The Elusive Lord Everhart: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series (2 page)

“If you are certain,” he said. When she gave him a firm nod, he continued. “Then we shall make our journey on the morrow and remain for only a few hours.”

With that settled, he turned to press a kiss into Delaney’s auburn curls. “It is time to wake up, Mrs. Croft.”

He whispered the words with such affection that Calliope blushed.

Feeling like a voyeur, she pretended a sudden desire to check the state of the coals inside the brass foot warmer. No rise of warmth penetrated her Limerick gloves. Regardless, she lifted the lid only to find a bed of finely sifted ash. Closing the lid, she sat back. Then, adjusting the heavy woolen blanket over her lap, she reached for the fur muff on the seat beside her.

Beyond the fogged carriage windows, heavy gray clouds shrouded the snow-covered countryside. The scenery should have appeared picturesque. Not bleak and desolate. But suddenly that was how she felt. Bleak, desolate . . .
alone
. In fact, if she were the lead character in one of the novels she read, she might expect castle ruins looming in the distance. Although, much the same, barren trees and scraggily shrubs marked the rutted landscape like scars along the Great North Road.

Since the clusters of evergreens did not suit a bout of melancholy, she chose to ignore their beauty and wallow for a moment longer. Because if one thought about snow-laden boughs, one naturally thought of sleigh rides. And no one could be unhappy while whisking through the brisk winter air with snowflakes kissing one’s cheeks.

Calliope’s sigh fogged up the glass, obscuring her view completely. Perhaps she never should have refused Brightwell’s proposal. She’d genuinely liked his company. When he’d begun to court her all those years ago, she’d known the likely outcome.

Calliope blamed the letter. And
perhaps
her own somewhat overly romantic nature.

She could have made a life with Brightwell. Instead, she’d let him slip through her fingers. She could have had a sleigh-ride partner for the rest of her life.

If she were the lead character in her own novel, she would have found the man who’d stolen her heart in a letter, married him posthaste, and lived happily ever after.

But sadly, her life hadn’t turned out that way. She never found the man who’d written the most beautiful letter in existence. She’d spent years looking for him, compiling a series of lists in a journal on every gentleman of the
ton
who fit the criteria, and even those who did not.

In her opinion, her love-letter lover would possess:

1. A poet’s soul
.

2. A passionate nature
.

3. An undisguised yearning in his gaze
.

4. An inclination to marry

Or in the very least . . .

5. Ink on his fingertips
.

She’d conducted surreptitious interviews with every dance partner, every sister, every maiden aunt and mother. Oddly enough, there had been numerous candidates, likely because she possessed a rather idealistic view of the world. Or at least, she
had
.

Until her love-letter lover had written to someone else.

When the first of the infamous Casanova letters appeared, her heart had broken. Other debutantes began receiving letters as well, six in all. While Calliope had kept hers a secret, the others had not. Their letters had been recited during calling hours with a great deal of sighs, fanning, and even a few swoons.

Yet while the other letters lacked the transformative intensity that hers possessed, she knew—after seeing them with her own eyes and noting the distinctive lettering—they were all written by the same hand.

That was when Calliope had realized that the
ton
’s Casanova was a glutton. A heart collector. Soon, it had become all too obvious that Calliope had been a fool for refusing Brightwell.

She’d often wondered if—upon his closer inspection—the anonymous author had found her nose too wide, her brows too straight, her lips too plump, and her brown eyes too plain. To each of those flaws she would concede. She believed, however, that her forehead sloped nicely to the edge of her blonde hair, and her ears were not too small. Those self-redeeming qualities notwithstanding, the result had been the same.

She’d been nothing special to him.

After the soul-crushing realization took hold, she no longer entertained the notion of having a Season. The love in her heart had turned from sweet to bitter. Afraid of breaking that fragile organ again, she gave up on marriage.

Now, five years later and on the shelf—a veritable spinster—she still wished to discover his identity. But not to marry him.

Absolutely not
.

