The Elusive Lord Everhart: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series

by Vivienne Lorret

His laugh vibrated against the underside of her jaw. “Compromise me?”

  “Your wager,” she said with her last noble breath. Quite honestly, she didn’t know why she was trying to stop any of this. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if they could live up here, shielded from everyone forever? “If we are caught then . . . the wrong assumptions would be made.”

  “Ah, yes. Quite right.” He lifted his head and held her gaze. “Though wager or not, I am far from one of the heroes in your novels who would surrender to marriage in the end.”

  At the austere certainty in his tone, those delicious tremors abruptly stopped. The enthralling kissing haze that had settled over her began to lift. And then she remembered who she was, who he was, and the reason she was here at Fallow Hall.

  With as much poise as possible, Calliope disentangled herself from his embrace and stood. She supposed it was reassuring to know exactly what to expect where Everhart was concerned. It was like knowing the end of a story. This way, she wouldn’t be taken unaware again.

  Still, the enormity of what had just transpired fell over her like the weight of an entire bookcase. However, under no uncertain terms would she let him see how her own book lay open, spine cracked, pages crumpled.

  “Nor I, though you needn’t to put it like that.” She lifted her chin at an angle that didn’t quite suit her, but she held the position regardless. “I wouldn’t have you for a husband. Not when I’m in love with someone else.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Who?” Gabriel leapt up from the chaise, ignoring the biting pain that knifed up his leg.

  Calliope gave him a look that suggested he should know the answer.

  Brightwell. His blood seethed.

  “I hardly think it’s any concern of yours.” She angled her bare shoulder away from him and pulled up her sleeve in such a casual manner that his irritation climbed. She should be trembling and blushing like the untried virgin she was, not rearranging her clothes without a care, like a seasoned courtesan.

  “It is, when you’ve spent the last hour kissing me.” He felt compelled to drag that sleeve back down again, along with the other one and never stop undressing her until he rid her mind of any other man. Until he and he alone made her quiver in ecstasy. Until . . .

  Until she was his.

  “I disagree.” She narrowed her eyes with that saccharine smile.

  He responded similarly. “Though it is clear that you have not spent much, if any, time kissing your beloved.”

  She gasped at the insult, but he continued, not allowing her the chance to interject.

  “You started off very green indeed. But I managed to tutor you quite effectively. I’m certain”—Gabriel gritted his teeth—“he will thank me.”

  She was fuming now. Livid. Magnificent. He wanted her with a passion that nearly consumed him.

  It was madness to have kissed her at all. Now, he felt as if she’d injected him with an addictive elixir—a drug—and he had become an instant opium-eater. He wanted more. His entire body shook with need.

  This wasn’t wholly unfamiliar territory. He’d felt this way before. This same insanity had inspired the letter he’d written to her.

  “He won’t thank you. He won’t even think of you. Or ever even wonder about you. Because he will know that when my lips touch his, he is the only person in my thoughts.”

  And then with a final blow, she added, “The only person who has ever been there.”

  Was she actually suggesting that she could have thought of anyone other than Gabriel when she kissed like that?

  Not possible. “A woman does not kiss a man with complete abandon when she is in love with someone else.”

  He reached out, prepared to haul her back into his arms and obliterate Brightwell from her thoughts forever. But she stepped back, out of his immediate reach. It was a short distance but enough to bring him a semblance of sanity.

  He could not kiss her again, or at least he should not. Would not.

  If she still imagined herself in love with Brightwell, then why had she refused him five years ago? “After Brightwell is married, you realize you love him? Perhaps you are just as fickle as you have always been.”

  “Is my action from that one night all you ever think of?” Although her words came out with bite, there was something undeniably wounded in the depth of her eyes. “In regard to Brightwell, I have given you my answer. I will not repeat it again.”

  He felt a sharp wrenching pain at seeing that look, at being the cause of it. The need for clarity compelled him to probe further, but tender regard for what lay beneath the sandy depths of her eyes softened his tone. “You told me that you refused Brightwell those years ago because you did not love him, not that you were in love with someone else.”

