“For heaven’s sake, hold still,” hissed Kemble in apparent aggravation. “One would think you wished to cease wearing cravats altogether.” With what felt like deliberate maliciousness, the valet drew the fine fabric another quarter inch tighter, then fashioned it into an elaborate, slightly embellished version of the sentimentale.
The final bow rested high beneath Elliot’s chin. “Feel like a bloody trussed-up Christmas goose,” muttered the marquis, thrusting out his arms for his embroidered waistcoat.
“What twaddle, my lord,” replied Kemble smugly as he slid the garment up over the marquis’s shoulders. “Indeed, that full effect would require corsets. Shall I oblige? Maurice can whip up something brutally painful in a trice.” The valet strolled around and began to fasten the buttons.
Elliot ran one long finger around his collar in an attempt to mitigate the damage. “With all due respect to Maurice’s skills, Kem, I sincerely hope I do not as yet require such artifice.”
Kemble swept an appraising glance over him. “No, indeed, my lord. Far from it,” he answered, his voice smooth and serious. He paused for a few seconds. “Who is she, my lord?” The question was interposed like a casual afterthought.
Elliot peered down at the smaller man, one brow crooked in deliberate arrogance. “Who is who?” he asked noncommittally.
“Cherchez la femme,” muttered Kemble, eyeing his employer suspiciously while giving a final tug on the waist coat. “Is that not what the French advise? And in this case, I am sure they must be quite right! You are always from home. You smoke like a bad chimney. You insist on wearing dreadful clothing and twitch as if you’ve contracted Saint Vitus’s dance on those rare occasions when I try to dress you properly—”
“Kem!” Elliot’s voice held a warning, but the valet was on a tear, pointing his elegant finger at the bed, its sheets a hopeless tangle.
“You sleep fitfully and at odd hours when you are here, and you almost never go to town. Moreover, Scotland cannot ferment that vile whisky fast enough to suit you.” Kemble drew a deep breath and concluded, “Only a lover can be the cause of such disruption to a well-ordered life.”
“Humph,” grunted Elliot, abruptly shoving his arms into the sleeves of the coat Kemble held open. He turned around for another set of buttons, absently thinking that his valet was too damn smart by half. “If you must know, Kem, la femme in question is an exceedingly nice young woman. She is beautiful, sensitive, and gifted. An artist, in fact.”
“And this goddess has deigned to keep company with you?” The valet looked up from his work, pausing in mid-button, his tone arch.
“Yes.”
“Of her own volition? Or have you locked her in the attic?” Kemble stared at him in all seriousness.
The question stung, and Elliot chose to ignore it. He knew that Kem did not mean to hurt him, and so he changed the subject. “What of your new tailor friend? Maurice, did you say?”
Kemble nodded, cheerful for once. “Ah, he’s in good looks these days, my lord! Busy, too, what with the season upon us. All the new fashions! Maurice says breeches are completely démodé, and trousers are now de rigueur in town. That is very good for business, of course.”
Elliot nodded, still tugging at his collar. His eyes flicked down at the valet in sympathy. “Why not take the evening off, Kem?” he suggested softly. “I imagine I can get myself out of this rig when the time comes. Besides, Hugh and I are off to the club. We’re to play a hand with Winthrop and Linden, and I shall doubtless be quite late.”
Kemble did not wait for a second offer. Elliot’s coat now fully buttoned, the valet darted through the room gathering up the marquis’s stick, hat, and gloves, then dashed out the door with nary another quip or question. Elliot was left standing alone in the center of his vast bedchamber. He cast another glance at the tousled bedcovers, then threw down his hat and gloves in despair. He was glad to be rid of Kem. He did not want to go to the club. Not with Hugh. Not with anyone. He did not want to play cards. Nor did he want to be alone in this desolate house.
What he wanted, damn it all, was Evangeline Stone. Yes, he wanted her with an agonizing desperation that was almost tangible.
