Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02]

by My False Heart

  When she had stepped into Strath House, her world had seemingly spun right off its normally sturdy axis. First, she had seen Zoë, who had fallen asleep on her shoulder, immediately captivating Evangeline’s heart. And then there had been her paintings! Three of them, adorning the grandest rooms of Strath, and those rooms were very grand indeed. How and where had he obtained them? And what did it mean?

  When she had asked him, he had been vague, almost uncomfortable in answering her. Such purchases might have been a small thing to a man of Elliot’s wealth, little more than a whim, perhaps. But Evangeline did not think so. Indeed, she did not know what to think; she only knew that the fact that he had wanted them tugged at her heart in a way she did not comprehend.

  Oh, Elliot! That was the most imposing change of all. The wicked marquis of Rannoch was now her husband. And lest she forget just whom she had married, some contretemps of fate had sent a Bow Street runner to remind her. And amid all these disconcerting changes, Evangeline had discovered that insomnia and inappetence—those faddish plagues of flighty, overbred females everywhere—had become her boon companions.

  Two weeks ago, marriage had seemed the only solution. Indeed, it still seemed so. Evangeline drew some small comfort from her inability to think of any better alternative. And to her surprise, she was not, precisely, unhappy. At times, it seemed that Elliot was determined to win her heart again, and she was relieved to realize that her handsome roué of a husband had not yet grown weary of her. But he would. Oh, yes. She very much feared he would. A man like Elliot rarely reformed.

  But she loved him. God help her, she did love him still. And in her rare moments of clarity, Evangeline admitted that she had always longed for a husband and children of her own. Inwardly, she gave a bitter laugh. If her recent morning sickness was any indication, she was well on her way to her second objective, close on the heels of the first. Perhaps Elliot had been right all along in saying that an expedient marriage was for the best.

  Oh, Elliot. Evangeline squeezed shut her eyes and let her nails dig into the padded arms of her chair. Lord, how he could make her want him. It was shameful. The man had earned the appellation of rake quite honestly. It was, Evangeline sometimes feared, her husband’s only honest accomplishment. Clearly, Mr. Jones suspected as much.

  Every night Elliot came to her bed, and every night she welcomed him. Rarely did he leave before dawn. What else was she to do? She could not help but respond to his skilled seduction. Moreover, she had granted him the privilege of her bed when she had stood, visibly trembling, inside the tiny chapel of Wrotham-upon-Lea and whispered her vows. She had taken those vows very seriously, for it was only right, she told herself.

  Yes, it was right. But was it wise? To give one’s heart to such a man? For that was most assuredly what she had done. She, an abundantly prudent woman, had fallen hopelessly in love with a handsome, calculating rogue. Yet she could not honestly use the excuse that he had tricked her. She now admitted that she loved this man for himself, a reckless mistake which she knew would inevitably break her heart. Even his wickedness held a strange, spellbinding appeal. One night in Chatham’s library had shown her that much.

  When she paused to consider the enormity of what she had done, Evangeline was seized by a choking terror. She had surrendered her heart, her body, indeed her very life, to a man who had many enemies, most of them deserved if rumor had the right of it. Her husband was caught up in a scandalous murder investigation. His mistress had been horribly strangled. In this one thing, however, Evangeline held steadfast. Despite his reputation on the field of honor, Elliot would not kill in cold blood, of this she was inexplicably certain.

  He might be wicked and vengeful, but it was not in his nature to be deliberately cruel. Elliot’s propensity for carousing, gambling, and dueling, however, was another thing altogether, and Evangeline was filled with a chilly certainty that he would one morning find himself standing ankle-deep in dew-soaked grass, faced off against another armed and irate husband, but one with far more proficiency than her Uncle Stephen had possessed. It would kill her to lose him. She would kill him if he were unfaithful. Men like Elliot were never faithful. God, what an endless coil!

  Indeed, throughout their impassioned lovemaking, Elliot had never once mentioned the word fidelity, and had he done so, Evangeline would have choked on a swell of doubt. She reminded herself that only a few short weeks ago, Elliot had dueled with a man named Cranham over a woman and then refused to discuss it with her. Perhaps she should strive to view his obvious disdain of hypocrisy as one of his finer qualities.