  “Believe me, if I’d have come to the realization a moment sooner, we would not be having this conversation.” She exhaled as if exhausted, with her hands rearranging wayward locks of hair. “Now, I feel guilty of betrayal.”

  “Who is he?” The air in Gabriel’s lungs seized, and he felt that anchor’s weight upon him again.

  She gritted her teeth. “I cannot tell you.”

  “Cannot?” he scoffed. “It is more a matter of will not.”

  “All right then. Even if I could, I would not tell you.” Color bloomed in her cheeks. Her gaze collided with his as if she realized what she’d said.

  Gabriel stilled. Her words penetrated the haze of lust, longing, and anger inside his brain. If she couldn’t give him a name, was it because she did not know it?

  He thought about the letter he’d written and wondered if it was possible. Arrogant assumption or not, he had to know. Had the letter been as altering for her as it had been for him?

  His mind turned in a thousand directions as his pulse beat faster. It was far more likely that she was speaking of someone else she knew. Yet a strangely familiar sensation of yearning swept through him, like a gale wind from a cloudless sky. “How could you not be aware of loving someone?”

  Her hands trembled as she lowered them to smooth the front of her gown. “It is rather easy, when you believe you hate someone for ruining your life, or the life you once thought you could have had.” Tears glistened in her eyes before she turned away.

  Gabriel didn’t want to cause her pain. He wanted to go to her and wrap her up in his embrace. But he could not move, for fear of what else he might do. Could not speak, for fear of what he might confess.

  “I regret my choices here tonight,” she said quietly. “As I’m sure you do as well.”

  He did. He regretted every moment he’d spent with her—not only tonight but all of them. Kissing her had forced him to accept the truth: He could no longer avoid her—avoid the inevitable—though he would be much happier if he could.

  Without waiting for a response, she wove her way past the bookcases. At the top of the stairs, she paused. “You were right, Everhart. We cannot be friends.”

  He wanted to agree with her and perhaps even offer a taunt for having been right.

  The lie would not form on his tongue. Not any longer.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  After a sleepless night, guilt churned in Calliope’s stomach like Mrs. Swan’s curdled soup.

  It wasn’t possible. She couldn’t still be in love with the man who’d written her the letter. She despised him . . . Didn’t she?

  And it had taken kissing Everhart to admit it.

  Worse yet, she’d enjoyed it. Far more than she should have. Especially for someone who’d realized she was in love with another man.

  Was it possible to kiss one man while being in love with the other?

  Well . . . perhaps. But could she have kissed Everhart to the point of losing herself completely and still be in love with an ink-and-paper lover?

  No, she admitted.

  On a sigh, her fingertips strayed to her lips as she walked down the vacant hall in the east wing the following morning. She already wondered what it would be like to kiss him again. Which was wron
g, she told herself. Very wrong.

  Wasn’t it?

  There was no future with Everhart. Just like there was no future with Casanova. But who could think about the future or anything at all when kissing Everhart?

  For a while, he’d been hers. Until that moment, Calliope hadn’t realized how much the heartache of the past had kept her from having a someone of her own. She’d been so afraid of being hurt again that she’d given up on the idea of marriage completely.

  But kissing Everhart had opened her eyes to something else as well.

  If she could experience that sort of passion, then perhaps she wasn’t as afraid as she thought. Perhaps her heart had mended enough. Perhaps these feelings weren’t solely for Casanova. And perhaps . . . she now ran the risk of having stronger feelings for Everhart too.

  She stumbled as the last thought hit her. Reaching out, she placed her hand atop a demilune table to right herself. When a maid carrying linens appeared from around the corner, Calliope pretended to have stopped for the purpose of admiring the freshly cut amaryllis.

  She drew in a breath and waited for a less romantic thought to enter her mind. Perhaps what confused her was her body’s response to Everhart and the things she’d allowed him to do. Things she’d never even considered doing with Brightwell. Things she wouldn’t mind if Everhart wanted to do again.

