“Is that her husband?” Evangeline whispered once she’d ducked back out of view.
Susan snorted. “Lord Heatherbrook’s about forty years younger than that man. Maybe he’s her grandfather. Or Father Christmas, arriving a little early this year.”
Hmmm. Somehow Evangeline doubted Father Christmas shook his cane at cowering countesses while hissing heaven-knew-what under his breath.
Tugging Susan along with a gloved hand, Evangeline turned around and headed down the correct corridor, only to find another couple standing in the center. Whether they too were arguing was anyone’s guess, for their conversation died the moment they caught sight of the two young women.
The man, a rotund ruddy individual with a spotted complexion and a wan smile, melted against the wall to allow them passage. His companion, an over-rouged woman bedecked in a lime green gown, flaxen curls, and a pink plumed hat, stared at them with heavily kohled eyes.
Neither spoke.
At the last possible moment, the man inclined his head in greeting. Evangeline dipped into an awkward walking-curtsy, causing Susan to collide with her for the second time that evening. And then they were around the corner and out of both eyesight and earshot.
“The Rutherfords,” Susan murmured, answering Evangeline’s unasked question. “Benedict Rutherford is Lord Heatherbrook’s younger brother and next in line for the earldom. Francine Rutherford is his wife. Theirs is not a happy marriage.”
Whose was? Evangeline thought, but aloud she asked, “If you know them, why didn’t we stop?”
A flush crept up Susan’s neck. “Lady Rutherford despises me. She’s a petty social climber who never forgave herself for settling on second best. I’m sure Lady Heatherbrook would never have invited me if she had the slightest inkling we—”
This time, Susan was the one to come to a jarring standstill.
Evangeline, having chosen to walk alongside Susan rather than behind her, did not stop, and in fact continued another step or two forward. Until she saw the two things looming directly in front of her.
The first was the dining room. Beyond an open doorway was a long, beautifully carved table adorned with elegant bone china and sparkling crystal goblets. Evangeline had never seen such finery. And she was meant to eat and drink from them?
The second thing to catch her attention was the dark-haired, dark-eyed man lounging negligently against the dining room doorway, wide shoulders leaning against the frame, thumbs hooked casually into his waistband, one polished black boot crossed over the other.
Lioncroft.
He had not failed to notice Evangeline’s proximity, if the sudden heat darkening his eyes was any indication. His gaze slid down her body like warm oil over bare skin, gliding past her unruly mane, to the helpless widening of her eyes, to the erratic pulsing in her throat, to the odd constriction in her bodice, to the flowing silk of her borrowed gown, to the tips of her slippered feet.
And then his gaze retraced its path back up, just as slowly.
Just as insolently, Evangeline reminded herself, for no gentleman would dare to stare so boldly. His eyebrows lifted in blatant appreciation, and his lips quirked in obvious amusement at her consternation.
The corners of his eyes crinkled slightly. He made no attempt to look away. Was the beast laughing at her?
Vexed, Evangeline decided to give Mr. Lioncroft a taste of his own rude behavior. She arched her brows in acknowledgment of his smirk before letting her own gaze drink in every facet of his appearance.
The soft hair tumbling across his forehead and down the back of his neck was not black, as she’d first thought, but rather a rich, glossy brown, much the same shade as freshly tilled soil in springtime. Or, she corrected herself darkly, like the sinister hue of a recently dug grave.
His eyes were the same deep brown, although his long lashes and thick brows were both a shade darker. His nose was straight, his chin strong. His skin was pale and unblemished, excepting the faint shadow of hair along his jawline, not quite masking the long thin scar she’d glimpsed earlier. No doubt a memento from a duel, or some other such devilry.
A skillfully creased cravat flowed at his neckline, just above a cream-colored shirt made of a material so smooth and soft it fairly begged for her to run her bare fingertips across its surface.
Not that Evangeline wished to touch Mr. Lioncroft’s chest, to feel the beating of his heart beneath her palm. If he even had a heart.
A perfectly tailored jacket hugged his powerful form just so, emphasizing both his impressive height and the breadth of his shoulders. Breeches stretched over long limbs, outlining the strength and musculature of his legs before disappearing into spotless Hessians.
