Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02]

by My False Heart

  Though Evangeline made no excuses for the tranquil, secluded lifestyle her family chose to lead, she inwardly acknowledged that theirs was by no means a sophisticated company. And from the look of weary boredom that seemed eternally etched on his harsh, handsome face, Elliot Roberts had experienced a lifetime of worldly sophistication. Indeed, she wryly considered, if more of the same was what he sought, Mr. Roberts had most assuredly come to the wrong place. And yet she wanted him to stay at Chatham Lodge with a desperation that bordered on the irrational. It was the desire to paint him, she reassured herself again, her irrepressible artist’s urge to commit physical beauty to virgin canvas. Her other foolish emotions would soon abate, but her hunger to paint him would endure.

  As Evie finally remembered to summon Tess and Polly to clear the last course, she saw Mr. Roberts nod and exchange a few low words with Gus. Though her guest had been relatively quiet at dinner, it had become readily apparent that Mr. Roberts was not a shy man. His clothing, still slightly rumpled from exposure to the elements, nonetheless identified him to be, as Gus would say “tol’rably well blunted.” Moreover, despite his subdued demeanor, Mr. Roberts’s manner, motions, and voice bespoke a man obviously accustomed to issuing commands. For a moment, Evangeline experienced a wave of discomfort, realizing how dully provincial they must seem to a man of such sophistication. As Gus turned to quit the dining parlor, Elliot finally strolled from behind the table and walked toward her.

  “Mr. Roberts, we normally have no need to serve port after dinner here, but if you and Gus should like to partake—”

  Her guest interrupted with a shake of his head, then offered Evangeline his elbow. “Thank you, Miss Stone, but no. May I see you to the drawing room?”

  Evangeline managed a warm smile, but she did not take his proffered arm. “Mr. Roberts, I sense that you are not … perfectly at ease. And, of course, I realize this cannot compare to town. Believe me when I say that you need not join in our after-dinner gaieties, since I daresay they are not at all to your taste.”

  Mr. Roberts seemed greatly taken aback, and Evangeline had the fleeting impression that perhaps she’d insulted him. “I—of course,” he stammered. “I would not wish to intrude.”

  She had insulted him. “You misunderstand me, sir,” she responded smoothly, curling her hand around his arm as they made their way out. She tried to ignore the familiar feel of his taut, powerful muscles beneath the fabric of his coat. “I simply have no wish to compel you to entertain my charges with a game of backgammon or cards, for following that you shall no doubt be called upon for a song, if not a hornpipe jig. And that, I can assure you, shall only lead to Blind Man’s Bluff or worse.”

  “Worse?” he cried in feigned shock, pressing his fingertips into his chest. “Pray whatever could be worse?”

  “There’s always Hunt the Slipper, Mr. Roberts,” Evangeline answered, deliberately forcing a light, dry tone. “Have you never played it?”

  “No, indeed,” he said gravely. “I have not.”

  “Avoid it at all costs, sir,” she warned. “It is a bruising sport.”

  “I see,” he answered solemnly. By now, they were alone in the darkened hall. Unexpectedly, Mr. Roberts pulled her to a stop and spun on one booted heel to face her. His narrowed gray eyes seemed to glitter, sending a wave of unexpected heat coursing through her. He stood close, too close. And when he spoke, his voice was a low, soft whisper, a subtle, almost irresistible invitation to draw nearer. “Pray tell me, Miss Stone, what other perils do I risk by remaining overlong in this enchanting place? And in this bewitching company?”

  Evangeline felt her breath catch, and she fought the urge to lean into him. Elliot Roberts was standing so near that she could feel the warmth radiate from his body. His hand had slipped up to catch her gently by the elbow with a grip that seemed suddenly unrelenting. His fingers warmed her skin through the silk of her gown, and she could smell the soft scent of expensive tobacco. Even in the dimly lit corridor, she could see the shadowy outline of his heavy beard and the burning emotion in his smoky eyes.

  “I—I, ah, well, there is the gooseberry wine,” she managed to stammer, struggling valiantly to sound light. Good Lord, but he was a dangerously handsome man. Someone else’s handsome man, she reminded herself, to little avail.

  “Ah, yes. The gooseberry wine,” he repeated in a quiet, silky voice. “Might it dull my senses, Miss Stone? For I should fear that above all else.”