  No, no, absolutely not, she scolded herself. She was not going to kiss Everhart again. She was going to avoid him and search for the letter. It would be simple. Avoid and search. That was her new plan.

  But how could she search the map room when he spent most of his time there?

  She would have to lure him away. Perhaps she could gain Montwood’s assistance for an afternoon. It would need to happen soon, however, since she’d already written to her brother for the carriage.

  Once she found Pamela’s letter, all would be well, and she could leave Fallow Hall before she succumbed to temptation again.

  Valentine stepped into the map room, holding a salver before him. “The post, my lord.”

  Gabriel took the stack and thumbed through the envelopes. There was one from his solicitor, one from his sister, one from his cousin, Rathburn—likely expounding on the bliss of matrimony—and one from . . . Hullo . . . his father.

  “And how is Fallow Hall faring this morning, Valentine?” Gabriel asked, feeling inordinately cheerful, despite the letter in his grasp. He hadn’t slept a single minute last night, and yet he felt . . . revived. The same way he felt whenever he stepped on board a ship, prepared for a journey.

  “Everything is in order, my lord. Miss Croft is managing the house remarkably well.”

  Gabriel nodded, pleased. “I knew she would. Miss Croft isn’t one to back down from a challenge.” Cracking the wax seal, he wondered what reprimand he would find this time.

  “No, sir.”

  “Admirable quality, that,” he remarked absently, scanning the short missive. Surprisingly, he found no reprimand at all. Hmm . . . “It appears we are to have guests tomorrow, Valentine. If you would, instruct Mrs. Merkel to attend to the rooms in the west wing for the Duke of Heathcoat and the dowager duchess.” And peculiarly, Gabriel’s usual dread over such an announcement was absent as well.

  “Very good, sir.” The butler bowed. “However, Miss Croft is still in the Woodlark Room, which you requested for her upon her arrival. Shall I move her into a smaller chamber?”

  Even having planned to avoid her at all costs when she’d first arrived, Gabriel still had wanted her to have the best room at Fallow Hall. He’d still wanted her to enjoy her stay. He’d still wanted her.

  How foolish he was not to realize it until now.

  A wry laugh escaped him. “No, do not disturb Miss Croft. My father and grandmother needn’t know that their rooms are not the finest.”

  Unless Gabriel was mistaken, the slight twitching of the butler’s tightly drawn cheek was a smile.

  “Set a place for me at dinner this evening as well,” he said, earning a twitch of an eyebrow this time.

  Valentine bowed one last time before he left the room. “Very good, sir.”

  Calliope wound the music box again, continuing her odd conversation with her cousin. “Why would Aunt Augusta believe one of the gentlemen here at Fallow Hall had designs on you?”

  When Pamela had said the words a moment ago, Calliope had thought the notion preposterous. Or simply a mother’s attempt to spoil her child. Certainly, Montwood, Danvers, and even Everhart were reputed rakes, but they were not beyond common decency. None of the gentlemen here would think of seducing a married woman confined to a sickbed.

  Yet she couldn’t deny that Everhart had seemed to forget that Calliope was an innocent. Of course, she couldn’t fault him for that. He was a rake, after all. She certainly hadn’t behaved like an innocent last night. As for the rest of his behavior, she certainly could fault him for his words and accusations.

  In love with Brightwell after all this time? Did Everhart imagine her world was so small that she could love no one else? That her passion had never been stirred by another? She actually felt pity for him. Obviously, he’d never felt an emotion as life altering as love—

  That was a sobering thought. Especially considering the epiphany she’d had earlier, regarding her confusing mélange of emotions toward Everhart. Emotions that he was never likely to reciprocate.

  “I’m not certain,” Pamela responded, holding out her hands to admire her newly manicured nails that Bess had buffed to a shine. “Perhaps it was because I didn’t receive the letter until after I was here. Mother didn’t think anyone else would have known where to find me. But if anyone could, I’m certain he could.”

