“Evangeline?”
At the sound of his voice, Evangeline’s head whipped around. Blankly, she stared at him. In silence, Elliot drew nearer until he stood beside her at the edge of the flagged terrace. She turned her gaze once more toward the distant forest.
Resolutely, Elliot braced his arms wide on the low stone wall, feeling his fingers involuntarily dig into the rock and mortar. He dropped his head and prayed for strength. “Evangeline, tell me truthfully.” His words came out in a tormented rasp. “What is your relationship with the comte de Chalons?”
“Did you overhear?” she asked in a soft, emotionless tone.
“Some of it, yes.” He turned his head to look down at her, awaiting what he knew might be a scathing reply, but none came. “Damn it, Evangeline, tell me! Whatever is between the two of you, for God’s sake, tell me. Don’t make me imagine the worst.”
Evangeline answered him with a bitter laugh which pierced the gloom. “The worst? What is the worst, Elliot? I wonder.”
And suddenly, he had her by the shoulders, pulling her toward him far more roughly than he had intended. Even in the weak lamplight that trickled from the studio, she looked pale and shaken. “The worst, Evie? The worst would be that you do not care for me at all. That you care for—for him, that man, LeNotre. A stranger whose name I have never heard before tonight, whose presence in this house takes me by complete surprise … ”
“Elliot,” she replied in an almost inaudible whisper, “de Chalons was a student of my father. A friend to Peter. He is dear to me, yes, but nothing more.”
“Pardon me for noting that his feelings for you seem somewhat less platonic,” insisted Elliot bitterly, slamming his fist down onto the stone wall, a flicker of distant lightning punctuating his angry gesture. “Damn it, Evangeline! I cannot bear it. Let me understand. He proposes to keep you—I think that is a fair translation of what the man suggested. An insufferable insult! And from a man who arrives here uninvited, then behaves as if he belongs in this house.”
Evangeline lifted her chin to look straight into his eyes, and Elliot sensed her animosity flare. “I care for you, Elliot,” she whispered hoarsely, her voice never wavering, “but you are not my keeper, nor need I apprise you of who comes and goes from my home.”
Elliot raked one hand through his hair in agitation, realizing that he had overstepped himself. “That’s not the point, Evie. I only meant—”
“I know what you meant,” she coolly interposed, “and the point is, there is much you cannot begin to understand, many people in my life of whom you know nothing. The converse is undoubtedly true. I do not delve into your past, and I would prefer that you extend to me the same courtesy.”
Elliot nodded stiffly. “Very well,” he replied, sensing that he was on the crumbling edge of a crisis. Even worse, Evangeline’s argument held far more truth than she knew, and he was ashamed yet again. He watched as she shook her head almost indiscernibly, blinking back another tear.
She was angry, and she hurt in some inexplicable way that Elliot could not begin to assuage. In the near silence, he listened to her breathing calm, then he set one arm reassuringly about her narrow waist. “Forgive me, Evie. I forgot myself.”
In apparent resignation, Evangeline exhaled a deep sigh into the warm night air. “Elliot,” she began in a soft, tentative voice, “because I care for you, because I want you to understand what Etienne meant, I will explain—”
Elliot interrupted her gently, tightening his grip around her waist and pulling her to him. In that gesture, which was meant only to console, as he leaned close and inhaled her warm, feminine fragrance, his jealous rage rekindled into pure desire, flaring low and hot in his belly, burning away all logic. His gaze drifted down the perfect turn of her face, taking in the sadness in her crystal-blue eyes, the elegant curve of her jaw, and her tremulous, delicately ripe mouth.
De Chalons, he abruptly decided, could burn in hell.
“No, Evie,” he rasped, sliding his free hand up along her spine to wrap it surely about the nape of her neck, “you mustn’t say anything.” Elliot’s voice came out in a tortured whisper as he dipped his head to brush his lips against the soft skin below her earlobe. “You owe me nothing,” he continued, moving his lips across the lovely turn of her jaw to take her mouth.
