Capturing the Heart of a Cameron (Farthingale Series Novellas)

by Meara Platt

  “That’s an understatement.”

  She nodded. “He’s proud. He thinks he knows what’s best for us.”

  “He spent thirty years being wrong.”

  “George, do you love me?” Another tear slipped down her cheek. “It’s all that matters. I’ll understand if you don’t. And if you don’t, I won’t say a word to Desmond or my grandfather about my feelings for you. I won’t ever mention them to you again. I’ll keep them to myself and bury the treasured memory of this night, of my first and only kiss, in my heart for the rest of my days.”

  She cupped his face in her soft, small hands. “I do love you, George. Deeply and hopelessly.”

  He growled as he took her hands in his. Ever so slowly, he turned her palms outward and softly kissed each. “God help me, Evie. I love you, too.”

  “I could destroy you, Farthingale. Marry my granddaughter? Who the bloody hell do you think you are?” Evie’s grandfather glowered at George as they stood in the duke’s study, facing each other from opposite sides of his desk. The duke and Evie’s brother had returned from York only yesterday.

  George had considered giving them another day to settle in before he called upon them, but Evie was walking around all dewy-eyed and his meddlesome nieces were already suspicious that something was going on between him and Evie. Also, now that Lily and Ewan were back in London, he’d have allies within the Cameron family if he needed them, for Ewan was another of the duke’s grandchildren.

  He would never allow Ewan to fight his battles, of course. But he would turn to him for help if there was no other recourse. For Evie’s sake.

  “I could have you run out of London!” The duke pounded his fist on his desk to emphasize his point.

  George returned his glower. “Then do it. But you’d also be destroying your granddaughter.”

  Desmond stood beside him saying nothing.

  George clenched his hands into fists at his sides. He’d expected the angry retort from Evie’s grandfather. Evie, with her hopeful innocence, had been certain the old tyrant was a changed man. Obviously, he wasn’t. Her brother was no better. Since when had Desmond become the duke’s toady? “Is this what matters most to you? Keeping the Cameron bloodline untainted? Did you learn nothing from your thirty-year feud with your eldest son?”

  “How dare you speak to me that way!”

  George rested his palms on the imposing mahogany desk, angry that he was here asking for Evie’s hand in marriage as though he were some young, untried boy just out of knee pants. “How dare you break your granddaughter’s heart.”

  The duke’s face turned an alarming shade of red. George immediately relented, his medical training overcoming his anger. “Your Grace, sit down. You’re working yourself into a state.” He strode to a side bureau where the duke kept his whiskey and quickly poured some into a glass. “Here, take this. You need to calm down.”

  The duke snorted. “Is this your idea of a jest? You’re to blame for bringing on my attack.”

  “Because I proposed to Evie? I love her. Believe me, I wish I didn’t. My life was contentedly uncomplicated until she came along. Now it’s turned upside down.” He glanced at Evie’s brother. “And you, my lord? Do you have nothing to say about this?”

  Desmond folded his arms across his chest and frowned. “I have plenty to say about it. But I thought to take the measure of you first.”

  George arched an eyebrow. “And?”

  “How do I know you’ll make her happy?”

  “You have only to look at her to see that she is. She’s beautiful,” he said quietly. “She smiles now. She never used to, as you well know.”

  Desmond appeared unmoved. “You could be after her dowry or her noble connections.”

  George shook his head and laughed. “I don’t need your damn friendship and I certainly don’t need Evie’s dowry. Do you really think so little of me? What about you, Your Grace?” He aimed his question at Evie’s grandfather, the very man whose life he’d saved a month ago. The very man he’d save again even if the old ogre refused his offer to marry Evie.

  The door suddenly opened and Evie stepped into the study. “Well?” She had that hopeful look in her eyes and George’s heart sank. He would marry her if she wished it, for he didn’t give a damn about the duke’s consent or Desmond’s. But Evie did. She’d never be completely happy without their approval.