But it just was not possible. Moreover, it was foolish. Had he not learned his lesson at an early age? It was not worth it. Far better he should simply rip his heart from his chest and toss it to Winthrop’s pack of rabid hounds. It would be quicker, and far less painful, than losing himself in another woman, for Elliot knew that despite his hardened resolve, were he to fall in love again, he would fall blindly, hopelessly, and irretrievably. It was his way, and he could not seem to alter the course. Already, he felt frighteningly near the precipice, mooning over another lost love as if the devastation of it might bring the spinning earth to a halt.
His first night back from Chatham, in an effort to dispel Evangeline’s tantalizing memory, Elliot had forced himself to go drinking and whoring with Lord Linden, telling himself that his problem was, simply put, the deleterious consequence of self-imposed celibacy. Since Antoinette’s last ugly tantrum, Elliot had been without a woman. It was perverse. Toward the end of their relationship, Elliot had found himself sick to death of his paramour’s increasingly heavy drinking and volatile moods. Yet Lily, the young actress whom Antoinette had quite accurately assumed was to become her replacement, had also ceased to hold his interest. Regrettably, upon careful consideration, the alternatives seemed no more appealing.
The cloying ways of the demimonde had grown tiresome, while the manipulations and machinations of the ton’s bored wives and widows were downright dangerous. He was tired of creeping in and out of assorted French windows, back doors, and service entrances just before cock crow. Moreover, on those rare occasions when his hearing failed him or he was otherwise too distracted, the aftermath was equally unpleasant. He had a scar on his arse to remind him. During the last ten years, Elliot had grown excessively weary of riding out at dawn to shoot and be shot at, over women who were, all too frequently, inadequate between the sheets.
Furthermore, he knew perfectly well what such women were about. These paragons of the beau monde, while all too willing to bed him in some vain attempt to lessen their ennui, ease their curiosity, or spite their husbands, would later arise—his scent, no doubt, lingering on their sheets—and very nearly trot across Bond Street to avoid having to cross his path and greet him in public. Some, like Jeanette, were worse. Contrary to all her feigned passion, she had sought nothing more than his seed. Jeanette had been anxious for a child, and any virile man, she had finally explained, would have done just as well.
Elliot suppressed a snort of disgust and rubbed the old wound. The manipulative vixen had used him, and perhaps that had been just as he deserved, for he had not cared for Jeanette. Indeed, he had not even liked her. But she had been beautiful, willing, and seemingly desperate for him. Unfortunately, her elderly husband, arriving home very early and very inebriated from White’s one evening, had not appreciated Elliot’s assistance in getting an heir on his young wife. Worse still, the man had not bothered to issue a challenge, which Elliot could have handled. Instead, he had taken a rather shaky but moderately successful aim out Jeanette’s bedchamber window, lodging a ball of lead somewhat south of Elliot’s black heart.
It was a sennight before Elliot could sit down with any measure of comfort. Since Lord Stephen was known to be an aging pantywaist, as well as a notoriously bad shot, the entire affair had been widely whispered about as something of a joke. The powerful family matriarch had not, however, seen any humor in the situation. Come hell, high water, or, in this case, lascivious scandal, her unwavering plan required Lord Stephen to carry on the family tradition of wielding parliamentary clout and leverage among the most resolute members of the Tory aristocracy. In retaliation for their antics, Lord Stephen’s stepmother had suspended Jeanette’s allowance and forced the hapless couple into rustication, as if they were nothing more than recalcitrant children. Wisely, however, the old lady had stopped s
hort of maligning the marquis of Rannoch, who was both richer and meaner. Elliot had been almost disappointed.
It should have come as no surprise, therefore, that last night’s sinful foray with Linden had been an unmitigated disaster. The women had been forward and fawning, and the drinking, rather than serving as his consolation, had instead left him despondent. There would be, it seemed, no peace for Elliot Armstrong. Hell, maybe he didn’t deserve any. Maybe Evangeline Stone was nothing more than a just punishment for his worldly sins, a celestial enchantress sent down to inflict his remaining days on earth with regret and torment. What, then, would perdition be like, he wondered?
