The Elusive Lord Everhart: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series (7 page)

“Like attracts like, or so they say.”

She frowned, absorbing the meaning. “Are you suggesting that
I’ve
escaped my confines as well? I was not under the impression I was a captive here.”

“Perhaps you should be,” he said, his voice softer, lower but no less accusatory. “You certainly shouldn’t be wandering the halls, disturbing those who would rather be sleeping.”

She harrumphed. “I would happily leave you to your slumber, if you would unhand me.”

“That I cannot do.” Unexpectedly, his lips spread into a slow, swoon-worthy grin—
if
one were inclined to swoon. She, however, was not. “You are holding me up.”

“Oh.” She’d forgotten about his injury. Looking down, she saw that he was balanced on one leg, the other bent at the knee. Even standing like a wounded pirate captain at the helm of his ship did not detract from his virility.

There I stood, transfixed by a foreign sensation. In that moment, I was a voyager witnessing land after a lifetime at sea, and blind to the rocks jutting up between us . . .

The words from the letter suddenly thrummed through her heart.
No
, she said to herself.
Absolutely not
. She was not going to slip into another one of her daydreams while standing in front of Everhart. She could only bear so much humiliation.

In a hurry to end their encounter, she turned to stand beside him and settled her arm around his lean waist. Ignoring the staggered look he cast down at her, she took a step, urging him forward. “Do not be alarmed, Everhart. I’m merely offering assistance, as I’ve learned to do for my father when he suffers a bout of weakness.”

Yet even she knew that this was not the same. A quaking sensation trampled through her limbs. Which was not entirely unpleasant. Far from it. At the moment, she didn’t want to think about how overly familiar or inappropriate the gesture was, or how warm and solid Everhart felt pressed to her side. She only wanted to help him to the sofa and leave as quickly as possible.

His acquiescence came by way of his arm draped over her shoulders. “Offering assistance? No, what you are doing is ensuring that I will not sleep at all this night.”

Not even a word of gratitude. “Perhaps you are the one disturbing me and deserve the full blame.” She produced a believable huff of exasperation to let him understand that she was acting against her will. Mostly.

“I think not.” He ground out the words.

“You needn’t have opened the door with such force. In addition, I would not have stood there at all, had you not employed nefarious tactics.” The gall of him, standing in front of her with so much of his flesh exposed for her to admire. No matter how many novels she’d read, nothing could have prepared her for that.

He chuckled, the sound rumbling from his body and through hers, eliciting all sorts of unwanted but enthralling sensations. “And what might those be?”

“You know very well what they are.” She did not appreciate being the cause of his amusement when she was sacrificing her humility for his sake. They had been among the same circle of friends at one time, but apparently he’d forgotten. “Every nuance of your character heightens your reputation as a rake and seducer. I was merely startled at being a first-time recipient. Normally, I am singled out for your reproach, though you did manage to add enough of that as well.” Calliope nearly gasped at the boldness of her speech. Perhaps being on the shelf for so long had made her more brazen and less willing to leave matters unsaid.

Everhart made no comment.

The heat of a blush rose to her cheeks. “Never fear, Everhart, your resolve to detest me is still very much intact.”

G
abriel held his breath. This torment went beyond the pale.

Surely, this must be a dream that brought Calliope Croft to him. Any moment he would awaken to see the vast empty map room. The softness of her body pressed against his side, the subtle shifting of her supple breast with every step must be a fantasy created by his cruel mind.
“Yes.”

“Is that your only response?” She lifted her face, annoyance evident in the way her slender brows drew together. Her brown eyes glittered like moonlight across wet sand or, given her mood, more like lightning striking the shore. Dark golden waves of hair cascaded down from a center part in her hair and swayed like a curtain against her cheek. He was so tempted to lift those strands to his lips, to feel the softness and draw in her unique rosewater-and-mint fragrance, that his hand twitched. Fighting the impulse, he curled his hand into a fist and then nearly laughed aloud at the absurdity of his action.

