The Elusive Lord Everhart: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series (11 page)

She swallowed down another moan. “Well, no. But I think I would know the diff—”

“There you have it,” he said succinctly. “You would not even know a kiss if it had happened,
which it did not
. Now tilt your head forward like before, or you will strain yourself again.”

Oh, yes
. Every rumor she’d heard about Everhart’s skill with his hands was indeed warranted. Of course, she shouldn’t have paid any attention to what widows whispered behind their fans at balls, but one could not simply forget what one was not supposed to overhear. Those were usually the most interesting bits of conversation.

Still, she could not allow her somewhat overactive imagination to let her lose this argument. “The flesh that brushed mine was decidedly warmer than your thumbs.”

“Are you saying my hands are cold?” He did something almost wicked then, sliding his fingers along the ridge of her shoulders as his rotating thumbs slipped beneath the back of her gown.

Sweet heaven
. “Not at all. Only that I’m certain what I felt was softer than the flesh of your thumbs, but not overly soft, and warmer, like the heat rising out of a brazier.”

“Hmm,” he murmured deep in his throat, causing her to feel the rumble of it rising up through the stair tread. “This is quite the mystery. Are you certain it was not this . . . ” He brushed the pad of his thumb along the curve of her nape, eliciting a pleasant series of tremors through her.

Oh, please do that again
. “I’m certain.”

He shifted behind her. “What about this,” he said, closer now. His heated breath sifted through fine strands of hair to fan out over her skin. “Perhaps you merely felt my breath on your flesh.”

Everhart made the notion sound sinful and decadent. Her mouth watered.

His massage remained unhurried and thorough, delving into the deepest part of her ache, all the while creating a new one elsewhere—foreign and familiar at the same time, like a book slowly coming to life at the reader’s bidding. And when his breath caressed her, she felt her pages stir.

Shortly after the beginning of their acquaintance, Everhart had been cold to her, so unlike the way he was with everyone else. She longed to discover the mystery behind his changeling behavior.

She’d been trying to make a point to him about how he could not remain cold and annoyed with her for years and then suddenly turn warm and friendly without explanation. Yet at the moment, she no longer cared. She was solely living in this moment. Her, Calliope Croft. Not a character in a story, but her.

Another breath touched her. His lips glided against her flesh once more.

“Everhart, are you kissing me now?” She knew the answer, of course, but she needed to hear him admit it.

“No, Miss Croft,” he said, nipping her lightly. The fingers at her shoulders trailed down to tease the flesh beneath her lace trim, just above the curve of her breasts. “I’m offering you a frame of reference, should you accuse another man of kissing your neck in the future.”

That was unlikely, but she made no comment. Shamelessly, she let him continue.
A rake should behave as a rake ought
, she reasoned. This was his basic nature at work. And she preferred the heated press of his lips far above his unwarranted coldness. The soft, teasing caress of his fingertips made her breasts tingle. Her nipples grew taut. She wanted him to touch her. She wanted to arch her back.

Surely, this solitary moment wouldn’t hurt her reputation or change the fact that she would be gone from here as soon as she found the letter and . . .
Wait
.

The letter.

That was the reason she’d come into the map room in the first place. How could she have forgotten?
Well
. . . Everhart’s skillful hands and lips were the likely cause. Nonetheless, now that she remembered her purpose, she could not forget it again.

Leaning forward, Calliope abruptly abandoned her spot on the pillow and clambered down the stairs. Not wanting to appear like a frightened ninny, she smoothed her hands over her gown and turned to face him. But that was a mistake.

The firelight caught the dampness of his lips, which drew her attention to the spot cooling on the back of her neck. She shivered. His blue-green eyes were cloudy and heavy lidded in a way that made her want to climb the stairs again. He offered no excuse for his behavior, but merely beseeched her with his potent, seductive charm, tempting her to return to his embrace. And
oh
she was tempted indeed.

She shook her head as if to answer his unspoken question. “You have distracted me from my purpose long enough.”