  “If you dare to drink it, naught shall be dulled but your taste buds,” she managed to answer, daring to look up at him. “Winnie makes it herself and takes a sadly misplaced pride in that fact.”

  Mr. Roberts seemed briefly to ponder this dire consequence. “Hmm—well, then, I shall avoid it altogether, for I value my sense of taste very highly,” he responded, still holding Evangeline’s gaze.

  “Do you indeed?” In unwitting invitation, Evangeline licked her lips nervously, suddenly very much aware of Mr. Roberts’s towering height and physical intensity. It felt as if they drew incrementally closer, and Evangeline was not sure if she had willingly stepped toward him or if he had subtly drawn her nearer. Uncertainly, she placed the flat of her hand against his chest, wanting to push him away yet yearning to dig her fingertips into the fabric of his shirt. She felt his heart beating, hard and steady, and once again the heat and vitality of him flooded her senses, washing her in desire.

  “Oh, absolutely,” he replied, leaning closer still, his lips very nearly brushing the curve of her ear, “and some of my other sensory skills are equally well developed.”

  In sudden panic, Evangeline jerked away and tried to step backward. “I—please excuse me, Mr. Roberts,” she responded breathlessly, feeling her face flame as she pulled from his powerful grasp and began to back down the hall toward the drawing room. “I—I should go. I must turn pages for Frederica. At the—the pianoforte. I always do so after dinner.”

  Suddenly overwhelmed by uncertainty and guilt, Evangeline whirled about and strode rapidly toward the drawing room, finding it already filled with children. Blindly moving through the crowd and toward the pianoforte, she unexpectedly sensed the hot press of tears behind her eyes. What was wrong with her? What was she about? She had no business allowing—yes, allowing—a client, a betrothed gentleman, to begin a silly flirtation with her, merely because she enjoyed his attentions. Such playful banter undoubtedly meant little to Mr. Roberts, but the words left her feeling raw and inexplicably vulnerable.

  Oh, Evangeline understood that in polite society, flirting meant next to nothing. Indeed, it was deemed as necessary a social skill as dancing or gaming. Nonetheless, she was not versed in the shallow ways of English society, as Elliot Roberts almost certainly was. She was an outsider. For Evangeline, words were still serious things, and passion was something she could afford to express with oil and canvas only. In this handsome gentleman, Mr. Roberts, she had found herself unexpectedly out of her depth and a little ashamed of her response toward him.

  Deliberately, Evangeline stared across the length of the drawing room, watching as her brother Michael cheerfully pulled a chair toward the mahogany card table. The child was so innocent, so carefree. Pray God he could remain so. At that very moment, Michael tilted back his head and laughed gaily at some jest of Theo’s. Strangely enough, the vision of her brother’s happiness soothed Evangeline, suffusing her with an almost calming sense of duty. Her composure slowly returning, Evangeline picked up Frederica’s music and spread it open, just as Elliot strode into the room.

  Only moments later, Elliot found himself making up a fourth for cards with Gus, Theo, and Michael, Mr. Stokely having taken up a book of poetry instead. Much to Winnie Weyden’s consternation, the boys had persuaded Elliot into a rowdy game of loo played for ha’pennies. Despite such impecunious stakes and Elliot’s notorious cunning at the gaming tables, he soon found himself well on his way to being fleeced as a result of his impaired concentration.

  True to her mumbled explanation, Ev
angeline now sat stiffly upon the pianoforte bench beside Frederica at the opposite end of the vast drawing room. Carefully positioning himself at the card table in such a way that he might observe the pair, Elliot watched as Frederica performed with admirable skill for one so young. He could not help but notice, however, that the child stumbled frequently, and the cause was almost always Evangeline’s failure to turn the page in a timely fashion.

  She had been discomfited by his flirtation, that much was obvious. Why, Elliot asked himself, had he done such a heartless thing? Despite her age and demeanor, Evangeline was plainly unaccustomed to the attentions of an accomplished flirt, having instantly stammered and blushed at his intimations. What had he hoped to gain by such coarse behavior? Had he sunk so deep into dissolution that he took some pathetic pleasure in the discomfort of a gently bred woman? Such a thought disgusted him, and yet he knew that he had deliberately stood too close and implied too much, all the while reveling in his ability to disconcert her.

