“Did you?” Frederica looked amazed.
“Indeed, I did,” insisted Elliot, speaking deliberately over his shoulder. “Great, fierce, hairy things they were, too. And d’you know what they like to eat best of all?”
Frederica shook her head solemnly. “No, sir,” she whispered in awe.
“Wicked boys and girls who pick on their younger cousins!”
Frederica shrieked with laughter and began to squirm to be set down. “Do they really, Mr. Roberts?”
Elliot lowered her gently to her feet, keeping one eye on Michael. “Aye, they come out at night to roam about in search of bad children to eat for supper! If I were such a one, I should take great care to lock my door tonight!” Elliot lunged at Frederica and pretended to grab at her. Playfully, she squealed and danced away down the river path, Elliot trailing slowly behind.
“Ho! What’s this, Mr. Roberts?” Evangeline’s voice rang out across the meadow. “Did I hear aright? Are some of my charges about to be eaten?”
“Not me!” shrieked Frederica gleefully.
Elliot turned to see Evangeline standing above them on the hillock, her slender frame silhouetted against a brilliant backdrop of cerulean sky and emerald pasture. She held a letter in one hand and wore a simple yellow walking dress which billowed gently in the breeze. Her silky butter-yellow hair spilled from beneath a plain chip bonnet, which she promptly removed. The sight made him wish, yet again, that he could paint.
Instead, he grinned. “Generally speaking, Miss Stone, only the wicked get eaten.”
Evangeline’s eyebrows arched up elegantly. “Indeed, Mr. Roberts?” she calmly replied. “That being the case, there may be a great many of us in need of locking our doors tonight.”
Elliot’s gaze fixed on the letter Evie suddenly thrust into her pocket. With a sick feeling, he wondered if Evie had somehow discovered the truth about him. But the fleeting fear passed as her face broke into a smile and she started down the embankment to join them. He caught her hand as she stepped gingerly down the last few steps of the steep slope, feeling a surge of possessiveness as her slender fingers folded tightly into his.
Evie was breathless, as if she had walked briskly across the meadows from Chatham. Bright, china-blue eyes smiled at him from beneath wisps of fine hair which now tossed gently in the wind.
“I was lonely,” she explained without preamble. “I confess, I could not tolerate being stuck indoors whilst all of you were out having such fun.”
Reluctantly, Elliot released her hand and gestured toward the blanket adjacent to Nicolette and Theo, who were spreading out their sketchpads under the auspices of Mr. Stokely. The three of them smiled up at her in greeting as she dropped to the ground. Farther down the path, Michael was busy making amends with Frederica by way of a frantic search for skipping stones.
“Have you no sketchpad, Miss Stone?” Elliot kept his voice low as he sank onto the blanket beside her.
“Indeed not,” she replied crisply, turning her gaze back toward him. “That would constitute work, and I am playing the truant this afternoon.”
“Are you?” he said softly, leaning onto one elbow and letting his eyes play slowly down her length. “And what does the proper Miss Stone do, I wonder, when she plays the truant?”
Evie smiled blandly. “Nothing very interesting, I’m afraid.”
“No?” Elliot rose as swiftly as he’d just sat down and offered her his hand. “Come, Miss Stone, walk up the river with me,” he invited. Surprisingly, Evangeline took his hand and allowed him to pull her smoothly to her feet.
7
Tempt not a desperate man.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
As they left Mr. Stokely and his pupils behind to make their way up the river path, the shrill voices of the younger children faded in the distance. The rush of current across a stretch of rocks, which ran the width of the Lea, soon replaced the happy sounds. Nearby, an ancient copse of hornbeams appeared to all but topple into the flowing river.
Without warning, Elliot stepped off the path, pulling Evangeline down to the water’s edge. Catching her toe on a stiff tuft of grass, Evangeline stumbled, then promptly regained her footing. Nonetheless, it was sufficient excuse for Elliot. He seized the opportunity to haul her unceremoniously into his arms and spin her about. Evangeline’s eyes caught his, and he watched as a certain knowledge flamed deep within their rich blue depths.