  Desmond started toward her. “Evie…”

  Her smile faded. She turned to her grandfather. “You as well?” She let out a ragged breath. “I see.”

  George saw her happiness crumble before his very eyes. He wanted to pound the stuffing out of both men. They were her family. They were supposed to love her, not treat her as a mere possession. He held out his arms to her. She came to his side and rested her head against his shoulder. She was heartbroken and trembling. He was going to pound the stuffing out of these heartless bastards. “I’m taking Evie with me. I intend to marry her with or without your approval. But she loves you, and your opinion matters to her. If you love her, then set your pride aside and do the right thing.”

  “Dash it, Farthingale! I’m the duke, not you. Stop spouting orders.” The duke rose and came around to face his granddaughter. George was expecting the worst, so even he was caught by surprise when the duke’s scowl completely disappeared and his expression turned mawkish. “Evie, my sweet, gentle girl. Of course you have my blessing.”

  Lord, is the duke about to cry?

  “Mine too,” Desmond said with obvious affection, joining the duke.

  It took a moment for Evie to realize what they were conceding, but she soon did. Her smile lit up the room. “Thank you.” She threw her arms around Desmond and hugged him fiercely. “I knew you’d love him as much as I do.”

  Desmond groaned. “Not quite, Evie. But he surely loves you. We saw it in his eyes the moment you walked into the room, didn’t we, Grandfather?” His expression grew sloppy and—hellfire—tearful. “I’m glad he makes you happy. You deserve the very best.”

  She hugged her brother again. “I know. I held out for it. Even fell into a rosebush for it.”

  “What?” Her grandfather shook his head. “I’ll never understand you, Evie. But I’ll always love you. Come here, child.”

  She eagerly went into his arms. “I love you, Grandfather. I always will.”

  The old man nodded, obviously too choked with sentimentality to speak. The fierce and frightening Duke of Lotheil reduced to tears? No one would believe it. George credited Evie for the old duke’s sudden bout of tenderness. She’d worked her miracle on him as well, George realized. That tumble in the rosebush had done it for him; he wasn’t certain why. He hadn’t wanted Evie hurt, of course. But in that moment, he knew that life with Evie would never be dull. He also knew that he couldn’t live without her in his life.

  In truth, that he had no life without her.

  Evie glanced at George and smiled.

  He was struck by another realization. He didn’t merely love her. He loved her hopelessly and deeply. He loved her completely, utterly, and ridiculously.

  CHAPTER 8

  EVIE UNPINNED HER hair and shook it out so that the long strands fell loosely to her waist. Earlier, her maid had helped her out of her wedding gown and chemise, and into this flimsy black silk nightgown that was too shocking to be considered proper attire even for the bedroom. She was alone in the chamber she and George were to share in the elegant Mayfair townhouse he had purchased shortly before their marriage. Married! She was now George’s wife.

  If it was a dream, she never wanted to awaken from it.

  She was about to slip into bed when he entered. “Evie,” he said with a groan, “what in bloody hell are you wearing?”

  “Don’t you like it?” She started to reach for the robe set out at the foot of the bed, but George crossed the room in two strides and stopped her.

  “I like it very much.” He smiled at her and her heart melted. “You should have warned me, that’s all. Bl
ack silk. Barely covering your body. Your exquisite body, I might add. You set me off like one of Lord Margate’s fireworks displays. I’m not complaining, mind you. You look beautiful, sweetheart.”

  “So do you.” He’d removed his jacket, vest, and cravat, and his shirt was partially unbuttoned to reveal an expanse of dark hair across his broad chest.

  Chuckling, he cast off his shirt with a casual grace and turned to her, the silvery blue of his eyes now warm and gleaming.

  Evie splayed her hands across his chest and slowly ran them along his shoulders, marveling at the taut muscles rippling beneath her palms. She was going to explore the length of his big body tonight. All of it, even if it took all night. “You’re ogling me,” he teased.

  “I know. I can’t help it. You’re irresistible.”