  Though Evangeline nurtured hope in her breast, for without it she could never have surrendered to him, when seen in the light of day, it was a fragile hope indeed. She recognized it as that same naïve, impetuous emotion inevitably seized upon by every silly female who had ever dared to both love and wed an inveterate roué. How bittersweetly unbearable his touch would be when her frail, foolish optimism was crushed. It was true that Elliot had said he loved her. But no doubt he had used those very words to many others, including the young lady who had very nearly borne his child. The woman who, now ten years dead, should have been long since forgotten. Evangeline, however, had not forgotten. So often now, she found herself haunted by the remembrance.

  At the soft sound of footsteps on carpet, she lifted her gaze from her white-knuckled hands to find that the object of her obsession now stood in the center of her bedchamber.

  “I knocked,” he said softly, “but perhaps you did not hear?” In truth, Elliot looked sick with worry.

  “I—no, I did not,” she answered, still trying to fathom his look of distress. Her eyes searched his face. “Is aught amiss? Is Zoë recovered?”

  “On the mend, I think. She and Frederica have gone to the schoolroom with Stokely.” Her husband sank down into the narrow settee across from her chair, looking, as he always did, far too big for the delicate furnishings of her bedchamber. This afternoon, however, he looked rigid and unsettled. He leaned stiffly forward in his seat rather than reclining languidly, with his muscular arm stretched out along the back of the settee, as was his habit.

  “Jones has gone?” he asked in an uncharacteristically hollow voice as he roughly shoved back his hair with one hand.

  Evangeline forced her hands to unclench and ran them up and down the fabric of her skirt. “Yes,” she finally replied.

  He slid forward in his seat to pull one of her hands into his and began to rub it gently. “So cold, Evie,” he murmured, almost absently. “So damnably cold, you feel nigh bloodless. I have distressed you yet again, have I not?” He continued his gentle ministrations, taking first one hand, then the other, without looking into her face.

  “I’m perfectly well,” she eventually answered. Unwittingly, she began to respond to his warm, comforting touch.

  “I am so sorry about Jones,” Elliot whispered, bowing over her hand, refusing to meet her gaze. “About his coming here today. He should have sent word … I could have met him elsewhere.”

  She shook her head. “Elliot, it was not an inconvenience.”

  “No, indeed. It was not! It was an impertinence!” He squeezed her hand so hard it hurt. “I should never have permitted him to speak with you. I cannot think what was in my mind. ’Twas my temper, I suppose, as usual. But he made me so damnably angry—”

  “That’s understandable, Elliot. But I answered his questions. It was no hardship.”

  Elliot did lift his eyes to hers then, a rueful expression flashing across his solemn face. “Sometimes I fear that this marriage will be nothing but a hardship for you, Evie. I suppose I had some foolish dream of protecting you from the harsher realities of life. Perhaps I have merely drawn you into something worse.”

  “Elliot, please do not—”

  “No, Evie, let me speak.” He let go of her hand and threw himself back against the chair, a look of unutterable weariness etched upon his visage. “These damnable lies, and I assure you they are such, shall be set t
o rights. I will find the truth, one way or another.”

  “You are quite serious,” answered Evangeline, surprised by his odd intensity.

  “Aye, about many things,” he replied softly, then pulled her onto the settee beside him. He wrapped his arms about her and crushed her to his chest, burying his face in the top of her hair. “Will you make love to me, Evie?” he whispered hoarsely.

  “Now? It’s—”

  “—the middle of the afternoon. I know,” he answered, lifting her from her seat and carrying her toward the bed. With his free hand, he pushed away the bed hangings. Then he laid her gently on the coverlet and followed her down into the softness.

  Evangeline wriggled away slightly. “But someone might—”

  “No,” Elliot rasped, suddenly intent on loosening her hair. He paused just long enough to stare down into her fathomless blue eyes and felt his heart melt. “They won’t. I left word that we’re not to be disturbed. I wanted to speak with you, yet now I find that words fail me. Let me love you instead?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, already arching eagerly against him.