A slow grin curled the corners of his mouth. “If you are ever in want of another distraction, please enter my sanctuary again. I promise to be thorough.”

Her knees wobbled at the same time her suspicions went on alert. With four siblings, she understood taunting when she heard it. In addition to that, they both knew of his wager with Montwood and Danvers; therefore, he would never be so
thorough
as to compromise her. Yet apparently, that was what he wanted her to believe. “Come now, Everhart. I thought we were going to be friends, but friends do not issue threats.”

“I do not think we can be friends, Miss Croft.”
Another threat
. His gaze was clearly telling her something else entirely. It said,
We could be much, much more than friends
. The same way he looked at all women.

As much as it thrilled her—to be seen as a woman worthy of his seduction when all she’d earned before was his censure—somehow this felt worse than when she’d thought he hated her. Now, she was just like all the others. Not that she wanted to be different in his eyes. No, it was just that she wanted to be special to
someone
, instead of so easily forgotten.

She hid her inexplicable wound behind a tight smile. “I’m certain we could have been friends, if you weren’t such a conceited, condescending prig.”

Relishing his open-mouthed astonishment, she curtsied ever so sweetly and took her leave.

G
abriel fell back against the stairs, allowing the sharp edge of the tread to bite through his coat. He issued a groan that was more frustration than pain.

A familiar laugh sounded from the doorway. “Did I just hear Miss Croft call you a
condescending prig
?”

Gabriel didn’t bother to look at Montwood. “You left out
conceited
.”

“Even better.” From the sound of glass clinking and knowing what bottles remained on the sideboard, Montwood was now pouring a whiskey. “She left in quite the rush.”

“I made sure of that.” He was sure that she would never come back either. He’d already given in to temptation once—twice, if he counted the second kiss to her nape—and he would likely do so again.

He couldn’t risk it. Too much was at stake. He needed to make sure she knew that he couldn’t be relied upon to behave properly, no matter the circumstance.

Montwood tsked. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you.”

“I’m going to make this impossible.” Hearing his friend’s even footsteps approach, Gabriel sat upright and accepted the offered glass of whiskey. He downed it in one swallow.

“You’d deny yourself for the sake of a wager?”

It wasn’t all about the wager. Not for Gabriel. His reasons had deeper roots. “Would you do any less?”

Montwood didn’t answer. Instead he moved to the hearth and poked at the logs on the grate as they sizzled and popped in response. “And in a year’s time, will you marry her then?”

He couldn’t believe that Calliope had thought all this time that he hadn’t liked her. That he disapproved of her. It was as disconcerting as it was liberating. He could easily perpetuate the lie in order to keep her away from him.

“Before she leaves Fallow Hall,” Gabriel said, his mood darkening, “I’ll make sure she never wants to see me again.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

G
abriel opened the portal window on the far side of the attic. He closed his eyes against the blast of cold, damp morning air, perspiration cooling on his flesh. Having alternated between the use of his cane and one-legged hops, he’d managed to navigate all the stairs. He hoped the exercise would dispel the futile desires that had plagued him all night.

Typically, he enjoyed early morning hours. During travels abroad, he’d written in his journal of each sunrise and the first sounds of each new day on any given spot on the earth. Lincolnshire hosted its own sounds—the silken hush of the wind through the evergreen boughs, the quiet rush of servants’ footsteps combined with the subdued murmur of their voices. It was comforting to know where one’s place was on the map at any given moment. Which was hardly something that a gentleman with the reputation for being an
aimless wanderer
could admit.

By all accounts, he was supposed to roam, to revel in exploration. And he did. He loved experiencing new sights, sounds, fragrances, and flavors. But as wonderful as those experiences had been, there had been something missing.

He knew what it was, of course. A man did not advance to eight and twenty without a sense of his own mind. He’d learned firsthand how lonely traveling could be, even when among friends. For him, there had always been a certain amount of poetry to the journey home to England. Even when he had not been returning to any home in particular.

