Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02]

by My False Heart

  A passing chaise rolled briskly through a deep puddle in the center of Portland Place, churning back a spray of filthy water which drenched Cranham’s long coat from hip to hem. Muttering a string of curses, he mentally renewed his vow of vengeance and leaned weakly into his cane. Cranham continued thus for a half mile, then turned down the alley which would eventually take him to the rear entrance of Antoinette Fontaine’s residence. Although the authorities had searched her rooms, it was entirely possible that they had missed something. Something that Cranham might now find useful in his quest for retribution.

  It was fortunate indeed that in her increasingly desperate, drunken rages, Antoinette had so often been less than circumspect. Initially, he had believed her mad, but then her standard of living had abruptly and dramatically improved. No great exertion of logic had been required to surmise the means of her newfound wealth. She was blackmailing someone, and it could only be Rannoch. One could only imagine what ugly secrets the man’s lover had been privy to. It pleased him to know that the marquis would continue to pay for his sins. Antoinette’s little cache of sordid secrets, if he could but find it, would ensure it.

  The rear steps loomed up in the dim light, and Cranham paused just long enough to allow the burning ache in his belly to subside, then gingerly made his way up to the second floor. Reaching deep into his pocket, Cranham withdrew a key and chuckled at his duplicity in having stolen it weeks earlier. As he touched the metal to the ancient lock, however, the soft sound of a man clearing his throat caused Cranham’s hand to still.

  A low, rich chuckle arose from the darkened stairs below. “Well, they do say the criminal always returns to the scene of the crime,” drawled a languid voice. Smoothly, Viscount Linden slid from the shadows at the foot of the steps to stand in the feeble lamplight. Cranham dropped the key back into his pocket, his eyes darting up and down in desperate search for a means of escape.

  “Oh, I shouldn’t bother to run, dear boy,” responded Linden silkily, propping one elegantly shod foot on the bottom step. “After all, you’re in a weakened state, and I rather think I could take you down without muddying my evening slippers.” Arrogantly, the man dipped his head to light a thin, dark cheroot. Drawing deeply, Linden clamped down on the cigar, then returned his gaze upward, a lazy, glittering smile working its way across his face. “Do come down, old sport, or my neck shall surely crick in this infernal damp.”

  “Rot in hell, Linden,” hissed Cranham. “Don’t you think you and your cohort Rannoch have done me enough harm?”

  “Ah! Well. As to that, Cranham, it begs pointing out that you are yet alive. And Miss Fontaine, regrettably, is not. I wonder how that happened?”

  Cranham snorted in outrage. “Rannoch killed her, you imbecile. What’s more, everyone knows it.”

  Linden merely shrugged and withdrew a pistol from deep within the folds of his greatcoat. In the shadows, Cranham watched as the viscount motioned him downward with the barrel. “I don’t think so, Cranham.” He chuckled softly. “Come down now, if you please, sir. I’ve a snug little barouche just around the corner. Let’s get out of this rain and trundle down to Brooks’s. We shall have a drink, just you and me, eh?”

  “You must be mad, Linden. I shall go nowhere with you.”

  Linden merely laughed again. “Ah, perhaps! But your life is in danger, Cranham. Mayhap you cannot be too selective in your choice of allies, hmm?” The glittering smile returned as Cranham walked slowly back down the stairway to join him.

  For two hours, Elliot stormed back and forth across the floor of his bedchamber, waiting for Evangeline. Outside, another sort of storm raged, whipping rain across the window with a driving fury. She would come, damn it. Her body had answered his just as he had known it would. She would come to him, and then what? He wanted her, but what was worse, he needed her. He needed her a great deal more than she, apparently, needed him. And he had proposed marriage to her. The reality of it stunned him.

  Good God, what did the woman want from him? He had never known a more disturbing female. Would she have him beg for her love? He would not do so, for he had nothing true enough to give in return. For her hand? He would willingly continue to plead for that, if she would have him. Or did she indeed want nothing more than the pleasure and comfort his body could provide? What a vengeful twist of fate that would be.