  She was so beautiful, his beloved bride. Elliot lowered his head, opening his mouth wide over hers, coaxing her lips to part. Evangeline opened to him willingly, quieting his apprehension, suffusing him with relief. And relief smoothly shifted to need, which bloomed in his chest and drifted lower.

  Lord, he had never had a more sweetly complacent woman in his bed. Once inside her mouth, he explored her languidly with his tongue, as if they had all the time in the world. And he thought of her, this woman, his wife. He considered what her life had been like, difficult, filled with obligation. And he realized again how desperately he wanted to strip away those burdens and give her back her girlhood in some small measure. To bring joy to her heart. To make smooth her path through life. Love her, and be loved by her.

  She had hoped to marry someday. For love, she had said.

  And then duty had called in the form of family obligation, more than once, and time had begun to pass her by. Well, she was surely wed now. To him. And though it was not perhaps the love match she had wished for, Elliot fought to believe he might still have a chance at making her dreams come true. Today, he had been losing the battle. Until this moment. Lovemaking had become much more than physical release; it was his lifeline between hope for the future and despair of the present. Only blinding passion could quiet the uncertainty. Each time Elliot sheathed himself inside his wife, hope became a tangible, living thing which vibrated about them like the heralding hum of a lightning strike.

  He slid his palm up her neck to cup lightly the elegant turn of her jaw. Evangeline was tugging at the fastening of her dress and turning to press her breasts to his chest. Hard beneath her chemise, the dark areolas of her breasts tempted him, the stuff of his dreams. Pleasure and fulfillment. He shifted his weight onto one elbow, then spread his mouth wide to capture one swollen nipple, suckling hard through the thin fabric until it clung damply to her skin. Beside her, Evangeline’s left hand fisted in the coverlet as her head tilted back into the pillow.

  Elliot paused just long enough to pull away her clothing, then took the other nipple in his teeth, biting hard until she whimpered, then suckling and soothing her with his tongue. He heard her moan. Her sounds of lust and pleasure were familiar to him now, yet still sweetly exquisite, as they would be into eternity.

  Elliot refused to hurry; he felt driven to make her desperate with need. Evangeline’s hungry hands, quite warm now, came up to pull at his shirt, tugging it free. Deftly, she loosened the close of his trousers and eased her hands down inside, palms stroking his belly as they went. His groin was tight with desire as she slipped one hand down to cradle him. He moaned, pulled away, and rolled off the bed to stand in a low shaft of afternoon sun.

  Elliot undressed slowly, loosening the tie of his drawers and letting them slide away to reveal his shaft, thick and throbbing with desire for her. For Evangeline. His wife. Elliot had no need to touch her, to test her readiness for him. Evangeline was consistently, reassuringly eager. Yes, that, too, gave him hope.

  With his head bowed, Elliot stood beside the bed and slid one hand back and forth along the smooth surface of his erection, willfully tempting her. He watched her eyes open greedily, saw her tongue flick out to touch one corner of her swollen mouth. He reveled in the vision of how solid and sleek his shaft would feel when he sheathed it deep inside her, then withdrew, only to plunge deeper still. He looked down at himself. The means by which he would join himself to Evangeline. One body, one flesh. He turned his head to look at her as she lay naked upon the bed, her glistening yellow hair spilling across the pillow, her heavy breasts still taut with unslaked desire, the enticing curls that teased at her already open thighs.

  “Oh, God, Evangeline. I am truly lost,” Elliot heard himself rasp, for yet again, he had become the victim of his seduction. “I have wanted you all day. Since the moment I left your bed at dawn until this very minute, and every one in between. I think I love you to utter distraction.”

  Her lips curving into an enigmatic, feminine smile, Evangeline touched herself in blatant invitation and extended her other hand toward him. Squeezing shut his eyes, Elliot eased his palm down his hardened rod again, thrilling in the sensation as his blood thickened, then almost stopped, when he imagined his manhood driving into her, spilling his seed, and filling her with his child.