She wanted him. The emotion was plainly writ upon her face. Perhaps she had even come there hoping to tempt him to do this very thing, drag her into the trees and ravage her mouth. Perhaps the reality of his hunger would frighten her; it would be just as well if it did. Almost roughly, he urged her back against the tree and leaned against her. He felt his breath catch, then grow rapid and shallow.
Neither had spoken a single word since leaving the blanket; it was almost as if their mutual need was understood. Yet Elliot was certain that Evangeline had no clue about just how desperate he had become. Such an innocent could not begin to comprehend the depraved imaginings that floated up from his dark subconscious. His pulse beat wildly in his temples as he lowered his lips toward hers. Already, he was growing hot and hard.
Just once, he promised himself. He had to kiss Evangeline just once. Before she learned the inevitable truth of who and what he really was. Elliot persuaded himself that every lovely woman deserved—and wanted—to be kissed.
No, hissed his tattered, crumpled conscience in response. It is wrong. It is wicked. She doesn’t even know your name.
Just one kiss, argued the devil in his loins. One innocent kiss.
But Elliot, who had folded up most of his morals and stuffed them into the back of a deep, dark cupboard years ago, was now shocked indeed to hear them pounding at the door. He fought to ignore the mental cacophony and focus only on the physical pleasure. Eyes closed, Evangeline tilted her face knowingly upward to meet his lips, her cheeks still pink from the exertion of her walk, her lashes soft and thick against her cheeks.
Elliot was amazed at her blind complacence. Surely, she meant to protest? Then he remembered with a painful clarity that Evangeline did not know who he was. Plain, ordinary Mr. Roberts—did not innocent women twist and turn away when he attempted to kiss them? Elliot wanted to know. Gently, he touched his lips to the corner of her mouth, kissing first the right dimple, then sliding lightly across her full bottom lip to kiss the left. Reining himself under command, Elliot pulled away slightly to brush his cheek against her hair. Despite the roar of the water, Elliot realized that his breathing had become as ragged as his self-control.
Wrapped in his embrace, Evangeline moaned very insistently, and Elliot could not restrain himself from answering by opening his mouth over hers, melting it softly against her lips, slanting back and forth over and over. Evangeline’s lips were firm yet pliant, her breath soft and quick. She wanted him. The realization surged hotly into his loins.
Their kiss was endlessly intoxicating in its innocence. Gently, Elliot leaned her fully against the broad tree trunk which slanted back toward the water, never lifting his lips from hers. Evangeline followed his lead, allowing him to urge her backward until Elliot had her firmly pinned between himself and the tree.
So innocent. So sweet. So wrong. Elliot deflected the annoying stab of morality by deepening his kiss. He was seized by the urgency of the moment. Inside her mouth—just once, whispered the devil again. At that precise moment, Evangeline sighed softly, and he felt her lips part invitingly. With practiced skill, Elliot seized the opportunity, sliding his tongue into the corner of her mouth and drawing it hard across her lips. Sweetly, Evangeline’s opened as if in answer. Her blue eyes flew open wide, however, as Elliot’s tongue surged into the moist, spicy warmth of her mouth.
Sensing her surprise, Elliot instinctively pressed himself more firmly against her and slipped one hand down to the small of her back to gentle her motions. As he continued to move his mouth on hers, he became dimly aware of Evangeline’s fingers digging gr
eedily into the fabric of his shirtfront. Her breath came faster as his tongue plunged again and again into her innocent depths.
The sweet kiss evolved into an urgent ritual, an emboldened assault against Evangeline’s mouth. Elliot’s kiss drove her head back against the tree, effectively countering Evangeline’s fleeting attempt to move away. And it was a fleeting attempt, for Elliot vaguely realized that she was returning his kiss measure for measure. A soft groan of pleasure caught in his throat as Evangeline’s breasts seemed to swell against his shirtfront.
Though he had fantasized repeatedly about this moment, his expectations vaporized in the explosive heat of Evangeline’s reaction. Impatiently, she began to meet his tongue with little forays of her own, an offer of pleasure that felt like his for the asking. Her mouth hot against his, Evangeline’s hands slid enticingly down his shirt and around to steal seductively up the quivering muscles of his back as she leaned into him, urging him closer still. The hot pulse still beat in his temples, and was spreading lower.