It had been five long years since he’d stood near her, let alone touched her. Did he actually think that the simple act of keeping his hand fisted would be enough to rein in his desire?

He shook his head. “I do not detest you.”

“It is fine with me, you know. I am a complete person with or without your approval.” She stopped as they neared the sofa and lowered her arm from around his waist.

He’d always like that about her—the aura of
completeness
that surrounded her. She knew her own mind, her likes and dislikes, and hadn’t cowed to the influence of those around her. Part of him wished she’d married Brightwell—so that she was beyond his reach in a manner that would have put a stop to the incomprehensible yearning he’d once felt. And perhaps still did.

“I did not plan to hurt your friend all those years ago,” she added suddenly, as if her thoughts were in alignment with his. What cruel joke would it be if they were always in line with his, even after all this time?

Or perhaps that was fanciful thinking and the reason was because Brightwell—both in her refusal and Gabriel’s involvement—was
always
between them.

“Surely even you can see that it has worked out the better for him in the end,” she continued. “I would not have made Brightwell happy.”

The notion was preposterous. “And why wouldn’t you have made him happy?”

“Because I did not love him.”

The forthright simplicity of her statement irritated him, but he did not take any time to question the reason. “Perhaps you do not know what love is.”
Love is agony, sacrifice, and seeing what you want but knowing you can’t have it. Knowing that there would be nothing left if you surrendered to it
.

“I have a deeper understanding of that emotion than you could ever comprehend,” she spat, her nostrils flaring. “And I’ve had quite enough of your censure for one evening.”

Without thinking, he reached out to stop her from leaving. Once again, his hands encircled her upper arms, his fingertips nestled into her warmth. He couldn’t resist the barest caress. Odd, but even after five years it seemed impossible to be this close and not touch her.

“First you accuse me of seduction, and now censure. Pray, which one is it, Miss Croft? For one cannot do both simultaneously.”

“Are you sure of that?” she challenged, her chin jutting forward. “You’ve made no effort to conceal your state of undress since my arrival. I’m quite certain you are aware that my eyes are at the level of your exposed flesh. Therefore, I would be unable to avoid noting your obvious display of . . .
masculinity
.” She swallowed. “And—do correct me if I am mistaken—but are you not, even now, caressing my arms as you hold me close?”

He was,
bugger it all!
And he wanted to do so much more. A keen, throbbing ache filled his entire body as he pulled her closer. He couldn’t seem to help himself.

“A moment ago, I was assisting you to the sofa,” she continued, her voice no more than a breath against the open V of his shirt. “And now you’ve maneuvered me into your embrace again, all the while leveling me with the intensity in your gaze and the harshness of your tone. If anyone could manage both seduction and censure, then it is you.”

He stared down at her, fighting the urge to kiss her with every ounce of his being. It was like trying to hoist the mast of a ship with a single finger. He strained to keep himself still and not lower his head even a fraction.

If he kissed her now, he would never be free of her. His life would change forever.

If he kissed her
right
now, he wouldn’t be able to stop. Ever. That knowledge hit him like a blast of arctic water off the bow of a ship.

“Miss Croft,” he began with surprising calm, while a sea of thwarted desire raged inside him. “Has anyone ever accused you of having an overactive imagination?”

She blanched as if he’d thrown the words at her. Beneath his hands, he felt her tense. “Another perfect example of seduction and censure. Very good. You’ve managed to wound me while drawing me closer still.”

His level of restraint grew weaker by the moment. “Perhaps there is no censure at all, but your own bad opinion of me that overshadows this encounter.”

“It is not my opinion that needs alteration,” she said on a breath, her ripe bosom rising and falling, drawing unnecessary attention to her own state of undress and forcing him to imagine how easy it would be to remove so few clothes. “It matters not what we think of each other. I will be gone in mere hours. We can both keep what is ours—opinions, censure, and overactive imaginations—in separate houses.”

