one duty he unfailingly accomplished was the discreet but thorough interrogation of unknown visitors. Moreover, the elderly retainer was careful to announce all callers formally before allowing them admittance to the drawing room or studio.

Other than she and Winnie, who had not deigned to participate in Nicolette’s theatrical production, the entire household had assembled on the lower terrace, where play practice was now in session. Aside from the occasional shouts of raucous laughter that floated up from the gardens, the house was serene.

Given all this, it was with great surprise that Evangeline heard the clamor of agitated voices erupt in the corridor outside her studio. The sharp, cultivated tone that carried most distinctly was rapidly approaching her door, even as Winnie’s polite protestations ensued from further down the hall.

“Miss Stone most assuredly will see me, Mrs. Weyden,” insisted the imperious voice, “or she shall see my attorneys. And we none of us want that, I should hope.”

Winnie’s polite rejoinder faded as a clatter of ladies’ heels arrived at Evangeline’s open door. Stunned, she looked up to see an elderly lady standing, proud and ramrod-straight, upon her threshold. A cold, appraising gleam sparked in the lady’s eyes as her gaze swept the room, and Evangeline was struck with the fleeting thought that the Conqueror himself must have looked just so as he sailed into Pevensey.

The woman was tall, slender, and elegantly attired in a black carriage dress which made a perfect foil for the silver of her elegantly coiffed hair. She possessed an icy sort of beauty which seemed to have faded very little, though Evangeline estimated her age at just over three score. An obviously disconcerted Winnie stood just to the lady’s left. Behind them stood a couple: a beautiful raven-haired woman, exquisitely dressed in dark gray silk, and an older gentleman whom she held lightly by the elbow. A sick, sinking sensation hit Evangeline as she forced herself to rise from her desk chair. After almost ten years of relative peace, it seemed that her family had at last come to call.

Winnie pursed her lips in an angry gesture, then waltzed boldly forward into the room. “Pardon the interruption, Miss Stone,” she began, reverting to their rarely used formalities. “May I present Honoria Stone, the dowager countess of Trent?”

As Winnie moved to stand beside the desk, Evangeline dropped into a stiffly elegant curtsy. “Your ladyship,” she murmured coolly, returning her gaze to defiantly hold that of her visitor. “To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?”

The dowager came forward into the room in a rustle of black silk, followed by her companions who trotted behind like dutiful hounds. At her quick, almost indiscernible motion, the couple obediently moved to flank the elderly dowager, and Evangeline could almost imagine her ordering them both to “sit” and “stay.”

“I come on business, Miss Stone,” the dowager began crisply. “May I introduce your uncle, Lord Trent, and his wife, Lady Trent?”

Evangeline eyed the gentleman appraisingly, taking some small measure of satisfaction when he paled visibly under her direct gaze. “My uncle is known to me, my lady,” she replied with a cool nod in his direction, “and I am, of course, pleased to make the belated acquaintance of my aunt.”

“You have a foreign accent,” snipped the dowager unexpectedly.

Evangeline forced a wry smile. “That would depend, my lady, on one’s definition of foreign. I can assure you that my Flemish is flawless, should it please you to converse in another language.”

“Impudent wench! But of course, I expected no less.” The dowager scowled, but Evangeline held her firmly frozen smile. “Well, girl? Will you ask us to be seated?”

Evangeline waved her hand, palm up, toward the sofa. “By all means. Would anyone care for coffee?”

Lord and Lady Trent murmured their refusals and dutifully took seats on the sofa on either side of the dowager as if they were the king’s personal guard. Evangeline watched as the elderly woman settled stiffly onto the edge of her seat, then straightened her skirts. Beside her, Stephen Stone, the new earl of Trent, looked almost older than his stepmother, and Evangeline seemed to recall that the dowager was but a few years his elder. The younger Lady Trent, however, was no more than five and thirty and possessed of the same selfish eyes and brittle beauty as graced the dowager, a circumstance that was not surprising, since Evangeline knew that they were aunt and niece, as well as in-laws.

The marriage had been yet another tribute to Honoria Stone’s power. When her son-in-law’s first wife died childless, a new bride was imperative. Evangeline could easily guess Honoria’s requirements: the second wife must be biddable, fertile, and possessed of excellent bloodlines. Who better, then, than Honoria’s seventeen-year-old niece, a lovely girl who had just made her comeout? As soon as the minimal period of mourning had passed, the new bride was expediently ensconced at the ancient family seat, Cambert Hall.

It was strange, Evangeline thought as she surveyed her three callers. She felt very little fear or unease at their effrontery, just a calm sense of outrage and a strong willingness to fight. Paradoxically, though Evangeline had dreaded this battle, she now welcomed the opening salvo. There would be a certain relief in drawing the battle lines and engaging the enemy. The sooner the matter was resolved, the sooner Evangeline could get on with her life, wherever it might take her. She only hoped that the children—and Elliot—remained ignorant of the visitors.

Evangeline motioned Winnie toward one of the carved armchairs, then seated herself in the other. “Very well, then,” she began crisply. “I can see that this business must be dire indeed, since it has brought you to Chatham after all these years. Pray begin.”

Evangeline watched as the dowager narrowed her eyes and looked her up and down suspiciously. Finally, she spoke. “As you are obviously unaware, Miss Stone, your grandfather recently passed away.”

Evangeline nodded curtly. “Indeed, I was aware, my lady. Our condolences on your loss.” Winnie murmured her agreement.

The dowager frowned, displeased, perhaps, by their cool composure and good manners. “I assumed you had not heard,” she answered acidly, “since you have not seen fit to put on your mourning.”

“I have nothing to mourn, ma’am. I did not know him.”

The dowager’s gaze sharpened as she folded her gloved hands neatly in her lap. “So that is how it is to be, Miss Stone? I own, I should not be surprised at your attitude.”

“Indeed, you should not. With all due respect, my lady, it was you who determined how things were to be—which is to say, nonexistent—between my grandfather and my father.” Evangeline deliberately kept her voice polite but otherwise emotionless. “You must now excuse me if I cannot mourn the death of a man whose affection I was denied during his life.”

“I see. Your disrespect is born of resentment.”

Evangeline shook her head and smiled wanly. “No, indeed, my lady. You mistake me. I cannot think that we grandchildren have suffered greatly by the loss of our grandparents’ regard, though we would have welcomed you—indeed, do welcome you—into our home at any time. And as you can see, you are here today, and with our every felicitation.”

The dowager pulled a skeptical face, clearly nonplussed by Evangeline’s equanimity, and stared pointedly at Winnie. “Mrs. Weyden, you are her guardian, are you not? Have you taught her no respect for her betters?”

Following Evangeline’s example, Winnie smoothly refused the bait with her most simpering smile. “I daresay Miss Stone’s manners are all that they should be, my lady. However, I am merely her companion. Evangeline is now of age, and my brother-in-law is their trustee.”

“Bah! Naught but another foreigner,” challenged the dowager.

“Perhaps you were unaware that Peter is half English,” interjected Evangeline, “his mother having been a cousin to the earl of Fothereigh?”