  Evangeline’s riveted gaze still held fast to every movement of his hand. Her blue eyes, already wide and unfathomable, became softly luminous with an unmistakable hunger. Then, just as Elliot bent his knee to join her on the bed, intent on burying himself inside her, she gave a small, choking cry and came onto her knees before him, taking his swollen shaft into her hands.

  “Beautiful,” he heard her whisper as she bent low to flick her tongue lightly across his heated flesh, sending fire coursing deep into his belly. Then she looked up at him in innocent wonder, her full mouth parted invitingly, and Elliot could do nothing but groan and nod his assent. He stood beside the bed, one knee resting on the mattress, as the low, exquisite torture began in earnest.

  Evangeline drew him deep inside, loving him with her mouth and tongue and fingers until the pulse pounded wildly in his temple. Suddenly, with a roughness he could not control, Elliot shoved her backward on the bed, hauled himself on top, and pinned her slender wrists above her head. “Evangeline, promise that you are mine,” he whispered as he urged her thighs apart with his knee, then pushed into her mercilessly. “Say that you love me.”

  She stared back at him, her eyes open yet impenetrable.

  “Yes! Say it,” he commanded as he embedded himself deeper into her warmth. “Say it, Evie. For God’s sake, please tell me,” he rasped as he deepened his thrust.

  As if in answer, her legs came up to twine about his waist as she began to tremble beneath him. Her arms pulled against his grip as Elliot drew back, then sheathed himself deeper still another long, powerful stroke.

  Evangeline’s breath came out in a little gasp as she shifted her hips and urged herself hard against his flesh. Elliot thrust inside the slick, hot welcome and began to pound rhythmically against her womb. She sighed and arched against him, stroke for stroke, rising up to meet his thrusts, her head tipping backward into the pillow, her mouth open with pleasure.

  Time seemed suspended until Elliot at last became aware of her low, ragged moan of incipient release. Easing his hands beneath her bottom, he lifted her higher, then suddenly, possessed by the demons he could not control, Elliot paused in mid-stroke and squeezed shut his eyes. “Just say it, Evangeline,” he rasped. “I have to hear the words again.”

  Beneath him, Evangeline whimpered, a hungry, urgent sound, but Elliot’s perverse resolve did not falter. He held himself stubbornly in check; his own need was a hot, heavy ache in his groin.

  “Yes,” she gasped at last when he did not move. Her words sounded as if they had been ripped from her heart. “Yes, I love you, Elliot.
God help me. I love you.” She began to pant desperately. “Please—oh, please—I love you. You know I do,” she repeated, and a wicked satisfaction edged with rapture knifed through him.

  With a hand that shook, Evangeline threaded her fingers through the hair that had tumbled across his forehead. Then, as he continued to drive himself relentlessly inside her, she pulled his panting mouth to her breast. Her trembling deepened, dragging him with her to the brink of fulfillment.

  Suddenly, he felt her orgasm begin as Evangeline cried out his name again, her voice rich and throaty. He watched as awe flashed across her face, and then she was clutching at him wildly, her legs lashing tighter about him, her sweet insides pulling and pulsing and drawing him over the edge. Splintering him and pitching the shards into blissful infinity, the pleasure carrying him into eternity.

  At last, he collapsed against her breasts, bearing his weight marginally forward on quaking elbows and dropping his brow to touch hers. Gasping for breath, Elliot rolled to one side and waited as his beating heart calmed.

  He lay limply upon his wife’s bed, staring up into the canopy, and considered what he had just done. For the second time in a fortnight, he’d done something that had stunned him into utter silence. First, he had taken a wife. Now, he had begged, cajoled, and tormented her into saying something she had not wanted to say, and might not have meant. It had been wrong. But at the moment, Elliot was beyond caring.

  Inside, the room was soothingly quiet. Outside, through the open casement, Elliot could hear the busy warble of a dove on the sill and the cheerful clamor of children playing in the afternoon sun. He found the sounds foreign and unexpectedly intense yet infinitely soothing. Fleetingly, he wondered if he had ever listened before. Or had there, until Evangeline had come into his wretched life, been nothing to hear?