  It had been a test, he realized with a shock. Yes, a test of sorts. He’d wanted to see for himself what her response would be. All of the women Elliot knew, even those few who made a passing bid at respectability, were more than capable of rising to the challenge of an arrant scapegrace like himself. But Evangeline Stone, clearly, was not. Not yet.

  At last, the closing chords of Frederica’s sonata sounded amid her cousins’ gracious cries of “bravo” and “well done.” Evangeline quietly withdrew to a sofa by the window as Nicolette Stone laid quick claim to the pianoforte. Curled on a rug with the cats, Fritz the dog lay by the hearth where coals hissed warmly in defense against the insidious damp. Evangeline flipped open a book, and Mrs. Weyden sat, as she had done since dinner, sewing in an oversized armchair. Beside the fire, Mr. Stokely appeared to be very nearly asleep. Shyly approaching the card table, Frederica curled around Michael’s chair to peer at his hand. It was a scene of utter domestic harmony, an oasis of peace. And it brought with it a sense of comfort that even Elliot could not miss.

  As the cards continued to fall, Elliot began to relax; though he continued to observe Evangeline out of the corner of one eye. “I say, Roberts!” gloated Gus as Elliot’s next card fell. “Expected better from a real town gamester.” Energetically, the young man leaned forward to sweep the loo into his corner.

  “Oh, aye, that’s a whole quid you’ve taken ’im for, Gus,” added Theo, his mouth curling sarcastically as he dealt another hand. “No doubt we’ll be rich as nabobs any day now.”

  “I do not suppose, Mr. Weyden,” said Elliot dryly as the play resumed, “that this inadvertent hiatus in your Cambridge career had anything to do with your card skills, hmm?”

  Theo, a handsome lad who looked to be about sixteen, snorted disdainfully as he made his play. “He wishes!”

  Gus colored slightly. “Er—not exactly,” he replied, tugging at his cravat.

  Theo winked at Elliot conspiratorially. “Nothing so sophisticated as all that, sir! Gus ’n’ a vicar’s son got a touch bosky. Shinnied up an oak tree and flashed their bums at the vice chancellor’s old auntie!” At this remark, Elliot was simply beyond restraint. He burst into a sputter, which advanced rapidly into an undignified guffaw, immediately sending Michael and Theo into peels of hilarity. Across the room, Evangeline and Mr. Stokely turned to regard the four card players with mild interest.

  “Theodore!” Mrs. Weyden’s tone rang out sharply. “Hush this instant, or your bum will be exposed to my riding crop! And do not you, Mr. Roberts, be so wicked as to encourage them!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” agreed Elliot soberly, wiping a tear from his eye. He looked down to see that Gus was again sweeping up the pot. “Mr. Stokely!” Elliot called out to the instructor in the most companionable voice he could muster, “come save me from this lubricious gang of Captain Sharps, for I’m down to my last shilling.”

  “Oh, you’re a clever fellow, Roberts,” jeered Gus goodnaturedly. “Best admit it when you’ve been done in by professionals!”

  “Aye, come on, Stokely!” added Theo. “Roberts is pressed to quit, else he’ll not be able to afford Evie’s commission, and she’ll toss him out on his ear.”

  Shoving his spectacles up his nose and laying aside his verses, Stokely stirred himself and obligingly took Elliot’s seat.

  Elliot, ever the opportunist, slipped across the room to stand alongside Evie’s sofa. “May I join you?” he asked as humbly as he knew how.

  Evie looked up from her book and blinked twice. “By all means, Mr. Roberts,” she replied, with stiff civility.

  Settling himself onto the empty half of the sofa, Elliot peered at her book. “Fielding?” he asked, keeping his voice deliberately low.

  “Yes.” Her throaty voice was cool but cordial.

  “Ah! Which one?”

  “Amelia,” she replied succinctly.

  “Oh, too serious, Miss Stone!” Elliot shook his head. “I much prefer Tom Jones.”

  Over her small, elegant nose, Evangeline fixed him in a pointed stare. “Indeed? The adventures of a charming libertine. I might have guessed.”

  Elliot choked. Evangeline Stone might not be worldly, but she was a quick wit. His gaze swept the room. Over the chords of the pianoforte and the din at the card table, no one in the room paid them any heed. He drew a deep breath and subtly leaned in toward her. “Ah, you need say no more, madam! I perceive that I have distressed you. Let me try again—”

  “Try what again?” she interrupted sharply.

  Elliot dropped his gaze and tried to look repentant.

