Calliope held her tongue.
Then, nearing the map room, raised voices drew their attention.
“Do you realize that every conversation we have revolves around Briar Heath?”
“Because it is where you belong!” This was said with a hard edge of finality. Subject closed.
Before Calliope could offer to resume the tour of Fallow Hall, one of the French doors jerked open. Everhart’s gaze collided with hers and hesitated. A vulnerability she’d never witnessed before seemed to reach out to her from those blue-green gems. Then it vanished.
He clenched his teeth hard enough to make the tendon along his jaw twitch before offering a stiff bow. “Grandmama, a pleasure. Miss Croft, as always.” And without further ado, he set off down the hall at a steady limp.
“Everhart, your splint,” Calliope said, alarmed to see him walking around with one booted leg while the other merely had a wool stocking exposed beneath the hem of buff breeches. He neither answered nor turned. Instead, he continued plodding down the hallway. “He should at least be carrying a cane,” she huffed under her breath.
“Unfortunately, Miss Croft, we cannot save men from themselves. It would be a different world if we could,” the dowager duchess said with a tsk. “Our task is to support them when they are weak and allow them to imagine that they are the stronger sex.”
Calliope would have laughed at the absurdity of having such a conversation with the infamous dowager duchess, but her concern for Everhart would not abate. She stared after him, uncertain.
The dowager duchess tapped her cane. “One of us had better go after him before he injures himself again. Under the circumstances and with the distance between us growing, I feel that this task is left up to you, my dear.” When Calliope looked at her in surprise, the dowager duchess made a shooing motion with her hand. “Hurry along now. We will finish our tour later this afternoon.”
“I look forward to it, Your Grace.” Calliope dipped into a curtsy and then rushed after Everhart. Before she turned the corner, however, she distinctly heard the dowager duchess’s voice once again. Thankfully, the censure in her tone was not aimed at Calliope.
“Clifford, you promised,” the dowager duchess scolded. Apparently, even the estimable Duke of Heathcoat answered to a higher power.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Gabriel heard the quick tap of Calliope’s soles against the stone tiles behind him but was in no mood to slow his pace. His leg ached. The sensation of pins and needles stabbed the bottom of his foot and climbed up his calf. More than anything, he wanted to go for a long ride. Preferably to the nearest ship. Without looking back.
“If you injure yourself again, your grandmother will blame me,” Calliope said in a huff, emerging in his field of vision alongside him.
Unable to ignore her—not with her lips parted, her cheeks flushed, and with locks of honeyed hair brushing her cheeks—he stopped. “Why would my grandmother blame you?”
She blinked at him as if the answer were perfectly obvious. “She left you in my charge.”
“Capable as you are, Miss Croft,” he began, struggling between wanting to continue his course and wanting to reach out and tug on the tendril that drooped perilously close to her mouth, “I can manage on my own.”
She shook her head. “Absolutely not. I must see you to your bedchamber.” Without a by-your-leave, she took hold of his wrist, lifted his arm, and settled it over her shoulders, all the while securing herself to his side. “Come along, then.”
He didn’t budge and put forth a valiant effort not to enjoy the feel of her pressed against him. But who was he trying to fool? “You cannot escort me to my bedchamber.”
“Of course I can.” She attempted to persuade him by pushing against the lower region of his back and curling her small hand around his waist. The consequence of which was the supple pressure of her breast, the curve of her hip, and the length of her thigh, all pressed against him. “Your valet needs to tend to your limb.”
“I am not an invalid, no matter what you may imagine.” He could easily prove his point by turning into her embrace and allowing her to feel the part of his anatomy that desperately did require tending. “In addition, you must be wary of escorting any man to his bedchamber.” Machinations fell so easily from the lips. Even now, there were a dozen waiting on his tongue. “And I am in a temper right now, where I would very much enjoy ravishing you. Thoroughly.”
Taking a moment to digest his words, she stared, unblinking, into his eyes. Then, as if she noted sufficient evidence of his sincerity, she gestured past a dark walnut milieu table against the wall to a narrow archway. “Then I will escort you to the nearest sitting room instead. There is one not far down this corridor. Since it has begun to snow, the view should be quite lovely.”
He found himself nodding in agreement. Relishing the feel of her against him, he forgot that he’d wanted no company. She had a way of making him forget quite a lot of things. The wager, for instance, which stated clearly how wrong it was to spend time alone with an unmarried, yet marriageable, young woman.
“Do you like the snow, then?” he asked, using a change of topic to dispel those worries.
“Is there anyone who doesn’t enjoy the sight of an evergreen bough dusted with pristine, white snow? Or a path freshly covered and inviting one’s first step?” Calliope’s gaze brightened as she lifted her face to his, and in her eyes, he could see the image perfectly, even without a window near.
His heart thumped heavily, weighted down by all the secrets he kept from her and all the fears that had made him the man he was. Which really was no man at all. A man was reliable, steadfast, and never disappointed those he loved. And yet he had. All his life. He’d spent the last five years attempting to make up for that. Five years of denying himself in order to keep the worst of his crimes unknown.