“Do not forget to mention nefarious tactics of seduction.” To prove a point, and because he couldn’t resist the urge, he loosened his grasp of one arm without freeing her. In a slow caress, he trailed his fingertips along her shoulder toward her throat, lightly grazing the silken flesh exposed above the prim ruffled edge of her night rail. “Be warned. Should you enter my house again, I cannot be held responsible for my actions.”

Lifting her hands between their bodies, she settled them atop his chest. Cool on contact, he felt a wayward need to warm them, to chafe them between his own hands.

“Nor I,” she said with a shove as she stepped out of his embrace before turning on her heel.

Taken off guard, he lost his footing and fell backward onto the edge of the sofa. His splinted leg shot out and nicked the edge of the low table. Pain knifed through him as he hissed through his teeth. Wincing, he looked up to see if she would look back with concern.

She didn’t. Instead, she absconded with a brace of candles and left him alone in his misery.

CHAPTER FIVE

“Y
ou are heavy-footed this morning, cousin,” Pamela remarked from her perch on the vanity stool, while her maid brushed her pale hair.

Calliope suppressed a yawn as she moved about the room, surreptitiously searching for the letter under the guise of positioning trinkets for her cousin’s admiration. Drowsy, she couldn’t stop shuffling her feet. Her slippers felt weighted, as if the ground beneath Fallow Hall were trying to root her in place.

“A long journey can make one overly tired, I suppose.” There was no need to mention her predawn jaunt through the manor or her encounter with Everhart. Nonetheless, she hadn’t slept a wink after she’d returned to her chamber. Why that man set out to provoke her, when he was always so agreeable to everyone else, was beyond her understanding.

More than that, she hated that it bothered her.

“Ah, yes. As does a long illness.” Pamela gestured for Bess to stop brushing and then lifted a bent wrist, as if in a silent command for assistance in making her way back to bed. “I tire so easily.”

Poor Nell, already tucked away in the corner, strummed the harp strings. Noting the tiny strips of linen tied around the girl’s fingertips, Calliope felt even sorrier for her. “Then perhaps we could let the servants adjourn for a few minutes while we have a
visit
“—though what she really intended was a more serious interrogation about the letter—“before you are
too
tired and before I must leave. As we speak, Griffin is ensuring our carriage is in order.”

“Even when mother was here, I had a difficult time enduring long conversations. They are so taxing.” Her cousin sighed and sank down onto the mattress. Bess fluffed the pillows behind her. “Nevertheless, I believe a lengthy visit is required. Since you are still
unmarried
, it can be of no consequence to remain as my companion here.”

Calliope clenched her teeth.

A dark cauldron of emotions roiled within her—hot prickles of irritation, a simmering tension at the pit of her stomach, and the sour taste of jealousy at the back of her throat.

If the letter was truly from
him
, then this Casanova was playing with her cousin’s affections. The same way he had with hers, when he’d so easily dismissed his ardor for her and gone on to someone else.
Several someone elses
. The fact that Brightwell had moved on hadn’t bothered her quite so much before . . .

Until now, when it appeared that both men wanted her cousin. And no one wanted Calliope. Which was a silly thought—one that made her annoyed with herself—considering how
she
was the one who’d refused Brightwell in the first place.

Casting those thoughts aside, she focused on her task. All she needed to do was find the letter and read it for any clues to the anonymous author’s identity. In addition to his distinctive handwriting, the other letters had been postmarked from London with a WMO for the Westminster office. Of course, confirming the postmark and date might not identify him, but it would be another step to narrowing down the candidates to one area.

“Alas, I am out of time,” Calliope said, hoping that her cousin might feel a sense of urgency as well.

Pamela pouted. “You cannot leave. I haven’t discussed the letter with you. I believe I mentioned how I am the
only
married woman to have received one.”

This Casanova’s heart was fickle indeed. Part of Calliope hoped this letter was merely a product of her cousin’s desire to be the center of attention. “But how are you even certain it was one of those?”

“It started off with
My dearest Pamela
. . . the same as all the others.” Her brow furrowed in confusion and her gaze glazed over. “Although their names weren’t Pamela. So I suppose it wasn’t exactly the same.”