Instead, she wanted to expose this cad to the entire
ton
and make him pay for all the hearts and promises he’d broken.

Perhaps, one day, she would have the chance.

G
abriel Ludlow, Viscount Everhart, collapsed against the cushions of the sofa and gritted his teeth. The splint around his lower leg was a damnable nuisance. A month had passed since he’d broken the bone above his ankle, and he wasn’t certain which bothered him more—the steady ache from the injury or the constant pinching from the cure.

Damn
, he needed another drink.

Reaching forward to massage his leg between the slats of wood, Gabriel answered the challenge his friend had issued a moment ago. “Forget it, Montwood. Only a fool would wager against you. You have a peculiar way of winning when it suits you.”

“Aye.” Rafe Danvers nodded, the firelight glancing off his dark, angular features. Lifting a finger away from the glass in his hand, he pointed to the man in question. “I’ve seen you at the tables too many times to gamble with you, as well.”

Renowned for his charm, Lucan Montwood ignored their comments and tossed the cork from another bottle into the fire. Lying on the floor in front of the hearth, the lanky gray dog that had made his home here in recent weeks didn’t even flinch.

Arching black brows over amber eyes, Montwood considered the label of a rather costly scotch. A slow, appreciative grin followed.

Gabriel knew firsthand that it was costly. His own father, the estimable Duke of Heathcoat, had railed at him over the price. The tirade had expanded to encompass an entire life of imprudent choices.
“A waywardness that is unbecoming to the heir of a dukedom.”

No stranger to these lessons in castigation, Gabriel shouldn’t have been bothered. Yet his convenient deafness during these moments had abandoned him of late. He was actually starting to
hear
his father.
Bugger it all
.

“Then in celebration of the departure of our most recent guest, I offer a toast—”

“Thank the Lord that Brightwell’s mother-in-law left today,” Danvers interrupted.

Montwood continued without missing a breath. “To Fallow Hall, where the rent is cheap and the friends are wealthy.”

“And good riddance to those ankle-biting terrors she kept with her.” Danvers bumped the rim of his glass against the bottle for another finger or two. In truth, the three of them had stopped counting the amount of fine spirits they’d consumed. It was more a measure of how close to filling without spilling that mattered now.

Filling without spilling?
Gabriel rolled his eyes to the cornices outlining the domed ceiling overhead. This wasn’t a good sign. He always started to rhyme when he’d had a too much to drink. Although, he distinctly recalled several instances in the past when he’d imbibed in a greater quantity and it hadn’t taken hold so soon.

He blamed the Dowager Duchess of Heathcoat. Being under the constant scrutiny of the
ton
’s most formidable dragon had turned him into a one-bottle man. A sad day, indeed.

But there was nothing he could have done differently. At the time, she’d threatened to have his father cut him off.
Completely and without a shilling!
Well, except for the six thousand pounds he lived on each year.
Still
. . . What a fine threat, and from his own grandmother too.

Now, safely tucked away in the wilds of Lincolnshire, he could once again be himself. He’d had his fill of reforming. Especially when it had served no purpose, other than to make his father expect more from him. Until
more
had become too much.

Gabriel lifted his glass as soon as Montwood filled it to the brim. “To Fallow Hall—where neither brides nor babes may ever roam!”

The two other bachelors cheered
“Huzzah!”
and tossed back another swallow.

Danvers tipped the glass a bit too far and wavered on his feet. Swaying, he dropped into an upholstered armchair at his back. Yet with an outstretched arm, he managed to save the liquor with nary a splash and gave a low whistle.

Gabriel saluted his fellow one-bottle man.

Montwood made the rounds, topping them off, his pouring hand suspiciously steady. “Alas, there is a bride in residence already.”

“Not mine.
Never
mine.” The gratitude in Gabriel’s voice echoed down from the ceiling. “Brightwell”—absent from their party, the poor bugger—“is stuck with that baggage. I was merely being charitable to allow an old friend and his wife a bit of respite.”

“The carriage accident was a month ago,” Danvers pointed out needlessly.