  Calliope went cold. Her cousin didn’t typically make a lot of sense, but this seemed plausible. “You received the letter after you arrived at Fallow Hall?”

  Dreamy-eyed, Pamela smiled. “As I said, I am the only married woman to have received one.”

  Calliope couldn’t believe it, or perhaps she didn’t want to believe. Now, she was even more desperate to see that letter and make sure it wasn’t all a figment of her cousin’s imagination. Thinking of how special she’d once felt, only to have that feeling ripped away time and again, her heart broke just a little more.

  Putting her own hurt aside, she considered this new development. If the letter arrived after her cousin was invited to stay here for her recuperation, then very few people would have known where to direct the letter. There were the gentlemen in residence here, of course. While she still wasn’t certain about Montwood’s love-letter-writing potential, she’d removed Danvers from the list’s possibilities. She’d crossed Everhart off the list years ago, shortly following the Randall ball.

  As for Brightwell, well . . . she’d discounted him years ago too. But now she wondered if she’d been too hasty. Was there a poet lurking within him? Or a passionate nature that only revealed itself on the page? She’d never noticed any ink on his fingertips . . .

  “Mother told me not to think about it any longer and that it was likely Milton’s attempt at cheering me.”

  A wave of dread washed over Calliope. Could it have been Brightwell all along, and she hadn’t seen it? The single chaste kiss they’d shared had stirred no passion in her. Nothing like she’d experienced last night in Everhart’s arms. Surely, a man capable of writing such a letter would incite her every passion. Wouldn’t he?

  She had to find out if she’d made the biggest mistake of her life.

  “It would be rather romantic if one’s husband wrote passionate letters,” Calliope mused.

  Her cousin began to nod, her gaze drifting far away. “But he hadn’t seemed pleased at all when I asked him about it.”

  Calliope’s jaw went slack, her mouth agape. “You . . . you asked your husband about the letter? But Pamela, what if it wasn’t from him? Surely it would cause him pain to learn that his wife was being pursued by another.”

  Which meant that last night at the card table, he’d known.
Oh dear.

  “I didn’t think of that.” Pamela blinked owlishly. “Honestly, I thought the letter was from someone far more . . . passionate.”

  It appeared her cousin had discounted Brightwell too. “You didn’t tell him that as well, did you?”

  “Do you suppose I shouldn’t have?”

  Calliope closed her eyes and dropped her chin to her chest. Poor Brightwell. Unless . . . he was the author. Then perhaps he’d merely wanted to conceal the other aspects of his personality. Perhaps he was simply too shy to express them.

  “It would be rather thrilling to know that one’s husband had written love letters to half the ton.”

  “It wasn’t half,” Calliope corrected. “There were only six letters.” Not counting her own.

  “Seven, if you include mine.”

  Then make that eight, Calliope thought, her heart sinking bit by bit, like a shipwreck toward the bottom of the deepest part of the ocean. And earlier I’d thought my heart had mended. What a joke.

  “Perhaps it would be best if we didn’t discuss the letter,” Calliope said. If Pamela was right, then the love-letter Casanova could very well be here, at Fallow Hall. This changed everything.

  Now, all she needed to do was devise a plan to unmask him. Unfortunately, the only thing she knew about him that wasn’t speculation was his distinctive handwriting.

  “I need my distractions returned to me,” Pamela whined. “And I am tired of cards in the parlor after dinner. Surely we could find other amusements.”

  “I suppose we could play a game,” Calliope said absently. She was more concerned about devising a method to see all the gentlemen’s handwriting. Then, inspiration struck. “We could play charades this evening and write out phrases on scraps of paper.”

  Her cousin wrinkled her nose. “All that flapping about and making a fool of oneself is not enjoyable.”

  Calliope mulled that over, and wound the music box once more. Whatever game they played, writing must be involved so that she could inspect the handwriting of each player. “How about playing Anagrams? We could take the names of important people, mix them up, and see who figures out our clues.”