  In aggravation, Elliot ripped a cheroot from the case in his coat pocket, strode to the deep, mullioned window, and shoved open the casement. For the most part, the rain came straight down now, rushing through the gutters and only occasionally lashing back in an angry spatter against the stone walls. Elliot ignored it. He drew hard on the cigar, using the lamp from his side table as a light, then settled himself sideways into the deep windowsill. A split of lightning forked down from the heavens, illuminating the gardens below with a clean white light, only to be followed by a rolling crash of thunder that resonated off the tower.

  The brilliance of the lightning seemed to reflect his unease, throwing it back at him like the quick flash of a mirror. The problem was not Evangeline, he realized, exhaling a harsh stream of smoke out into the turbulent Essex night. It was him, his anger and his fear and this damnable, inextricable mess he had created out of a foolish impulse. Moreover, his misery was heightened by the knowledge that, even with his sordid history safely hidden, he could tempt her to nothing more than a clandestine affair. And she, an inexperienced virgin! Had he suffered any doubt on that score, Evangeline had erased it with her sweet, breathless confession.

  What did he want? To wed her, yes. The uncomfortable truth was driving him mad. What he had felt upon seeing LeNotre touch Evangeline had been a harsh realization, not a passing fancy. He wanted Evangeline Stone to be his marchioness, to give him children, and to do all those sweet, traditional things such as comfort him in sickness and in health. Moreover, Elliot wanted to give the very same to her, for without a doubt, she was deserving of his best. Nevertheless, it was well worth recollecting that this was not the first time he had allowed himself to yearn for, and to offer, such things. Elliot forced himself to remember that painful truth. The gardens sprang to life again as a bolt of lightning split the sky, but Elliot scarcely heard the resultant thunderclap.

  Did he love Evangeline? No, he believed that he had lost that ability long ago. In youthful naïveté and ignorance, he had loved Cicely, and the ripping away of that love had torn out some essential part of his humanity. The last ten years of his life had clearly evidenced the loss in the ugliest of ways. He thought about Evangeline, recalled how she had felt in his arms, so soft and yet so strong, and he wondered how on earth they had come to this. Why, despite all his wickedness and dissolution, had he been inextricably drawn to this woman to the point that his judgment weakened?

  What pathetic human fragility made him willing to ruthlessly deceive her, over and over, impelled by a fear that far exceeded any remorse he might ever have been capable of? Like the wicked Tarquin, tempted beyond his feeble resistance by the virtuous Lucrece, Elliot had used deceit and cunning in an attempt to have his way with an honorable woman. And now, did not his false heart bleed? Yes, it did, but like Tarquin, he had been unable to alter his path, to do the right thing.

  Now, out of what felt like desperation, he would gladly take her innocence, knowing full well that it was all she was likely to give him. Such a willingness was not love; it was something worse. What he felt for Evangeline was wholly divergent from any feeling he had harbored for his long-dead fiancée.

  Had that been love? That painful ache he had felt for Cicely?

  Perhaps not. The doubt rose from his subconscious mind to rock the foundations of everything he had come to be. Without question, her calculated deception had stripped him of his youthful dreams and left him dead inside. Then, just as quickly, the residual agony had made him hunger for revenge, not only on her lover but on the beau monde that had first laughed at him, then whispered behind his back, and ultimately heaped him with scorn.

 
No one—not even Hugh, who should have seen what was coming—had bothered to explain that Cicely Forsythe was little better than a shameless coquette. She had courted ruin in a determined effort to snare a rich husband, until at last she was forced to settle her expectations on Lord Cranham’s bastard. Elliot now knew that by the time he had arrived in town, naïve and unenlightened, Cicely was barely tolerated in polite society. Only the ton’s respect for her plain but highborn aunt, whose ample dowry had shackled her to nothing more than a disreputable, debt-ridden baron, had allowed Cicely to cling to the edge of respectability. Moreover, it was obvious to many that Lady Howell had cared far less for her husband’s niece than did the ton.

  However, if the end of his engagement had been a bad dream, Cicely’s death had been a nightmare. Following Elliot’s refusal to honor the betrothal, the gossips had whispered that Lord Howell’s niece had removed to the country to nurse her broken heart, which had been so cruelly ravaged by the overly proud, newly invested marquis of Rannoch. Of course, London society loved to relish and embellish a scandal, and Elliot knew that his determined efforts to kill Godfrey Moore had only fanned the flames.