With total surrender, Evangeline let Elliot capture her lips in a kiss that was fierce, unrelenting, and almost savage in its intensity. His crushing mouth tasted of warm wine and honeyed silk, and this time, when his tongue slid seductively against her lips, she opened eagerly, taking him deep inside to stroke and explore. Reacting purely on feminine instinct, Evangeline moved urgently against him, sliding her tongue smoothly against his and returning his passion with growing confidence. A soft moan began deep in her throat as she allowed one hand to slide around his waist and up beneath the warm wool of his coat to feel the solid muscles of his back. Despite her flash of anger at Elliot, this felt real. This felt safe. Elliot’s embrace felt like the only thing that could give her even the briefest illusion of security.
Dimly, Evangeline sensed the growing recklessness in Elliot’s motions as she felt his hand slip down to stroke across the swell of her hip, then lift her roughly against him. The flame heightened instantaneously when he pressed himself into her, and she felt his arousal, hard and erect, against her feminine mound. An urgent, driving hunger pierced her belly, and in response she moaned again and felt her fingernails claw into the fabric of his waistcoat as she begged for something she wanted but did not fully comprehend. Warmth and heat and need surged through her as she arched against him instinctively and wantonly.
Her sweet, throaty moan of passion sent hunger slicing through Elliot’s gut like a sharp blade. God, how he wanted Evangeline, would do anything to have her. Sensing that he was rapidly losing himself, Elliot at last managed to dredge up enough self-control to pull incrementally away from Evangeline’s inviting hips and mouth. She whimpered softly in protest as his lips parted from hers. Almost blindly, it seemed, she slid her hands down the small of his back and lower still to urge him against her in a gesture that was the very definition of sweet, guileless seduction.
“No,” he rasped harshly, and watched as hurt, then humiliation, played across the gentle features of her face. “Oh, God, Evie—”
“Don’t you want me, Elliot?” she whispered. Her upturned face was innocent despite her full, inviting lips. “I had hoped that you found me desirable.”
Elliot let himself slump hard against the stone wall at his back, then dropped his forehead to touch hers lightly. “Good Lord, yes, Evie. I want you. So much so that I very nearly—” Abruptly, Elliot checked himself.
“Good,” interrupted Evangeline breathlessly. Across the garden wall, a spear of lightning threw the distant forest into harsh relief, and thunder, much nearer now, rumbled through the clouds again.
Elliot jerked his head upright and pulled her hard against his chest. With great concentration, he disciplined the movements of his hands, rubbing them lightly up and down the delicate curve of her narrow back. “Evangeline,” he spoke into her hair in a heated rush, “will you marry me?”
The unexpected proposal had scarcely burst from his mouth when he felt her stiffen in his arms. “Marry you?” Her voice came out as a whisper against his chest as the full import of his own words struck Elliot. Slowly, she lifted her head, and Elliot let his grip go slack. Evangeline deliberately tilted her chin to stare up at him. Was he serious? She was as stunned by his proposal as she was by her unexpected desire to say yes. “I—I hardly know what to say,” she hedged, unexpectedly faced with both her most cherished daydream and her most haunting nightmare.
Deep inside, temptation and regret welled up into an aching knot. Oh, she wanted Elliot Roberts, more than she had ever desired anything in her life! But how could she be so selfish as to commit herself to another, when Michael might need her total devotion? Indeed, how could any English gentleman want her when he learned the truth: t
hat she and her siblings had been coldly disowned by her aristocratic relatives and that anyone who befriended them could expect to suffer the wrath of that all-powerful family. Moreover, Elliot’s heart belonged to another. His proposal had been spoken on impulse, driven by nothing more than absurd masculine jealousy and heated desire. Evangeline recognized the emotion that now lit his eyes; it was shock. Indeed, it was plain that Elliot had been taken aback by his own words, which had been spoken in the heat of possessiveness and passion.
“Say yes,” answered Elliot with a confidence that was growing in spite of his better judgment. After all, he should marry, should he not? Though he was, perhaps, too jaded and too scarred to love, did that totally preclude marriage? Indeed, his mother often reminded him that he needed an heir and that he could be an adequate husband if he tried. Evangeline was a beautiful, passionate woman who desired him. Him! And he needed her desperately; only with her could he find any measure of peace. He knew that now. Surely, despite all the odds, a marriage between them could be good. Surely, he could find the words to explain his inadvertent deception and somehow make her understand how he felt.