Slowly, he inhaled a deep, ragged breath and walked to the tray holding his whisky decanter to try again. He jerked out the stopper with a scrape, sloshed three fingers into a glass, then pressed the chilly crystal surface to his temple. It felt cool and soothing against his throbbing pulse. Holding it thus, he walked to the window and stared down at the Thames, still visible in the dying light of the summer’s evening.
He stared across the water toward Houndslow, watching mindlessly as, up and down the river, the last of the day’s boats put to shore on the north bank, leaving the river empty and forlorn. Vast. Desolate. Pensively, he sipped at the whisky, rolling it over his tongue and trying to take some pleasure from the smooth, woody burn as it washed down his throat.
It was no use. Absently, he set the glass down inside the deep windowsill and leaned his head forward until it rested against a cool pane of glass. Yes, he would go to Brooks’s to gamble and to drink and to look for trouble if he could find it. Yet trouble, like satisfaction, seemed ever more elusive these days. Indeed, even trouble seemed to stare suspiciously over its shoulder and walk a wide, cautious circle around him.
Nevertheless, he would go, and he would look, because it was all he had ever done. It was his life, such as his life was. And when Evangeline, along with the fleeting sense of contentment that her presence brought him, was gone, his miserable life would be all that he had left. It was, he supposed, better than nothing. After all, he had managed to sustain himself reasonably well on gambling, drinking, and trouble for any number of years.
He knocked back half his whisky, fighting down the urge to pack his bags and return to Essex that very night. It could be easily done; the moon was nearly full, and the sky was clear. But he could not do it, for he had left her only two days earlier. He could not justify staying at Chatham any longer than he had done. As it was, both he and Evangeline were fooling no one about the reasons for his protracted visits, save maybe themselves. Winnie Weyden merely cast him sidelong glances and curled her mouth into a mischievous half smile every time she saw him. Hell, the servants were beginning to behave as if they worked for him. The children persisted in acting as though he were a permanent fixture in their lives.
That hurt. And it worried him.
Slowly, he dropped his forehead to the glass once more. In three days, he was due to return. Immediately upon his arrival, he wanted to tell Evangeline the truth. She deserved to know. There was only one ugly alternative, and it was dreadfully ugly indeed. He could seduce her before she learned his identity.
Elliot was certain he could seduce an innocent. He had the expertise and notoriety, but perhaps not the heart, for just such a role. And, oh God, yes! Evangeline was ripe for his seduction! He had seen raw desire shimmer in her fiery blue eyes. He had recognized her passion in the way her soft, full lips parted invitingly when she tilted her head to look up at him. At first, he had been shocked that such a woman could want him. Him! But her incipient need was unmistakable.
This time, he would have to do a little more than simply hold her hand in the dark or flaunt himself in all his wet, naked glory. Elliot weighed his strategy carefully. Evangeline was strong and willful, but her unleashed passion would fast overrule her less carnal qualities. He felt sure of it. And it was a vision Elliot had conjured up in his mind time and time again. Evie, her thick blond hair spread across his pillow, her lithe, slender form reclining in his bed. Her small breasts were high and full, her hips elegantly flared. Elliot knew it instinctively and felt himself harden at the image. He would tempt her, and she would take him. With his consummate skill, he would please her, and with her innocent heart, she would give him the ultimate peace. And once the deed was done, she would be his, and the truth would matter a little less.
Evangeline would be left with no alternative. No alternative at all.
Good God, what was he thinking? Elliot raised his head from the glass, nausea roiling in his stomach. What had he been contemplating? Was he truly capable of defiling an honorable woman and forcing her into marriage? For that was most assuredly what it would come to. Restrained temptation was one thing, but he was well past sexual fantasy and fast crossing the bridge to outright wickedness. He was painfully aware that Evangeline did not deserve to be tainted by his touch, and yet the obsession would not leave him. Was he really that desperate to have her? Or was the evil just deeply and indelibly ingrained in his character?
No! In two days, he would leave for Wrotham-uponLea, and within five minutes of his arrival he would tell her everything. It was resolved. He was going to hurt her, had already hurt her, did she but know it. Elliot was many bad things, but he was not by his nature a liar. He would tell her.