  “So are you, my love.” His smile faded as he lifted her into his arms and set her in the center of the soft, thick mattress, and then proceeded to ease the black silk over her thighs, upward over her waist, and further upward over her breasts, his hands heating her skin wherever he touched—yes, there, and there, ooh, there—so that she was hot and wanting by the time he slipped the nightgown off her and tossed it onto a nearby chair.

  He leaned back to study her. Her cheeks flamed, for she was naked. “I thought you liked me in the black silk.”

  “I do.” He ran his fingers through her cascade of blonde curls as he slowly dipped his head to hers and gave her a long, hot kiss, the delicious sensation winding its way through her body and wrapping itself around her heart. He drew back and affectionately caressed her cheek. “But I like you even better out of it.”

  He shifted off the bed to remove the last of his clothes, but quickly returned and took her into his arms. He felt at ease with his nakedness and didn’t seem to mind her studying his lean, powerfully built body. His gaze never left hers as he rolled her gently onto her back so that she now lay beneath him. She felt his arousal against her thigh and the weight of his body atop hers, although he was resting most of his weight on his elbows so he wouldn’t crush her.

  “I love you, Evie,” he murmured in the still of the night with a smile that sent her heart soaring with joy. His smile turned deliciously wicked as he began to move down her body, using his hands, his lips, and his tongue to touch and taste and send her into raptures. He flicked his tongue across the tips of her breasts while his fingers found the intimate heat between her thighs and stroked her there.

  “Oh, my.” She closed her eyes and clutched the sheets, reveling in his seductive onslaught. He was relentless in his purpose, knew exactly how to make her feel him, need him, want him… oh, how she wanted him!

  As his body poised over hers, she gripped his shoulders, moaning as one hot sensation after another washed over her like waves cresting along the shore. “I love you,” she repeated too many times to keep count, more urgently as the waves of molten heat built up within her, for he’d entered her and was now carrying her along on his own turbulent tide, now thrusting and easing, surging and ebbing inside of her.

  She clasped his head and wound her fingers through his hair as those waves became more powerful, each crest higher than the one before, each swell coming faster and faster. She lost all control. His mouth was on her breast, teasing the hard nipple, and his hands were under her to lift her body so that she could take all of him in. Her legs were wrapped around his waist to hold him inside her, to ride each thrust with him… to… to… Suddenly her entire body was hot and taut and tingling, and she was calling his name, moaning his name as the last waves crested and crested and held her in their powerful, unrelenting grip.

  Her skin grew hot and damp.

  So did his.

  Then he gave one last thrust and his body arched. She felt his liquid heat spill inside her in throb after pulsing throb, and felt his body shudder against hers. He held nothing back, and she liked that most of all, for with each thrust and shudder, he was giving her his heart.

  When their passion was spent and there was no more for either one of them to give, they lay together with their arms around each other, their breaths ragged, and their glistening bodies pressed to each other. The air was thick with their sexual heat. Evie thought it was the most incredible feeling on earth. “I never knew,” she said in an awed whisper.

  George growled softly, and grinning like a conquering hero who had just claimed the best spoils of war, he kissed the tip of her nose. “Never knew what, sweetheart?”

  “Never knew this wondrous thing would happen… if you kissed me.”

  THE END

  IF YOU

  Loved Me

  MEARA PLATT

  CHAPTER 1

  Yorkshire, England

  December 1819

  DESMOND CAMERON, MARQUIS of Blackfell, made three mistakes on this cold and blustery winter afternoon while traveling in his spacious carriage from the thriving market town of Durham to the bustling city of York. His first mistake was asking his driver to divert from the main road onto a lesser known path that cut across a desolate stretch of moor in order to shorten his journey.

  His second mistake was ordering his driver to chase after the careening carriage that had blown past them a few moments ago and now lay tipped on its side just beyond the ruins of Rievaulx Abbey. The abbey was only a short distance from the village of Helmsley, known for the excellent inn that was to be his destination for this evening. The weak sun had already faded into a pale pink horizon so he couldn’t very well leave these travelers, some of whom might be injured, stranded on the frigid road as darkness fell.