More. Now. Oh, Lord, no. Elliot’s knees began to shake. The seducer was fast becoming the seduced, for even as he tried weakly to pull away from the kiss, Evangeline continued to respond, curling one arm around his neck, refusing to take her lips from his. As if possessed, his hand slid up to caress her breast, the weight cradled gently in his broad palm, his thumb sliding back and forth across the swell until her nipple drew into a taut little bud.
Ah, yes, she wanted him. He could feel it. She pressed herself urgently against his hard manhood, her delicate nostrils flaring as her breath came faster and faster. Surely, she knew what she was doing to him?
“Stop, Evangeline,” he finally managed to whisper against her mouth. “Good Lord—stop—”
Not far downstream, a burst of childish laughter rang through the warm summer air, suddenly breaking the spell between them. Elliot was jerked harshly back to reality and let his hand slide from her breast. Still held loosely in his arms, Evangeline stiffened, then slowly brushed her mouth against his one last time and pulled away, her eyes lowered modestly, her arm sliding slowly from around his neck.
Irrationally, nausea began to churn in Elliot’s stomach even as blood continued to settle hotly in his groin. The knowledge that, given half a chance, he would have taken an innocent in broad daylight by shoving her skirts up against a tree trunk was sickening. The suspicion that she might have let him did not help matters in the least.
In his heart, something vaguely akin to shame had begun to stir. But then again, Elliot had so little recent experience with shame that he had lost confidence in his ability to recognize that evasive emotion.
“Oh, my God,” he heard Evangeline finally whisper as she sank weakly back against the tree. She lifted one trembling hand to her forehead and looked up at him with what appeared to be pure reverence.
Elliot forced himself to take another step backward. What he had done was horribly wrong. Yes, she was an innocent, and he was a knave of the worst sort. “Evie—Miss Stone.” His voice came out thick and hoarse. “I—I cannot think what came over me. Such an inexcusable liberty. Please—I do beg your pardon!”
After a long moment, Evangeline truly focused on him, eyes narrowing in the brilliant sunlight. After a moment, she came away from the tree, brushing at her skirts as if that would somehow set matters to rights. “I’m sorry,” she said breathlessly. “I was, you know, a participant—”
“An unwilling one—”
“No,” she interrupted with a nervous laugh, smoothing back her falling hair. “Hardly that!”
“Come, Miss Stone.” Elliot forced a smile. “I cannot use your innocent curiosity as an excuse for my shabby behavior. I am not to be trusted. Allow me to return you to your family.” He stood slightly uphill from her, extending his hand.
Evangeline made no attempt to take it. Instead, she swallowed hard and held his gaze intently. “Mr. Roberts, have you a great deal of experience in—in kissing women?”
Lord, what a question! Elliot hoped he could answer it with a straight face. “I suppose—some, yes. I have kissed a few ladies in my day.”
“Oh, I just wondered,” she murmured weakly. “Indeed, you seem—well, certainly, you are exceedingly good at it. And I have so little experience—almost none, in fact. None which can compare to … oh, drat.” Abruptly, Evie lifted her skirt with one hand, took his with the other, and stepped uphill onto the path. “Never mind. You are right; we should return.”
But strangely enough, Elliot now wanted to linger, reluctant to return to the gaiety of the children he had so enjoyed only minutes earlier. He stood on the path, still holding Evie’s hand. It felt warm and gentle. Small yet strong and so right. As Elliot looked down to study their fingers clasped tightly together, he realized again how diminutive she was in comparison to his great size. Indeed, her hand quite disappeared in his, and her head did not reach his shoulder. With no trouble at all, Elliot could easily have carried her off into the tall grass and forced her to love him.
Forced? His stomach lurched again in disgust, yet he could not help but wonder again at Evangeline’s willingness. Perhaps she would indeed welcome him to her bed. It was a shocking thought; nevertheless, she had seemed so enthralled, so eager. Though Evangeline was nothing like his usual mistresses, her Continental ways and unconventional attitudes seemed wholly divergent from those of a proper English miss. Moreover, she was too open, too trusting.