Tell her what? That the object of her growing affection was none other than that vile, sniffing hound, Elliot Armstrong, marquis of Rannoch? Oh, that would get her attention, no doubt about it. Moreover, he already had some inkling of the low esteem in which her family held the marquis of Rannoch and those of his ilk. Given their seemingly deliberate reclusion, Elliot had been surprised to find that the denizens of Chatham had any knowledge of or interest in the antics of society; nonetheless, Mrs. Weyden had made their feelings about Rannoch quite plain.
And Elliot would make no apologies for what he was. Indeed, what would be the point? He was not some callow youth led into a life of debauchery out of ignorance. No, he had chosen his path with great deliberation and reaped the fruits of his lifestyle with abandon. It was his means of protection; it was his prudently chosen defense against the harsh truths of this ugly world. He had no need to search his soul. Elliot always knew precisely what he was about, even when it was not very nice.
His reputation was well earned. There was nothing malicious in what was said about him; much of it was true, and in time the remainder would no doubt come to be fact. Yes, he was on that slippery slope that had so disturbed his mother and tempted generations of Benhams. However, in his case, it was not the slope to ruin, though he had indeed sent many a man down it. No, Rannoch himself was on the slippery slope to hell, and heretofore he had not much cared.
Impetuously, he turned from the window and strode from the room, turning left into the corridor and bounding up another level of the sweeping circular staircase. When he arrived at the third-floor landing, Elliot took up the hall lamp and turned right. Quickly, before he could change his mind, he walked past the schoolroom and opened the door just beyond. Stealthily, he eased inside and put down the lamp beside his daughter’s bed.
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6
It is the end that crowns us, not the fight.
—ROBERT HERRICK
Z oë looked unusually peaceful in her sleep. By the light of day, the child occasionally looked apprehensive, and far older than her seven and a half years. Pretty little Frederica d’Avillez was, what, eight or nine? Certainly no more. Yet they were altogether different children, and Elliot again suffered the sickening suspicion that the difference was his error, that he had in some essential way failed his daughter, his own flesh and blood.
Settling himself carefully onto the small half-tester bed, Elliot looked about Zoë’s well-appointed bedchamber. Tastefully decorated in pink and gold, the room was filled with soft white furniture imported from France. Books and toys lined the walls, fine silk slippers sat heel to toe in Zoë’s wardrobe, and all manner of lacy littlegirl things f
illed her chiffonier. Miss Smith, Zoë’s governess, slept in an adjoining room, and Elliot had been assured that the woman provided the best education money could buy. All this, however, was not enough. After his time at Chatham Lodge, Elliot was slowly beginning to understand what Zoë needed from him, but often the knowledge brought him little hope and even less comfort. In truth, Elliot sometimes feared that he had nothing more to give, that it had already been wrung out of him. Shut off. Forever disconnected. He was trying, but he needed help.
Evangeline. Evangeline would know what to do, and suddenly he wished that she were with him. He needed her. God, he needed her for so many things. Impulsively, he leaned down to kiss Zoë’s plump, pink cheek, and as he righted himself, Elliot was dismayed to see that her eyes were flickering open.
“Papa?” In the darkness, her whisper seemed as uncertain and ephemeral as Zoë herself.
“Go back to sleep, Zoë.” He patted the blankets reassuringly. “I did not mean to wake you.”
“Is anything wrong, Papa?” Her huge brown eyes blinked in confusion as she pulled herself up onto one elbow. One dark, bouncing ringlet fell from her nightcap and tumbled over her face.
Elliot smiled. “Oh, no, sweet. I just came up to kiss you good night and to tell you that I love you.” He watched Zoë nod and smile, as if nightly, or even daily, visits from her father were the norm. They should have been, but they were not, and both of them knew it. Slowly, she rubbed one eye with the back of her pudgy hand, then settled herself back into her pillow, pulling the covers up to her dimpled chin. Big, innocent eyes, unblinking now, stared up at him.
“Zoë,” he blurted out uncertainly, “are you happy here?” Elliot wanted to bite back the words at once, but it was too late.
The little girl looked up at him a little anxiously and said nothing.
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