When she glanced back at his face, he lowered one eyelid in a knowing wink. His slow, lazy smile was devastating. The wicked promise in his gaze had her lungs gasping for air and her skin tingling in anticipation. Her flesh felt heated, her breasts heavy. Her stays suddenly laced too tight.
Even if he hadn’t been a murderer, Evangeline realized with an involuntary gulp, Gavin Lioncroft was exactly the sort of man from whom mamas everywhere protected their virginal young daughters. And the quirk of his full, wide lips suggested he well knew it.
“I’m not ready for a betrothal yet,” came a frantic whisper from somewhere behind Evangeline’s back.
Susan. Good heavens. For a moment, Evangeline had completely forgotten Lady Stanton’s stratagem. And, if Evangeline were honest, Susan’s presence at all.
Luckily for Susan, the rapid heartbeat raging in Evangeline’s chest prevented her from breathing properly, much less screaming like a madwoman about Susan allegedly being compromised before a dining room doorway after the bell had been twice rung. In fact, all Evangeline could do was continue staring helplessly at Mr. Lioncroft.
Who hadn’t yet ceased staring right back.
“My word, mum, I didn’t expect to run into you so soon,” came a small, shaky voice, arresting both her and Mr. Lioncroft’s attention. The maid who’d been in Evangeline’s room earlier was now at her elbow, staring up at her with wide blue eyes. “It’s me, Ginny. I got no idea how you did it, but thank you ever so much for helping. I hope I got it before she chanced upon it, because if not, he’ll—” The maid broke off mid-sentence as voices spilled from the hallway behind them. She seemed to catch sight of Mr. Lioncroft for the first time and flinched. “I’ll find you later, if I’m not sacked between now and then. I must know—”
But whatever Ginny had to ask was swallowed by the buzz of conversation as Benedict and Francine Rutherford strode down the hall, laughing and chatting with the cane-wielding man from earlier. Evangeline frowned. Where was Lady Heatherbrook? She’d been talking to the elderly man only a few minutes ago. Speaking of which, if the white-haired man wasn’t Lady Heatherbrook’s husband, who was, and where was he?
Evangeline turned back to Ginny, only to discover the maid was no longer there. She’d disappeared into the blackness of the passageway like one of the many shadows.
Chapter 5
Conversation sputtered and died by the end of the first course.
Across the table, Gavin’s sister placed her spoon next to her empty bowl and refused to meet his eyes. When she’d first been seated—later than all the rest—she’d been oddly flushed, her cheeks rouged with a heavy hand. By the time the bowls of steaming soup appeared, so had the reason for the face paint. Her delicate skin had always bruised easily.
His houseguests slunk nervous glances from her face to his, as the pinkness of Rose’s left cheek purpled and spread to the size and proportion of a man’s hand. There was no doubt she’d bear the horrible mark for the rest of the party, just like there was no doubt in anyone’s mind who had struck her.
Except…Gavin hadn’t.
Considering the crimes in his past, one might think he wouldn’t mind being saddled with the occasional misplaced lesser crime. Nonetheless, such easy presumption of guilt was precisely why he chose to avoid the company of
so-called Polite Society in the first place.
Gavin couldn’t deny the presence of his temper, a rash, ever-simmering rage. When at Cambridge, how often had he been chastised for neck-or-nothing phaeton races ending with blood and bruises, or for the myriad fights that would break out afterward over who had won and who had lost? But he’d been a boy then, not more than seventeen. And while his anger might still be quick to surface, he now had at least a tenuous hold on something he’d never possessed before: self-control.
He didn’t discipline his servants with his fist, although doing so was perfectly legal. He’d never wished to hit a woman in his life, no matter how provoked. And he certainly hadn’t struck his sister for no reason at all, despite the accusing glances surreptitiously sent his way from all corners of the table.
But who had?
Her husband, a slimy pompous rat of an earl, would’ve been Gavin’s first guess, had Rose not taken her place beside him with a buss and a smile. As she stared at her brimming soup bowl, a scarlet stain spreading up her neck suggested Rose was beginning to realize powder and rouge hadn’t masked her injury as well as she’d hoped.