“Yes,” he repeated firmly. “Just say yes, Evie. Say yes, and everything will work out. I promise.”
Mutely, she shook her head. On the horizon, lightning flickered again, brighter now, and Elliot could see her soft glow of passion draining from her face. “No, I cannot. Elliot, I’m so sorry. I thought—I thought that we might—that is to say … ”
Elliot shoved her away another inch and shook her gently. “Damn it, Evangeline, why not? I’m a wealthy man. More so, quite probably, than your fine French count. I can afford to care for you, all of you. And most assuredly, I can resolve whatever it is that troubles you far better than he may.”
Evangeline shook her head resolutely. “No,” she whispered, her voice hollow and uncertain. “No, I cannot, Elliot. Please. Please do not insist that I explain myself. I just have too many pressures right now. Too many responsibilities. But I had hoped … that is to say, I thought that we might … ” Slowly, her words trailed away, and she dropped her eyes to stare fixedly at the folds of his disordered cravat.
Elliot felt a burst of impatience, then just as quickly suppressed it, realizing that he had little experience in dealing with women like Evangeline. And she did, indeed, have a great many responsibilities. He felt ashamed for pressuring her, particularly given that his request came on the heels of de Chalons’s demands. “You thought what?” he asked, as gently as he could manage, deftly tilting her chin up with one finger, then dropping his head to nuzzle her lightly along her delicate jawbone.
“Elliot, I have something I must confess—”
Elliot lifted his mouth from the warm angle of her throat and stared into her eyes. “Good Lord. What?” he whispered hoarsely, wondering what new crisis fate might next hurl his way.
Evangeline’s gaze lowered to focus on the soft tangle of hair now visible at the throat of his shirt. “I have never taken a lover before,” she answered hesitantly, “but I want you. So much.” She watched, entranced, as his hands slid to her shoulders to push her away fractionally.
“So that’s what you are about now?” Elliot’s harsh gray eyes studied her none too gently. “Taking a lover?”
Evangeline could not mistake the tinge of annoyance in his voice. “Yes,” she answered honestly, her voice still thick with need.
Tearing his eyes from hers, Elliot’s gaze seemed to harden on a point somewhere in the distance. “I thought it rather more than that, Evangeline. I cannot like your phrase. It feels too cold a description for … ” But Elliot, too, had run out of words and was looking unexpectedly hurt and angry.
“Too cold?” Evangeline slowly shook her head. “I want you, Elliot. I think you know that. I care for you, far more than I ought. But I’ll not mislead you. I do not seek a husband. Nor, I think, do you really seek a wife.”
Elliot nodded, his lips drawn into a thin line. “No, perhaps I have not the makings of a suitable husband.”
The torment in his voice tore at her heart. “Elliot, you mistake my meaning. My wishes have nothing to do with you. I truly need you, but I have obligations, most of which I cannot begin to explain,” she answered, but her reasons slipped away, because suddenly, Elliot was kissing her again, and Evangeline found herself slipping back into the warmth of uncertainty and temptation.
As his mouth, gentle but sure now, moved on hers, she found herself regretting her words, her reluctance, and virtually every decision that had formed the basis of her life for the last ten years. When his hands slid from her shoulders to splay across her back, gathering her gently against him for a kiss that was exquisite in its sweetness, Evangeline experienced the agony of true need. She felt her muscles weaken against the hardened length of his body as his kiss and his touch became ever more coaxing. More tempting. Yes, it was that. Dangerous. A bit like strong ratafia, rich and intoxicating.
Elliot’s mouth, spicy and sweet, held the promise of pleasure. She was warm with the scent of him: smoke, soap, and man. Filled with the rumble of thunder, which was closer now, the air was thick and hot, redolent of summer flowers. Evangeline wanted him to take her. Now. In the soft, fragrant grass of the garden. Before she returned to reason. This was the very dream that had so disturbed her sleep of late. She wanted this and could not let it end.
“Now,” she begged. Her plea was no more than a whisper of breath against his mouth.
