Capturing the Heart of a Cameron (Farthingale Series Novellas)

by Meara Platt

He moved gracefully, spinning her in a slow circle around the floor, guiding her steps and making the waltz seem effortless. “Lady Evie, will you not open your eyes?”

  “Forgive me, Dr. Farthingale. I—” She stopped in mid-sentence, her eyes fluttering open. “I wish you’d call me Evie. Just Evie. You used to before Desmond and I reconciled with Grandfather and I wasn’t anyone important.”

  He bridled at the remark. “You were always important. Don’t let anyone ever make you feel otherwise. I’ll pound into dust any man who dares insult you.”

  “That was a very protective and baboon-like, dominant male remark,” she teased, referring to the research his niece, Lily, was conducting on those animals and their surprisingly human behavior. Perhaps it was the other way around and human males tended to imitate their baboon brothers.

  His appealing grin simply melted the last of her resistance. He could ask anything of her and she’d willingly agree. Wantonly agree… assuming he had those sorts of thoughts about her rattling about in his brain. She doubted that he had.

  “The point is, I’d feel so much better if you simply called me by my given name. We are friends, after all. Good friends, I hope.”

  “We are.” His grin faded slowly. “I hope you know that you can always turn to me. Any time. And if I’m to call you by your given name, then I wish you’d call me by mine.”

  “I suppose formality is required when among others, but on the rare occasions we’re alone, I think it’s quite acceptable. Thank you… George.” She smiled at him. “Now you say it back to me.”

  He chuckled and continued to whirl her with effortless grace. “Very well… Evie.”

  She kept her eyes open for the remainder of the waltz, enjoying the warmth of his blue eyes upon her face, and a time or two, she noticed his gaze drifting lower to inspect her curves. Or was he merely admiring the ivory silk gown Madame de Bressard had designed for her that had no frills, ribbons, or ruffles other than a small row of pink roses sewn just below her bodice to subtly accentuate her breasts? Fortunately, the modiste understood men far better than she ever would.

  Evie stifled her disappointment when the waltz came to its inevitable end. Adding to her disappointment was the fact that George appeared relieved the dance had ended. Vastly relieved, she was dismayed to note. She thought he had enjoyed their time together, but he now looked so pained and eager to escape her side she wanted to cry.

  She wouldn’t, of course.

  She’d shed too many tears while growing up, and refused to shed another drop… certainly not over a man who endured her out of politeness. Had she misunderstood him completely? She needed to get her hands on Lady Forsythia’s book about reforming rakes, although Dr. Farthingale—she refused to call him George, ever again—was not a rakehell at all.

  But she had to learn about men. Somehow.

  George strode onto the terrace, hoping the biting wind and bitter cold would dampen the fiery heat now engulfing his body. Had he thought he could make it through one dance with Evie and not turn into a grunting, bullocks-about-to-burst baboon?

  What was wrong with him?

  When had he ever lost control over a woman? Never, even with his wife, and he’d loved her. Indeed, Jane had been a sweet and delicate thing, a good companion to him throughout their short marriage. Unfortunately, she’d died young, but had given him a wonderful son.

  All in all, his life had been happy and ordered… until he’d set eyes on Evie. Perhaps not at first, although he’d always considered her quite pretty. But sometime over the past two years she had blossomed into a beautiful young lady. These past few months had been the worst. He had never experienced the unbearably hot ache that she unwittingly roused in him. Not with any woman. Not even Jane.

  Of course, he could never and would never reveal his feelings to Evie. She was an innocent.

  In any event, he didn’t understand those feelings himself.

  What he felt defied reason or logic.

  Get hold of yourself, you ass, he chided himself. He’d been watching Evie from the moment she stepped into the Harrow ballroom, watching that loose strand drive her to distraction as it continually fell upon her forehead. He’d wanted to reach out and tuck it behind her adorable, curled ear. He’d wanted to nibble that ear, and put his lips to her throat and firm breasts, and move lower to… he wouldn’t allow himself to complete the thought.

  Gad! He’d never had these depraved thoughts before, certainly never over a young lady of good reputation.