“So tell us,” came Edmund’s loud voice, the words slurring together until they were barely decipherable. His amber eyes blinked several times as if he found focusing on Gavin’s face a difficult task. “Why’d you plant your sister the facer?”
“He didn’t hit me,” Rose mumbled, her eyes meeting neither his nor Edmund’s. Had there been any other sound in the dining room, she might’ve gone unheard. In the silence, however, her words were cannon blasts.
Skepticism graced the faces now peering in her direction. All save one. Heatherbrook lifted his dun-colored brows and cast his wife a look of such unmitigated scorn that her bruised cheek nearly disappeared beneath the force of her blush.
“You,” Gavin seethed between clenched teeth.
A few of the guests startled to hear his first word of the evening.
Lord Heatherbrook’s brows merely returned to a relaxed position, dismissing Gavin’s snarled accusation without a word. Rose trembled when her husband raised his hand near her face, but he simply reached for a basket of fresh-baked bread—and smirked.
It was the smirk that did it.
Gavin leaned forward and leapt to his feet. He landed with his legs at shoulder width and knees slightly crouched, ready to spring across the table and tackle Heatherbrook in his seat. The chair toppled over behind him, clattering to the hardwood floor. Gavin ignored it. His sister had reentered his life after over a decade of absence. Violence against his family had taken her from him before. He would not allow it to do so again.
“Outside,” he ordered her husband, fists ready, voice hard. “Now.”
Rose blanched. Edmund motioned for a footman to refill his wineglass. The rest of the guests watched, breathless and twitching, as if they were debating the wisdom of diving for cover beneath the table.
Lord Heatherbrook’s lip curled as he sneered his rejection of Gavin’s command. Were it not for the tremor in Heatherbrook’s hand as he replaced the basket of bread upon the table, Gavin might have thought him unmoved. Everyone else apparently witnessed the same tremor, and their gazes swung in uniform terror from Heatherbrook’s shaking fingers back to Gavin’s furious scowl, as if quite certain now, now, he would leap across the table to snap Heatherbrook’s pale neck.
Gavin was certainly considering it.
“Stop.” The word was soft, a mere breath, but came from Rose.
A footman righted the fallen chair. After a moment, Gavin sat. The wary guests did not look convinced of his harmlessness.
“My—my daughter,” Rose stammered, making a small gesture toward Gavin’s wide-eyed niece. “Nancy was just getting to know Mr. Teasdale when the supper bell rang.”
Gavin stared at his sister. She could not expect her daughter to enjoy being matchmaked to a frail old man thrice her age.
Nancy gasped, as if a sharp elbow had just connected with her ribs. “Er, yes,” she said loudly, casting an over-bright smile around the table. “Splendid weather we’re having. Didn’t you say so earlier, Mr. Teasdale?”
Gavin forced his fists to relax as he belatedly realized his sister and niece were attempting to diffuse tension. Based on the half dozen pair of eyes refusing to meet his, no one at the table would be surprised if Gavin drew a pistol, shot Heatherbrook in the face, and continued with his meal. Pity he didn’t have a pistol handy.
Rose cast him a beseeching look. It seemed she was hoping for an evening a bit less bloody than the one Gavin now had in mind, so that her daughter could catch the eye of the white-haired sack of bones snoring softly in his seat. Very well. For the sake of his sister and his niece, Gavin would allow the farce of normalcy to continue. For now.
“I said nothing of the sort,” came Mr. Teasdale’s quavering nasal voice, as if Nancy’s words had only now reached his failing ears. “Too cold outside and too hot inside. Can’t get a good grip on my cane with the way my hand sweats so.”
A very unladylike snort came from either Miss Stanton or Miss Pemberton, both seated on the opposite side of the table. Edmund gave a drunken laugh, shook his head, and motioned for more wine. Apparently, Gavin wasn’t the only one who found the old coot a ridiculous match for his young niece, no matter how full Teasdale’s coffers might be.
Lady Stanton shot an icy stare in the direction of the stifled snort.