Gabriel was all too aware of how long ago the accident had been
and
how long their guests had been in residence in the east wing. Far too close to his own suite of rooms. For that reason, he spent most of his time here, in the north tower.

The map room had been his haven in recent weeks. Framed atlas prints adorned the walls, each one hosting places he’d been or new ones he’d yet to explore. At the back of the room, a spiral staircase curved up toward an open loft filled with books and journals of fellow travelers, in addition to enormous volumes of charts he was eager to inspect.

He was itching at the prospect of another expedition. The need to be aboard a ship, with the wind in his face and England at his back, filled his thoughts. That was something he was good at—running away. Staying one step ahead of guilt and responsibility.

“Not to add bumble broth to our merriment,” Montwood interrupted, his tone ominous, “but the physician suggested continued bed rest until Lady Pamela’s”—he coughed—“mental faculties return.”

Gabriel didn’t appreciate the reminder, but laughed nonetheless. “Though I have not been acquainted with Lady Brightwell overly long, she’s been rather bird-witted the entire time. If bed rest will aid her, then surely another glass of scotch will
prevent
me from becoming foxed.”

“Aye!” Danvers nodded and squinted in agreement as if Socrates had just spoken.

Montwood held his empty glass to his eye as if it were an enormous monocle. “Ah. A mystery solved at last! The reason Everhart hasn’t married is that he would prefer a bluestocking for a bride.”

Gabriel frowned. This conversation rang with too many familiar notes, bringing to mind the demands of his father.
“This tomfoolery has gone on long enough. It is time for you to take your rightful place in society. No more gadding about, wasting your life on games, expeditions, and light-skirts. Find a sensible girl, settle down, and become a responsible adult.”

But at what cost? Turning into the same shell of a man that his father had become?

“I will never marry,” he said, and likely with more vehemence than his friends deserved. Neither seemed to notice, however, because they were too busy laughing.

“Ha!” Montwood challenged. “You are your father’s heir. You must marry.”

Unruffled due to years of weaving away from that type of bare-knuckled blow, Gabriel shrugged. “Let my younger brother be the responsible one.” Clive was nearly thirteen. Plenty of time left for their father to groom him into the perfect ducal candidate.

With the thought settled in his mind, Gabriel pointed with his drink, amber liquid sloshing. “Danvers is the only one of us who
must
marry. He is his father’s only son.”

Danvers’s grin faded. “Not I. My father holds no title to hand down to me, nor a name that garners much respect among the
ton
. Unlike yours. Besides, with my sister married to your cousin”—he pointed back to Gabriel as if the fault for the marriage lay with his side of the family—“my parents will have scores of infants to coddle, with the first arriving shortly.”

At the mention of the anticipated arrival, another enthusiastic—and somewhat slurred—toast made the rounds. “To Rathburn, his bride, and his babe!”

Before Gabriel knew it, he was looking at the bottom of another empty glass. Montwood was quick to remedy that situation. Making himself more comfortable in the corner of the sofa, Gabriel was careful to keep his leg propped on a pillow. He thought of Hawthorne Manor and how downright blissful his cousin had been during their last visit.

Absently, Gabriel scratched his leg through the slats. “The marriage noose fits Rathburn’s neck quite well.”

“And so it shall remain,” Danvers added with a fierceness that suggested he still thought of his sister in leading strings. His friend was a veritable beast when it came to protecting his family. Those who knew him best understood that his claws were reserved for enemies, but for everyone else, he was full of stuff and fluff.

Stuff and fluff?
Gabriel stared down at his drink. Perhaps he should make this one his last.

“I seem to recall a time when Danvers welcomed the knot.” Montwood sat forward, extending the bottle to add another splash to each glass. It seemed he was baiting both of them now. “But your betrothed decided to tie her rope around a rich American.”

“Precisely why I will never marry,” Danvers declared with only the slightest slur. He rose a bit unsteadily to his feet, made his way toward the hearth, and crouched down to pet the dog. “Fortune hunters, the lot of them.”