  The obvious fact that by the time Elliot had returned from his father’s funeral, Cicely’s condition had been readily apparent had not kept the ton from blaming him for abandoning his pregnant fiancée. Precisely how she had come to die less than a month later, Elliot did not know. Nonetheless, she had purportedly been found in a squalid flat, dead of blood loss. It was widely rumored that Cicely had tried without success to rid herself of the child, and Elliot had little doubt that it was true.

  Sir Hugh had merely stamped his foot in rage, insisting that it must be plain to anyone who could count that Elliot had scarcely been in town long enough to leave any chit that far gone with child. Nonetheless, after her death, the vile rumors had persisted, driven as much by Elliot’s refusal to renounce them as by his newfound arrogance and treacherous moods.

  The rain had changed directions again to spatter back against the tower wall, and Elliot was dismayed to see that his coat sleeve was now soaked. With a soft hiss, he pitched his cheroot into the night and pulled shut the window. It rasped against the casement with a dull scrape of ancient metal. Ah, the past. His heart had been young and foolish then. He had hurt, and he had lashed out. But what was done was done, he knew. Questioning the past could not undo the damage.

  He was suddenly quite weary, his unslaked lust all but forgotten. He pulled his watch from his waistcoat and glanced at it. Evangeline was not coming. He had hoped he had tempted her beyond resistance. That perhaps he had given her cause to regret her hasty rejection of his proposal or, at the very least, cause to come to his bed. But it was half past eleven, quite some time since they had stood in a tangled embrace on the terrace, and the household was long since abed. What would he have done, he bitterly considered, had Evangeline accepted his offer of marriage? Simply prayed she would not notice his full name on the marriage license?

  Damn it, it was time he went to bed himself. With a sigh of resignation and regret, Elliot shrugged off his damp coat and began to undress.

  From her position in the narrow stone corridor, Evangeline heard the window scraping shut. Three times she had lifted her hand to knock, and three times let it drop to her side. Beneath her bare feet, the stone was cold, and she shivered despite her nightdress and wrapper. She had been so certain of what she was about mere hours ago, yet now she was not sure. Not sure at all.

  She had put off ascending the curving tower stairs until she was confident that Etienne and Winnie were asleep, or at least otherwise occupied. The time had seemed interminable, and as it passed, her resolve had weakened. It was an irreversible step, this uncertain thing she so desperately contemplated, and it would forever alter her friendship with Elliot. Yet at the memory of his touch, and the deep ache of longing it stirred inside her, Evangeline lifted her hand again, and this time she rapped softly on the thick planking of the ancient door.

  Elliot opened the door to see Evangeline standing in the shaft of weak lamplight that shone from his bedchamber. Bare feet peeked from beneath her nightclothes, and though her expression was uncertain, the purpose of her visit was obvious.

  Wordlessly, Elliot pulled her inside the room and into his arms, pushing shut the door with the heel of his boot. “Evie.” His hand molded to the small of her back and stroked up and down as his mouth sought hers. There seemed to be no need for conversation. For better or worse, all that needed to be said had been said on the terrace, and Elliot put aside his hurt and let desire take hold once more.

  Her lips trembled against his as he kissed her with his eyes and his mouth open, devouring her. His shirt billowed loose from the waist of his trousers, and as he pulled her hard against him, he felt Evangeline twine one arm around his neck. Her tongue felt like warm satin as it slid willingly into his mouth, and Elliot thought he knew, and was prepared for, his body’s response. But when her free hand slid beneath the linen of his shirt to touch his naked flesh, he quivered. Raw need fisted in his stomach like a sharp, sweet pain.

  Any doubt Evangeline might have felt seemed to have dissolved in the wake of their passion. Her hands were on him, certain and needful, and Elliot reveled in her touch. He pulled her across the room, through the pool of lamplight, and onto the bed. At the adjacent window, a hard rain beat a strong cadence against the whorled glass. Without taking his lips from hers, Elliot urged her backward into the bedcovers, his right knee bent to the mattress.