“I cannot think of a single person who doesn’t.” His comment earned a smile that made him feel like a thief for taking it. He’d taken so much from her already. She could have had a life with Brightwell, if not for his own interference.
Calliope led him a short distance down what looked like a servant’s passage. Since he’d broken his leg shortly after he’d moved in, Gabriel hadn’t explored the manor completely. She assured him that it was simply an old part of the house.
Now, he found himself in the smallest room he’d ever entered. Even by closet standards, it was snug. There were only two pieces of furniture: a rosewood wine table adorned with a blue bud vase, holding a single red amaryllis; and an overstuffed yellow chair, the arms of which nearly reached both side walls. As it was, they had to turn sideways to step in to the small open area between the chair and the recessed window.
Lack of space aside, one feature made the journey worthwhile. No, make that two—the bare window, which hosted a view of the lush green forest beyond Fallow Hall; and the woman who took in all its glory, glittering with contentment like the sun against the snow.
The woman who still had her arm around his waist. The woman he wanted to kiss more than he wanted this damnable leg to cease aching. More than he wanted to plan a new expedition. In fact, he could easily imagine staying right here, kissing Calliope for all the days of his life—
He gulped a breath and blinked to clear his head. To clear those thoughts from his mind and his heart. But the air was filled with her scent, and a sweet, painful yearning filled his lungs.
“What is Briar Heath?” She looked up at him, her gaze filled with curiosity and concern.
The question speared through his thoughts readily enough. A cutting reminder of why he couldn’t give in to temptation.
Gabriel moved apart from her, as much as he could in the snug space. “Briar Heath is my home.” He exhaled, slumping into the chair. Then, leaning forward, he proceeded to massage his lower leg, though his true intention was to hide his expression from her inquisitive gaze.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “If you have a home, then why are you here at Fallow Hall
?”
Why, indeed. “Because I once believed I could fight the Fates and outlast them.”
Standing beside him, Calliope’s finger absently traced the leaf pattern on the arm of the chair. “And you no longer believe that?”
Her question took him aback until he realized that he’d said once believed. Had a change occurred within him of which he was not aware? Instead of answering, he redirected. “Why take such an interest?”
Her fingertip stilled. “Perhaps I like stories and merely want to hear yours.”
Curious, he sat up and studied her. There was an intensity about her that shimmered around her like a halo. She could be a siren without singing a note, he thought, knowing he would gladly dash himself upon the rocks to be with her. It was becoming more difficult to fight the urge.
The notion was as frightening as it was appealing. “And will I hear your story in return?”
“My story?” She traced the leaf pattern again, paying no attention to the hand he rested a mere inch from hers.
“About the man you love.”
She colored. “I’m certain the tale would be of no interest to you.”
Slowly, he took her hand, his fingers lightly grazing hers, gliding along the delicate ridges of her knuckles to the smooth silk of her flesh, where the faintest of blue veins marked a path, like a river on a map. “Allow me to decide.”
“Very well,” she said quietly, staring down at their hands without shying away. “But you will begin.”
His fingers, those reckless cartographers, wanted to continue their exploration beyond the lace cuff at her wrist, but instead, he turned her hand and began a new journey over the landscape of her palm. Feeling like a gypsy fortuneteller, he wondered if he could see her future. More importantly, he wondered if he could see his.
“When I was a boy,” he said, barely able to resist lifting her palm for a kiss, “I lived at Briar Heath with my mother and father. There was laughter and joy. Until one day there . . . wasn’t. And that is my story.”
At this, she pulled away. “That is not a story, Everhart. That was a poorly veiled warning to me. You wish to make me feel as uncomfortable and guilty as possible for asking my question. That is unfair.” Calliope took a half step in retreat, pressing her hands together. “If that is the game, then I will tell you that my tale involves love and hope, only to have it ripped from me in the cruelest way imaginable. And that is my story.”
He rested his head against the back of the chair and let out a breath. “Aren’t we a sad pair?”
When she set her hands on her hips, her breasts jutted outward. By the narrow-eyed look she gave, he decided now was not the time to tell her how much he admired her figure when she stood like that. “I want to hear about your adventures,” she said.
At the mention of adventure, the memory of his mother’s voice whispered to him. I’m going to send you on an adventure, Gabriel. A noble quest.
He frowned and leaned forward again to massage his leg. “You’ve been talking to my grandmother.”
“She loves you very much.”
“That dragon?” Though he tried to be angry, he couldn’t be. His grandmother was too dear to him, and he knew her intentions were good, albeit misguided. “Yes, I suppose she does. I spent a good portion of my life under her roof.”
“Why did you not live at Briar Heath?”
One moment, he was looking at the embroidered hem of Calliope’s dress, and in the next, he was looking at her face as she kneeled down before him, her face mere inches from his. In her expression, he read curiosity but also knowing. She refused to let him hide from her questions. He swallowed and found himself retreating against the back of the chair. “It held too many memories.”
“But good memories—the joy and laughter you mentioned.” Seemingly undeterred, she held her ground and even settled her hands, though tentatively, atop his shin and began to mimic the kneading motions he’d employed. A thick surge of lust rushed up his leg and flooded the appendage that shamelessly jolted beneath the fall of his breeches, preening for her attention as she continued her less-than-skillful but utterly seductive ministrations.