  He was no saint, of course. However, when seeking pleasure, he would do it discreetly and not always in the most reputable establishments. He’d taken on a mistress once, but that botched idea hadn’t lasted very long. He wasn’t the sort to “keep” a woman, and hated the notion of any woman being at his beck and call for the sole purpose of satisfying his sexual urges, no matter how elegant their love nest or how generously he doled out her allowance.

  The cold wind blew through his hair, chilling his hands and face, and penetrating deep into his bones. It did little to cool his blood, so he decided to remain outdoors a little longer. It wasn’t cold enough for frostbite to set in.

  A movement by the ballroom window caught his attention. Hellfire. Evie was watching him. He’d be lost if she stepped outdoors and came to his side, for he’d yet to recover from their dance. She turned away when she realized he was looking back. Did it signify anything? Other than her belief that he was attics-to-let for standing out here in the cold and dark.

  He returned inside and spent the rest of the evening at the card tables trying, and failing, to expunge the memory of Evie in his arms.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, Evie’s carriage turned onto Chipping Way and drew up to Lady Eloise’s townhouse. Eloise had penned a note inviting her to tea and she’d accepted, wishing to confide in Lady Eloise, but she was still afraid that the relation to the Farthingales was too close. How would Eloise respond if told that the only man who made Evie’s heart flutter was Dr. Farthingale? Would it please her? Make her laugh? Perhaps it would cause her to gasp in horror.

  Evie had spent the night tossing and turning in her bed, and still didn’t know what to do. Finally, she decided to simply drop a few hints and press on depending on Eloise’s responses.

  Her stomach sank into her toes as she walked in and saw two dark-haired heads and two pairs of big blue eyes gazing back at her. Daisy and Dillie, two of the Farthingale sisters, were seated beside Eloise, which meant she couldn’t discuss their uncle at all this afternoon. She’d have to wait for another day to speak privately with Eloise.

  All three ladies smiled at her as she entered, their teacups and forks clattering as they set them down and rose to greet her. “Evie, we’re so glad you’re here.” Daisy gave her a warm hug.

  “Lady Daisy.” She hugged her back, and then turned to Dillie. “Your Grace.”

  Dillie rolled her eyes and laughed. “I’m still not used to my title, and I do hate using it when in the company of close friends and family. You must call me Dillie, and you can’t refuse my request because I’m a duchess.”

  “Very well, Your Grace… Dillie.” She hugged her as well, remarking on how beautiful Dillie looked, for there was an inner glow about her now that she was carrying the duke’s child. She was only now beginning to show—hardly noticeable to those who didn’t know her, but it wasn’t only the slight thickening around her stomach that gave her away. Her happiness filled the room like sunshine. Evie wished she could experience that feeling… just once in her life.

  Eloise regarded her thoughtfully as Evie bent down to buss her cheek. “Sit down, Evie dear. Make yourself comfortable. Would you like a slice of cake? Some tea?”

  She accepted graciously, unable to overcome the feeling that she was about to be interrogated. Drat. She had wanted to ask the questions, but would have to wait for a more opportune time to pry the information out of Eloise.

  “Lily and Ewan are returning to town within the for
tnight, and Rose is hosting a party in their honor,” Dillie said, her gaze never leaving Evie’s face. “But she’s short one female for her table and it will quite throw off her seating.”

  Daisy rolled her eyes. “Dillie doesn’t mean it that way, of course. Rose hopes you’ll attend. You were to be invited whether or not the tables were neatly arranged. It’s to be a small, family gathering.”

  Evie shook her head and laughed. “I don’t think small and Farthingale can ever be mentioned in the same sentence.”

  The sisters grinned. Although Lily and Dillie were the identical twins, Daisy also bore a striking resemblance to them. However, Rose and Laurel, the eldest, had dark, honey-colored hair and their eyes held a hint of green amid the deep blue. All five sisters did have one thing in common: they were delightful, but quite determined once they put their minds to something. Evie was glad that she only had to face Dillie and Daisy today.