Suddenly, Elliot wanted to rail at her, to growl a warning at her. Decent women did not wisely go about kissing the marquis of Rannoch. Did she not know that? But of course she didn’t. How should she? He had come back to Chatham to explain, to confess his sins, yet had thus far been unable to do so. Therefore, the innocent Miss Stone believed, with every good reason, that she was kissing the charming and uncorrupted Elliot Roberts.
As Elliot had so recently recollected, most of the women who so eagerly warmed his bed would rather not be seen with him in public. Yet here stood Evangeline, clinging to his hand and smiling up at his scowling face. She was warm and soft in all the right places, Elliot was sure of it. And he now knew that her mouth was spicy, her skin smelled of lavender, and her hair felt like silk. Damnation. These were things he did not want to know. Should not know. Wanted to know again and again.
“Mr. Roberts?” she asked, still standing on the path facing him. “May I ask a favor? If you think it not too forward, could you call me by my given name when we are alone?”
When we are alone. The words were significant. Dumbly, Elliot simply nodded. Then, realizing that some other response was called for, he swiftly brushed his lips across her forehead.
“Certainly, Evangeline,” he answered with a sudden decisiveness, “and I shall be just plain Elliot.”
Elliot had long ceased to be amazed at the educational methods employed in the schoolroom of Chatham Lodge. Lessons seemed to be a bizarre melange of candid discussions, informal lectures, nature hikes, and lively arguments. Maps of every nation, some of which were unknown to Elliot, hung randomly across walls and doors. Thick, richly bound tomes with titles like An Analysis of Applied Trigonometry, Illustrated Comparison of Etruscan and Roman Architecture, and A Detailed Study of Byzantine Culture and Literature lined the walls. And those were just the titles he could read. The foreign books looked far more intimidating yet just as worn. This, indeed, was a household of bluestockings and intellectuals. Elliot, whose father had not permitted his son what he called the “corrupting influence” of a university education, found it intriguing.
Along with the boys, Harlan Stokely cheerfully tutored the two girls in mathematics, Greek, Latin, and the sciences. When Elliot had expressed surprise at such an unconventional arrangement, Evangeline had sharply retorted that “an intelligent woman can be ignorant enough when required by circumstance and society, but an ignorant woman is simply ignorant.” Elliot was quite certain she had meant it as a rebuke but found a frightening amount of logic in her statement.
During his
second visit, he had learned that Mrs. Weyden was, in fact, Evangeline’s former governess, who had ventured to Flanders to provide Maxwell Stone’s eldest daughter with the training required of a proper Englishwoman. This education was broadened, however, by Evangeline’s mother’s insistence upon extensive travel in the study of art, architecture, and languages. The traditional education apparently got short shrift, however, when the vivacious Winnie quickly caught the eye of Stone’s youngest business associate, Hans Weyden. Winnie’s duties as governess were short-lived, to be replaced by her role as family friend and confidante.
Not surprisingly, Harlan Stokely was Winnie’s well-educated but impoverished second cousin, once removed. Elliot supposed that this distant kinship explained Stokely’s family inclusion at Chatham. He was not, however, entirely convinced of this reasoning, since he had come to believe that the exuberant Stone-Weyden clan would likely throw their home open to strangers off the street. Had that not been the precise method of his own entrée?
In the hour allotted before Friday dinner, Mr. Stokely traditionally opened the connecting door between the schoolroom and the studio. Under Evangeline’s tutelage, each student kept some painting or sketch in progress, and this period was devoted to such work. Though asked to stay and observe their studies, Elliot instead invited Stokely to give him a game of chess in the small drawing room and was pleasantly surprised when the retiring schoolmaster agreed. The hour passed without incident, and without excitement.
Eagerly awaiting Evangeline like a lovesick pup, Elliot kept one eye fixed across the hall on the schoolroom door. When Theo at last burst forth and dashed down the hall toward the gardens, Elliot excused himself and rose from the game. He entered the studio to see the girls gathered around Evangeline’s worktable, debating some final aspect of Nicolette’s painting. Just as Elliot stuck his head through the doorway, Frederica leaned forward to point to the far corner at the piece in question, inadvertently catching her sleeve on what appeared to be a nearly full pot of dark blue paint. The pigment gushed forth, trailing across the table and puddling on the floor.
Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02] Page 17