While he was capable of doing so, he leaned forward and stilled her hands. “No. Now it is your turn. Tell me about this man that you still love . . . even after kissing me senseless.”
“I did no such thing.” Her gaze slipped to his mouth. “You still had your wits about you.”
Gabriel hadn’t had his wits about him for quite some time. Proving it, he lifted both her hands, gently turned them, and then pressed a kiss to the center of each palm. Then, nudging aside the lace at her wrist, he kissed her there too. “I suggest you tell me your story before I set out to re-create the events of the other night.”
Calliope didn’t pull away as he expected her to do, the way a young woman in the presence of a practiced seducer ought. “Perhaps that would be preferable to suffering humiliation. I cannot bear to hear you laugh when I tell you. I wish I’d never mentioned it.”
Her words surprised him. “You would rather risk ruination by me, here in this very room, than tell me your story?”
She stood, slipping her hands free of his before she turned toward the window. Exhaling deeply, her breath fogged the glass. “I have never met him, not in the traditional sense. Or any sense, really.”
Gabriel stared at her, unable to look away. Unable to breathe. Was she confessing what he thought—hoped? “And yet, you claim to love him.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “He wrote me a letter that allowed me to believe there was one person for me. One person who saw the secret longings I kept hidden. One person who’d read my heart as if it were in the pages of a story.”
Before Gabriel’s eyes, his questions, his dreams, his fears were all answered in the journey of her fingertip in the cloudy circle of condensation.
My love, she wrote. My siren.
The words hovered there, trapped against the glass, as they’d been trapped within him five years ago. She loved him. She admitted it. He wanted to shout it to the world. He wanted to leap up with exultation and confess everything—that he’d been consumed by his emotion, but terrified and ultimately cowardly.
That he still couldn’t marry her.
That his selfish action of writing that letter was responsible for her refusing Brightwell. And how—bugger it all—if it wasn’t for Gabriel, she would be married now to a husband worthy of her.
Elbows propped against his knees, Gabriel leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. My love, I am wrecked.
Calliope stared at the words she’d written on the glass and quickly wiped them clean with the side her hand before she turned to face Everhart. The sight of him with his face in his hands caused unbidden tears to prick the backs of her eyes. Was he laughing at her? Laughing at the fool she’d been?
With a delicate clearing of her throat, she dispelled the tears. “Ah, yes. It is quite the amusing tale. A lovelorn debutante who falls in love with a Casanova letter, only to realize that the words meant nothing to him.” She laughed, not wanting to give away how deeply she was wounded. “He quickly went on to write six other letters, leaving a trail of heartsick women in his wake. At least for a time. Some of the others have married.”
Everhart looked up, surprising her with his severe expression. He did not look as if he found humor in her situation at all. Quite the opposite. “How could you love him after that?”
She offered an absent lift of a single shoulder, hiding the odd flutter she felt beneath her breast as she gazed back at him. “Oh, perhaps I was merely in love with the idea of him. Of what love could be like.”
His brow furrowed. “Yet you would marry him if he revealed himself?”
“No.” She shook her head, determined. “I would finally have revenge.”
“Revenge?” He swallowed, his expression blank.
“Of course. I would expose his identity to the entire ton and make a mockery of him.” At least, that’s what she told h
erself. But in doing so, she would be making a mockery of herself as well. Still, she couldn’t let Everhart believe that she was incapable of managing her own affairs. “That is the end of my story, and you, my friend, have a promise to keep.”
“I hardly think now is the time for—”
“Everhart,” she interrupted. “You may want people to believe a lot of things about you that are not true, but I know you keep your promises.”
Before her eyes, he went strangely pale. “How could you know that?”
She’d all but paid the man a compliment, and he looked as if she’d threatened to whisk him off to Gretna Green and marry him. Rakes were so silly.
“The first evidence I put to you is the wager,” she began. “Do you think your friends, or even mere acquaintances in society, would speak well of you if you did not uphold your honor and pay your debts? Everyone knows you are not a cheat. Montwood and Danvers certainly know it. And I know as much after our brief . . . dance in the map room, when you told me that you would not marry me.” With those words, she lowered her voice and glanced over the back of the chair to ensure their conversation was still private.
“I have read many a novel where the gentleman promises marriage, when all the while he anticipates leaving the young woman to suffer ruination,” she said. The wonderful thing about Everhart was that he didn’t even bat an eye at her for using a novel as an example. “And need I point out that you were the one who took Brightwell on a tour of the continent after I . . . well, you know.”
Everhart glanced away. “That was different. I owed him that much.”
Owed him? What a peculiar thing to say, though she assumed he must be speaking of a gambling debt.
“You also run this house, even though you’ve disguised your involvement.” When his gaze returned to hers, and he opened his mouth as if to form a denial, she waved a hand, shushing him. “Valentine, Mrs. Merkel, and the entire staff count on you. It will shock you to hear it, but that is a measure of a reliable man. Therefore, I know you will keep this one small promise of telling me about Briar Heath.”
The Elusive Lord Everhart: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series Page 15