  “In truth, Rose wished to invite your brother and grandfather as well, but I understand they’re to take a business trip to York next week and won’t return in time,” Eloise added. “Evie, that means you’ll be rattling around that big house all on your own.” She reached over and patted her hand. “Would you care to stay with me while they’re away? I know I’m just a dull old lady, but I’d truly enjoy your company. It would mean ever so much to me if you accepted.”

  With it put that way, Evie could not refuse.

  Also, they could spend time together in casual conversation. At some point, she’d bring up George Farthingale. Could he ever entertain romantic notions about her? Eloise’s guidance was much needed and certainly much appreciated in this matter.

  Upon reflection, Evie was pleased with Eloise’s invitation.

  The remainder of the afternoon passed smoothly… almost.

  George Farthingale was announced and strode in before Evie could collect herself. She put a hand to her hot cheek, knowing her face must be unattractively red, a deep shade of strawberry red, and there was no way to hide it. She pretended to sneeze. It was a trick she’d seen Dillie use a time or two when she lost her composure before she was married, usually when Duke Ian, now her husband, strode into a room.

  Daisy had been no better when she’d met Gabriel.

  She knew they’d see through her ruse at once. It couldn’t be helped. She always struggled to maintain her composure whenever she encountered George Farthingale. Often failed. “Irritants in the air,” she muttered, withdrawing her handkerchief from her sleeve and putting it to her nose. “Springtime… you know how it is.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Never noticed that about you before.”

  Of course not.

  There wasn’t a thing wrong with her.

  “It comes and goes.” The excuse sounded lame even to her ears.

  He arched an eyebrow and grinned, but didn’t press her on the matter. Instead, he turned to his nieces. “Good afternoon, imps.”

  The Farthingale sisters shot out of their seats and hugged him. Clearly, they adored him and he reciprocated the feeling. He then turned to Eloise. “I hear you’re out of ointment. Thought I’d bring some more around for you.” He withdrew a small container from the pocket of his cloak and handed it to Eloise.

  “I can’t thank you enough, Dr. Farthingale.”

  “Not at all. Well, I only stopped in for a moment. I’d better be on my way.”

  Dillie and Daisy shot out of their seats again. “Do stay,” they said, sounding like a pair of barnyard hens clucking about their rooster.

  Evie felt compelled to respond as well. After all, he’d think her rude if she didn’t ask him to join them. “Please do, Dr. Farthingale. I always enjoy your company.”

  “A few more minutes,” he conceded, handing his cloak to the butler and accepting the cup of tea that Eloise had just poured and now handed to him.

  To Evie’s horror, he settled on the settee beside her, his broad shoulder grazing her arm as he reached forward to set down the cup and then lift it to his lips again to leisurely sip his tea. That same unruly lock of hair fell over her forehead, no doubt dislodged when she’d faked her sneezes. She tucked it behind her ear and in no time it slipped out again.

  Dr. Farthingale chuckled, set down his cup once again and turned to face her. His gesture surprised her, and she had no time to prepare herself for the shock to her senses as he turned her to face him, their lips so close it made her ache. He reached out and tucked the lock of hair gently behind her ear. “It drove me mad throughout Lord and Lady Harrow’s ball last night.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “You noticed?”

  He nodded, a small smile curving the corners of his lips. “You remind me of my nieces and the way they fuss and fidget with their hair. Being a doctor and skilled with medical instruments, I was the designated fixer whenever their fashionable styles fell apart.”

  “Of course. Your nieces.”

  He tweaked her nose. “That ought to hold it for another few minutes. Just don’t move at all. Not a muscle. Don’t even breathe.”

  “I won’t.” She held her head stiffly and took a deep breath.

  “Oh, Evie! He’s teasing you,” Daisy said with a giggle. “You mustn’t ever take what Uncle George says seriously. He wasn’t a fixer, but the one who always ruffled our hair or pulled out the ribbons just as our mother came along to inspect us. He’s a fiend, but we love him all the same.”

  Evie let out her breath and blushed. He must think her an utterly gullible goose, which she was, and now everyone knew it. But his gaze was not taunting at all. He furrowed his brow as he continued to study her. “I had better be off,” he said quietly, his attention still on her.