He’d never felt such acute yearning for a home until recently. It was unsettling. More than anything, he wanted to run from this feeling. Run from Lincolnshire. Run from Calliope Croft and everything she represented. But with this damnable broken leg and the restriction of his monies, he couldn’t. He was trapped here.

That restlessness had woken him before dawn.

Turning away from the window, he began to rummage through crates, searching for something to alleviate one source of his distress. By the time he reached the third one, he’d found what he was looking for. “Ah. Here is something that might prove useful.”

Valentine stood beside him, holding a brace of candles. “My lord?”

“Pay particular attention to this crate.” Gabriel hefted the lid up from the floor and secured it once more, giving all appearances of its never having been disturbed. “There is a music box within. I believe one of our guests would find this discovery most advantageous.”

Valentine’s expression remained unchanged. “If there is a guest who requires a music box, then I will deliver it straightaway.”

“No. The purpose of leaving it here
is
the discovery.” Calliope would only start asking questions if the music box were presented to her.
“Curiosity has a voice as well . . . ”
He couldn’t endure the risk.

Gabriel drew a breath. “Should Miss Croft happen to mention a desire to free Nell from harp playing, you might wish to suggest the attic for a distraction.”

In a rare display of surprise, Valentine’s brow lifted slightly—more of a twitch, really—before his stoic countenance slid back into place. He inclined his head. “Very good, sir.”

“That way, the maid can go about her regular duties,” he said by way of explanation. He didn’t want the head butler to get the wrong idea. Or the right one. He loathed revealing a side of his personality that was contrary to what he wanted everyone to believe. He didn’t want to sound responsible or ready to manage an estate of his own. Thankfully, Valentine understood. The discussions regarding the running of Fallow Hall were to go no further than between them.

The truth was, he wanted to do something for Calliope—albeit anonymously—to make up for his behavior last night. And if easing her worry over the state of Nell’s fingertips would help, then he was glad to offer it.

Though with that thought came another. What if “finding” a music box allowed Calliope more time to roam the manor? While he wanted her to enjoy the sights and sounds of Fallow Hall and not spend so much time in service to her cousin, he also preferred to know exactly where she was at any given moment. It set him at ease.

Of course, he would be more at ease if she were
not
at Fallow Hall at all. At least that’s what he told himself. It was becoming more and more difficult to decide where he stood on the matter. The only thing he was certain of, however, was that he needed to keep her distracted. But how?

Cane in hand, Gabriel made his way back to the narrow stairs and then hesitated. “One more thing, Valentine. Notify Mrs. Merkel that she will report to Miss Croft, effective today.”

This way, Calliope would be too distracted to find her way into the map room. And he wouldn’t give into temptation again.

“I
’m terribly glad that Milton went hunting with Mr. Danvers and Lord Lucan,” Pamela said, reclining against the pillows, her head tilted toward the window. “It’s good for him to get out. Sometimes I worry about how much he depends on me.”

Calliope lifted the window sash and breathed in the cool, damp air, smiling at the view. Last night’s rain had melted the snow in patches of mud brown and slate gray where the earth met with stone. A circle of holly bushes surrounded a Grecian folly in the distance, the columns covered in spider webs of desiccated ivy. Yet even with such a miserable sight, nothing could hamper Calliope’s cheerful mood this morning. Her discovery ensured it.

“A husband and wife ought to depend upon each other, lighten each other’s burdens if possible.” Calliope thought of her parents and how well matched they were in that regard. Even now that her father’s health was failing, he still did everything he could to bring a smile to her mother’s lips, and her mother did the same for him.

“I am too cold,” her cousin grumbled. Apparently, the promise of a surprise—that both Calliope and Bess were arranging on the round table near the window—did nothing to brighten
Pamela’s
mood.

Calliope drew in another breath of fresh morning air before she closed the window. Finding the music box among the crates in the attic had been a stroke of pure luck. If it weren’t for Valentine’s suggestion, poor Nell would have doubtlessly been bleeding on the harp strings this very moment. Then, for good measure, Calliope had had two footmen remove the harp from the room, under the guise of having it restrung.