“Why, yes, delightful weather,” came the rapid-fire speech he now recognized as belonging to the Stanton chit. She must’ve been the snorter. “Bitter wind and endless rain is just the thing for a house party. Don’t you agree, Evangeline?”
“Hmmm,” came a soft, warm voice that could only belong to the mysterious Miss Pemberton, whose hot little gaze and enticing body were tucked safely out of view.
She probably thought she’d shocked him by mimicking his appreciative stare. As it turned out, he’d managed to shock himself with his body’s instantaneous reaction. Even the sultry timbre of her voice had him thinking about tasting the curve of her red lips, instead of avenging his sister’s bruised cheek.
“I do find autumn leaves beautiful,” his siren was saying now, “but the trees here have gone gray and barren. As they were at your home as well, Lady Stanton. Do you miss the changing colors?”
Lady Stanton sniffed, as though displeased at being addressed by Miss Pemberton. “I despise nature,” she said dismissively and turned to face Gavin, the first of the dinner guests to openly do so since the handprint had first made its appearance. She fixed him with a strange, calculating gaze. “You have a lovely estate, Mr. Lioncroft. Susan was just telling me how pleasant she found her accommodations.”
From the startled gaping of Miss Stanton’s curiously wordless mouth, Gavin deduced she’d said nothing of the sort.
A trio of footmen arrived with platters of fresh fish and tiny pots of cream and sauces. Gavin turned his focus to his supper plate, ignoring Lady Stanton and Lord Heatherbrook’s continued smirks. The latter would get Gavin’s “response” later, when no one was around to witness it.
Chapter 6
Evangeline didn’t take her first easy breath until the men and women went their separate ways after supper. Yet even in the ladies’ withdrawing room, something was not quite right.
The servants setting the tea were as ubiquitous and unobtrusive as ever, but seemed to dally with their tasks longer than necessary. They darted quick little glances toward Evangeline when the aristocrats weren’t looking—which they never were, as Polite Society rarely noticed their staff unless they required something—and exchanged meaningful looks with each other as if an irresistible but forbidden curiosity had been placed just out of reach.
Evangeline had a terrible suspicion the curiosity in question was her. How could she have forgotten to tell Ginny not to mention her help to others?
“I knew it,” whispered Susan, dragging her to a quiet corner.
“You knew what?” Evangeline g
lanced around to make sure they were in a somewhat private area. Only the servants were still watching.
“I knew he’d as soon kill us as spend a nice evening with us. He didn’t utter more than three or four words during the entire meal, but the evil in his eyes spoke volumes. Did you see his expression when Lord Heatherbrook lifted his hand as though to strike the countess anew? Lionkiller positively smoldered. I’d wager they’re brawling on the floor in the other room right now.”
“I can’t imagine Lord Heatherbrook in a brawl,” Evangeline said, deciding to concentrate on Susan’s patter and pretend she was unaware of the servants’ relentless scrutiny.
“Oh, Lioncroft would thrash him, no question there. I heard he’s always been a rough-and-tumble sort. Infamous for his quick temper even when at Eton and Cambridge. Mother says to this day, the only two attractions capable of luring him from his home are pugilism clubs and brothels.”
Fighting and whoring. Wonderful. Evangeline well knew the sort of man who delighted in such things, as fighting and whoring were her sotted stepfather’s primary activities when not at home beating his womenfolk. There wasn’t much to recommend Mr. Lioncroft in the first place, but further proof of his similarity to Neal Pemberton was the final nail in his coffin. Evangeline would rather stow away to India than be caught alone with such a man.
“And what about the handprint on Lady Heatherbrook’s cheek?” Susan continued in a hushed whisper, her eyes alight with the excitement of scandal. “I cannot imagine the ignominy of walking about with such a mark. During a party, no less. What do you suppose she did to deserve it?”
“What makes you think she deserved it at all?” Evangeline snapped, suddenly hyperconscious of her own fading bruises beneath her gown. She had no wish to see unnecessary pain inflicted upon someone else.
Too Wicked to Kiss: Gothic Love Stories #1 Page 4