Elliot elevated simple seduction to a high art. Evangeline knew that she would never have the strength to resist him, to fight the unleashed urge to have him, or to ignore the way her body begged him for pleasure. And because she was a victim of her own uncontrollable need, God only knew what else she might be persuaded to do, by him, this man she had come to cherish beyond reason. She pressed away the thought, and as her hands opened against the warm wool of his coat, his fingers came up to tangle in her hair, forcing her head to still.
She felt his control slip suddenly. His tongue, hot and aggressive, plunged, drew back, then surged deeply into her again and again, the rhythm compelling her to want more. All. In the darkness, she felt his hand skim down and drag up her skirts in a smooth, forceful motion. A warm breeze of silk and lawn whispered up her thighs, and then his hand was sliding between them, touching her flesh intimately, in a way that felt both persuasive and treacherous. Warm and smooth, his fingers slipped into the folds of her womanhood, probing, coaxing, then stroking, until they were slick. Slick with her passion. It was all so new, yet Evangeline understood.
Through it all, Elliot’s mouth never ceased in ruthless invasion of her mouth. Evangeline clutched at him for balance, her legs melting beneath her. She wanted it, yes, wanted everything he had to offer. Whatever the price, no matter the complications. Abruptly, she pulled her mouth from his and tilted back her head to stare into his eyes, which seemed black and impenetrable in the darkness. “Please, Elliot,” she begged. Involuntarily, her body trembled against his hand, and she gasped for breath. “Please.” She felt like a wild thing caught in his snare, left at his mercy, and begging for release.
Elliot stared down into her eyes, held her gaze, and continued his torment until her body began to respond by arching against him, aching for more. Then, slowly, his mouth came down on hers again, even as his hand stilled. Evangeline wanted to scream in protest when the demanding pressure of his hands and mouth relented, then pulled slowly away, leaving her wanting and desperate.
Elliot loosened his grip and held her in his arms. Tenderly, he dipped his head to press hot kisses along her cheekbone. The light touch of his tongue against her earlobe sent fire coursing through her body to the emptiness between her thighs. She felt his breath against the dampness of her temple, and she realized that he had deliberately tormented her into near madness.
“Come to me tonight, then, Evangeline,” he whispered silkily into her ear. “If you want to take a lover—if you truly believe that is all you need—come to me, a
nd I shall oblige you well. Then we shall see who does the begging. And for what.” With that, his arms dropped away, and he was gone, striding across the terrace and through the back door.
The clock struck ten as Elliot stormed across the hall to climb the central staircase that led to Chatham’s family bedchambers. On the landing, he paused to listen uncertainly. Despite the painful throbbing between his legs, his ears still worked sufficiently well for him to discern an indistinct noise in the corridor. He froze. In the distance, he heard the sound again, the faint hiss of silk, he guessed. Confusion shifted to rage when he saw Etienne LeNotre treading softly down the older tower stairs that entered the corridor further down its length. LeNotre paused to duck beneath the low stone beam before stepping out into the candlelight of a wall sconce. Fully expecting the comte to turn right toward Evangeline’s room, Elliot felt the blood rush to his head as he prepared to step into his path and threaten him.
Attired in a long dressing gown of dark silk, the comte instead turned left, then all but vanished in the dark beyond. Quietly, he drew up before the last door on the right and entered without pausing to knock.
Good Lord! So that was the way of things. The comte de Chalons was having an affair with Winnie Weyden! Little wonder, then, why Gus held the man in some suspicion. Despite his own libidinous frustrations, Elliot was forced to suppress a snort of amazement. Yet he had to admit that Winnie Weyden was a beauty, if a man preferred his women bold, voluptuous, and a dozen years older. Elliot, however, did not. Moreover, his relief at discovering the true direction of de Chalons’s desire did nothing to mitigate his own lust.
The dank smell of London closed in around Godfrey Moore, Baron Cranham, as he made his way through the dark streets between Fitzroy Square and St. Marylebone. The rain had now slowed to a steady drizzle, and his journey was not overlong. Despite the damp chill, a carriage, Cranham cautioned himself, would have been too indiscreet. Indeed, he had often made this surreptitious trek on foot, but tonight the distance seemed inordinately difficult. Weakened by his recent illness, Cranham could nonetheless summon breath enough to curse Elliot Armstrong deep into the bowels of hell.
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