  She tossed him a hesitant smile. “It was a pleasure to see you, Dr. Farthingale.”

  He gave a curt nod, then kissed his nieces and Eloise, and left.

  Evie ought to have been relieved, but she felt empty. It was as though a part of her heart had just left with him. Oh, dear!

  She wasn’t quite that hopeless, was she? After all, nothing could ever come of their friendship. It wasn’t even much of a bond, for Dr. Farthingale thought of her as a child. Well, not quite a child, but certainly not elegant or sophisticated.

  Perhaps Eloise would help her acquire a little polish during her stay. Or reveal something scandalous or horrid about Dr. Farthingale. Then she’d tuck it away and do her best to remove him from her heart… before anyone found out how she felt about him.

  Please, don’t let anyone ever find out!

  After a moment, she realized that Dillie, Daisy, and Eloise were staring at her, and all three had odd smiles on their faces. Eloise spoke first. “Forgive us, dear. It hasn’t escaped our notice. How long have you been in love with Dr. Farthingale?”

  George spent the afternoon at his boxing club trying to pound the frustration out of his body. Evie was to spend next week with Eloise, which meant he’d likely see her on a daily basis. In truth, the notion unsettled him. Something about the girl tugged at his heart and he didn’t like it one bit. His heart was just fine left comfortably untouched as it always had been.

  Yet, not seeing Evie was out of the question. He wanted to see more of her and not only for her good company. There was something about Evie that roused his protective instincts.

  She was a wounded bird.

  He hadn’t realized quite how badly she’d been hurt by her grandfather’s cold and domineering behavior, by the loss of her parents, and by the uncertainty of her place in society that the thirty-year feud within the Cameron family had created.

  Evie’s brother had suffered as well, his grandfather dangling the Letters Patent to his title as a means to manipulate the entire family. After years of threats, it had taken until now for the duke to settle the line of succession, finally petitioning the House of Lords to cut out his cousin Ewan’s line—with Ewan’s hearty consent.

  Desmond’s succession was now secure. George had no doubt that the young man would prove up to the task. The duke was finally
taking notice of his grandson.

  But Evie had been patted on the head, given a chore at the Royal Society as though that small gesture would make up for twenty-three years of hardship and disappointment, and then promptly forgotten.

  Having experienced the debut seasons of each of his five nieces, George knew that a fuss had to be made over a young woman’s entrance into society. No one had ever fussed over Evie. She had been quietly presented, had been dutifully escorted to the various balls and musicales whenever her brother or grandfather found it convenient, and was now quietly attending this year’s required round of balls and social affairs. It didn’t take great insight to know she felt lost among the latest crop of young hopefuls.

  And Evie, being Evie, was not stomping her foot or demanding that anyone pay attention to her.

  “Damn,” he muttered, punching the leather bag so that it almost flew off its hinge.

  He felt a big hand fall upon his sweaty shoulder and turned to see Laurel’s husband, Graelem, standing beside him, eyebrow quirked. “Something troubling you, George?”

  George grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat off his face and neck before responding. “No.”

  “Because Edgeware and I thought there might be. We recognized the signs. Is there a woman in particular on your mind?”

  “Did Laurel send you here to spy on me?”

  Graelem grinned. “Of course. And Ian’s here at Dillie’s bidding. I imagine Julian and Gabriel won’t be far behind. You know how determined your nieces can be when they set their minds to meddle.”

  “What do they want from me?”

  “Actually, you’re not their project. Lady Evangeline Cameron is. They’ve decided it’s time for her to marry, but her grandfather and brother won’t be around much this season, so they were hoping to enlist you to escort Evie about town. Laurel claims that the Farthingales are the closest thing the girl has to family in London. So you’re their obvious choice, an older and wiser fatherly sort to—”

  “Older? Fatherly?” He tossed his towel onto a nearby stool. “I’m ever so grateful. Tell your wife I’ll dust off my walking cane and oil my creaking knees for the occasion.”