  “Miss Stone, I owe you my deepest apology for giving even a moment of discomfort earlier this evening. I have not the slightest notion of propriety, I fear, since I was most shamelessly attempting to flirt with you.”

  She flicked him an icy look. “Flirting?”

  “Yes, and I am sorry for it. As you so carefully pointed out, this is not town. Moreover, I am a grateful guest in your home, and I have partaken of your generous hospitality. It was wrong of me to put you so out of countenance.”

  “Out of countenance?” A touch of humor brightened the perfect oval of her face.

  Elliot tried to smile innocently and lightly touched her hand where it lay upon the sofa. “Miss Stone, you are doing naught but echoing my words. You must smack me! Scold me! Tell me that I am not fit to kiss the hem of your skirt. For I am not, you know,” he added in a low voice.

  Evangeline watched her handsome guest’s gray eyes soften, and suddenly she found herself laughing, quite against her will. Elliot Roberts was trouble indeed, she realized yet again, for she could no more resist his charming entreaties than his subtle overtures. “Good Lord, Mr. Roberts! That’s quite enough! All is forgiven.”

  “Thank God!” he whispered melodramatically, falling back against the sofa. “I thought to be forever in your bad graces.”

  Deliberately, Evangeline broke away from his hypnotic gaze and forced herself to stare into the depths of her book. “With such skillful groveling as all that, Mr. Roberts, I shouldn’t expect that you remain in the bad graces of any woman for very long.”

  “Miss Stone!” he whispered softly. “I must warn you that you are now perilously close to flirting with me! It’s not at all the thing, either, since I’m a client.”

  Evangeline squared her shoulders and tried to look stern. “Mr. Roberts, I have taken you in, had you brushed, bathed, and fed—”

  “—like a stray dog, I know,” interrupted Elliot, hanging his head mournfully.

  “And you’ve paid me not a penny so far, so I fail to see—”

  “Come, Miss Stone.” Elliot sighed and extended his hand. “You are right on every villainous count. Ere someone suggests I sleep with Fritz, please take me off to your Tower. It is where I belong, no doubt.”

  “No doubt,” she muttered, laying aside her book. Then, resolutely, she lifted her gaze to catch his once more. “Though I almost fear being alone with you, Mr. Roberts. You have altogether too much charm,”
she added grimly.

  Her guest seemed taken aback by her forthright confession, his teasing expression immediately gentling to one of grave concern. “I am exceedingly sorry, Miss Stone. I give you my word as a gentleman that in the future you shall have no cause to feel even a moment’s discomfort in my company.” So saying, he rose smoothly to his feet and offered her his arm.

  With a sigh of resignation and an irrational sense of disappointment, Evangeline rose, then politely escorted her guest back up the main staircase, down the second floor, and around the twisting tower stairs to his third-floor bedchamber. Elliot promptly made a very proper thank you, then bid her a pleasant good night.

  It was precisely half past midnight when the ancient butler, MacLeod, swung open the heavy door at Strath House, the century-old Richmond residence of the marquises of Rannoch. The knocking had been loud, intense, and unremitting. Fully expecting, therefore, to see his exhausted master standing on the threshold, MacLeod was taken aback to find instead Major Matthew Winthrop and his cohort, Aidan Grant, Viscount Linden, weaving unsteadily and begging admittance.

  “Evening, MacLeod,” called Linden jovially, holding his gold-knobbed walking stick aloft in his fist. “We come bearing news of a most ursh—urk—no, urgent nashure. For his lordship!”

  “Gossip!” echoed Winthrop with another drunken wobble. “For Rannoch!”

  MacLeod peered through his silver spectacles and down his hooked nose at the two strikingly dressed and cheerfully drunken gentlemen who stood staggering upon the broad marble steps of Strath House.

  “Verra sorry, my lord and Major Winthrop,” replied MacLeod civilly. “Lord Rannoch is oot and hasna returned.” The butler watched as the two men glanced at each other with what was obviously crushing disappointment.

  Other than the aura of privilege and the odor of alcohol, both of which copiously emanated from them, the two men were a contrast in every possible way. Winthrop was raven-haired, broad-shouldered, and attired in a dark, conservative coat of a military cut, while Linden, tall, blond, and angelically handsome, was every inch the immoderate town dandy. How the irrepressible pair had come to be the partners in debauchery of Elliot Armstrong was no secret to the elderly butler.