  Slowly, he pulled back from her, trailing fervent kisses down her throat. He walked to the side table, lowered the lamplight to a mere flicker, then returned to sit on the edge of the bed. Too fast, he thought. He was pushing her too fast. Too slow, argued the hungry voice in his head. Elliot pulled in a ragged breath and leaned forward to rest his forearms across his thighs. He stared at the floor. “Evangeline—are you sure?”

  She answered by coming up onto her knees behind him and sliding her hands beneath his shirt once more. Her palms were cool and strong against his fevered flesh. With surprising ease, she dragged the fabric up and over his head, then set her mouth to the curve of his collarbone. “Elliot,” she whispered against his skin, “I’m sure.”

  It was the touch of her hand and the sound of his name that did it, evoking in him the same ache that had seized him that first day he had come to Chatham, desperate and angry, in the cold, driving rain. In the hall, she had laid her hand against his arm, and he had looked down into her gentle eyes, and the painful yearning had gripped his heart and reached down into the pit of his belly. Sweet, sweet agony. It had to be right to make love to her now.

  Swiftly, he undressed and turned to press Evangeline down into the softness of his bed. He stretched his length out along hers, feeling the curve of her hip against his. Almost reverently, he lifted his hand to the close of her wrapper and opened it, pushing away the fabric to reveal the sheer lawn of her nightrail. In the near darkness, Elliot imagined he could see the firm, dark areolas of her full breasts. He reached out and found them, already hard with nascent desire.

  Beneath his touch, Evangeline trembled, then moaned. “Make love to me, Elliot,” she whispered in the darkness.“Now, please.”

  “Ah—yes, Evie,” he answered, moving his hand to the other breast. “I will. But slowly. You are special. Something to be savored.” He lowered his mouth to suckle her, drawing both fabric and nipple greedily into his mouth, and was thrilled to feel Evangeline arch with sudden pleasure. He laved each breast in turn, over and over, finding himself strangely humbled by her soft sighs of delight. She was so passionate and eager. Unlike any other woman he had known, her emotions felt pure and uncomplicated. When he felt her hips begin to move, he impatiently pulled up her gown and slid his hand along the inside of her thigh.

  Slowly, he took his mouth from her breast and drew back to look into her eyes. His vision had adjusted to the darkness, and he gazed at her as he slid his hand higher, to the joining of her
thighs. Evangeline’s head was tilted back, and already one hand was fisted with pleasure in the bedcovers.

  “Evie, look at me,” Elliot whispered, and her chin came down, and her eyes opened wide to meet his. “I want to watch you when I touch you, sweet.” Propped beside her on his elbow, he pulled deliberately closer and speared his fingers into the nest of curls between her legs. “Mine, Evie?” He gave a gentle tug, watching in the darkness as she nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “Remember what I said then, Evie? I take what’s mine.” So saying, he plunged one finger into her and felt the sudden tightening of her feminine sheath. She cried out softly, already warm and ready. But not yet, Elliot cautioned himself. He drew back and heard her whimper, then slid two fingers deep inside. Again, she arched off the mattress, and Elliot began to move inside her. Slowly he began to brush the ball of his thumb up and across her sweet nub, already hard with need. She whimpered again, and Elliot felt the pull of her muscles against his fingers.

  Gently he moved his hand on her and returned his mouth to hers, repeating with his tongue every stroke of his fingers until Evangeline writhed beside him. He swallowed up her little cries of pleasure as she pressed against him, instinctively seeking a release he knew she did not yet comprehend. Pulling back to watch her face as she neared the edge, Elliot could sense the growing tautness of her body, tight as a bowstring. Finally, he felt her tension snap, and Evangeline began to convulse in his embrace.

  Watching her come was infinitely satisfying, more so than his own release would have been. The thought surprised him as he saw her head tilt back and felt her insides pull and pulse around his fingers. It was a new experience for him, this unselfish giving of pleasure. He had thought only to prepare her for his body, but in so doing had found immense satisfaction. In the past, if a woman took pleasure in coupling with him, it had been incidental, not intentional. A woman’s satisfaction had never been high on his list of priorities. The need to give pleasure, this perplexing wish to give of himself, was disturbing in its intensity. But any fear was forgotten when Evangeline’s eyes fluttered open and she sighed.