  His third mistake was in stopping to help. “Is anyone hurt?” he asked, his heart pounding as he flung open the door of his carriage and jumped down the moment his driver brought his team of matched bays to a halt. He meant to assess the damage and then invite these travelers to ride along with him, for it was a short distance to the Dragon Sail Inn where they would all find rooms for the evening and obtain a nourishing hot meal, perhaps a compress and some bandages for the aches and bruises suffered.

  He hoped there was nothing more serious.

  “Blackfell! You’re a sight for sore eyes.” Rupert Farthingale struggled out from the broken carriage, flashing a toothy grin beneath his thick black moustache. But he winced as his feet hit firm ground and he began to rub his shoulder. He must have been slammed hard against sturdy carriage frame as it began to tip over. The conveyance was now leaning precariously to the right, needing no more than a gust of wind to knock it completely over on its side. “Help me, won’t you?”

  “Of course, Rupert,” he said with concern, for the man was fortunate to be in one piece. “What happened? And what brings you to this part of England?”

  “Carrying a precious cargo back to London,” he said, turning back to his carriage and attempting to reach into it. “Bloody blazes!” He winced again, drawing back in obvious pain from the shoulder he’d just been rubbing. “You’ll have to help her out. I can’t manage it.”

  “Her?” Desmond hopped onto the carriage wheel to raise himself sufficiently to peer inside.

  “In here,” a delicate female voice called out. “I’m unharmed, just a little shaken. One of the carriage wheels must have struck a rut and twisted off. I don’t know what we would have done if you hadn’t come along to rescue us, sir.”

  Desmond reached inside to assist the young woman, surprised when a pleasurable heat shot up his arms the moment he took hold of her hands. He had yet to manage a good look at her in the dim light, but he was already intrigued, for her voice was sweet as honey and gently melodic as it reached his ears.

  “Wrap your arms around my neck while I help you down,” he commanded, silently chiding himself for his eagerness to take her into his arms and not liking the effect she was having on his composure.

  No, not liking it one bit.

  She circled her arms around his neck, then suddenly gasped and clung tightly to him when the carriage groaned and began to teeter. “I have you,” he assured, sec
uring his hold on her slender body and speaking into her silky hair. How he had managed to speak at all was a mystery, for his heart was pounding a hole through his chest and his breaths were coming in fits and starts, those startling responses caused by the exquisite sensation of her body molded to his. “You needn’t fear.”

  Though she said nothing, he felt her shudders as she continued to cling to him like a barnacle to a ship while he carefully made his way off the wheel.

  Hell’s bells. Who is she?

  The girl felt surprisingly good against him. Yet, he blamed the racing of his heart on the tottering carriage and not on the graze of her lips against his throat or the feel of her soft body pressed to his.

  Hell’s bells again.

  What was wrong with him? Once his feet were on firm ground, he made certain she was steady on her feet and then released her, eager to have a good look at this girl who was rousing sensations within him that she had no business rousing.

  He stifled a groan. She must have been an angel in an earlier life, for Desmond had never met a prettier girl than the one standing before him now. She wasn’t traditionally beautiful, but there was something appealing about her that made his breath catch. “Are you certain you’re not hurt?”

  She was of average height and nicely shaped from what he could tell when he’d held her, and that assessment was confirmed whenever the wind gusted and whipped her cloak against her slender curves. Perhaps she was a little on the thin side, but it was hard to tell amid the angled shadows of the fading light. She’d felt perfect when pressed up against him.

  Her hair was a fiery mix of chestnut and gold, and her eyes were an exquisite sapphire blue. Her mouth was a touch too broad and had a slight downward tilt at the corners that gave it a sensual quality.

  She nodded. “I think Uncle Rupert took the worst of it.”

  “Just a few bruises. Nothing more,” Rupert assured when her expression turned fretful and she began to nibble her fleshy lower lip.