The smile that lit his face set her heart skipping, however much of a rogue he was. “I wish you would.”
“I thought you feared for my safety when I’m alone.”
Eyelids lowered over brilliant eyes. His smile developed a wicked edge. An edge that shifted her pulses from headlong charge to wayward tarantella. “Who says you’d be alone?”
His silky tone seeped through her skin. It was as if he put his arms around her the way he had beside the pond. Inconvenient heat swirled in her belly. “Stop flirting,” she said in a hard voice, while her innards melted to warm syrup.
His smile deepened and with it, her liquid response. “I can’t help it. I tell myself I’ll be strong, then you frown at me as if unsure whether to kick me or kiss me, and I’m snared again. You should take pity.”
Her lips firmed against the impulse to smile. “I pity any woman who listens to your nonsense.”
He collapsed against the stone wall behind him and closed his eyes with theatrical agony. “You never think I’m sincere.”
She edged toward the street, partly because the impulse to jump on him and beg him to kiss her was so overwhelming. “You never are.”
“Sometimes I am.” He rose, sending the basket tumbling to the ground. In the enclosed space, she was unbearably aware of his height. His voice lowered and despite her accusation of insincerity, something in her opened to that persuasive baritone. “Genevieve, I mean it—take care. I’d hate anything to happen to you.”
She told herself that his seduction was a means to an end. Obtaining the jewel. And if he got to tumble her too, well, that was a bonus. Her mind recognized the truth. Her body wanted to press against his tall frame like a hot iron flattened linen to the kitchen table.
She turned to go, but faster than a striking adder, he caught her hand.
Struggling to bolster fading resistance, she tried to escape. “Don’t call me Genevieve.”
“I can’t address a woman I’ve kissed as Miss Barrett. It’s against the laws of nature.”
She summoned a scowl. “I prefer the laws of society, sir.”
He laughed softly. “No, you don’t, you little hypocrite. You’re perfectly happy to bend the rules when it suits you.”
She glanced around frantically, hardly listening. “Please. If anyone sees us, my reputation will be in shreds. I know you think I’m past the age of scandal, but this is a small village and people will say that something’s going on between us.”
“Something is going on between us, or do you intend to deny that too?”
“Blast you, Mr. Evans, let me go.”
“Christopher.”
She ceased wriggling and stared at him aghast. “I can’t call you Christopher.”
He still smiled. “Of course you can. Three syllables. Nice English name. ‘Chris-to-pher.’ Say it after me.”
Her brief charity with the bumptious Mr. Evans evaporated. How she wished she’d shot him when she had the chance. “I don’t want to call you Christopher. I don’t want to call you anything but someone who has left the neighborhood.”
He winced dramatically. “Cruel.”
She lowered her voice and injected all her outrage into her tone. “If you don’t let me go, I’ll sneak into your room when you’re asleep and smother you with a pillow.”
Sensuality weighted his expression. He looked like he wanted to kiss her. What on earth would she do if he did? “If you come into my room, we’ll do something much jollier than murder.”
“Right now, murdering you offers enjoyment beyond my wildest dreams.”
His laugh held a hint of admiration. “Ghoulish wench.”
It was all too much. “Stop it,” she said in a shaking voice. “For pity’s sake, just stop.”
To her astonishment, he released her. “I’m not acting the gentleman.”
“You don’t say.” She rubbed her wrist. He hadn’t hurt her, but the delicate skin tingled with his touch. She was getting heartily tired of arrogant males manhandling her.
Mr. Evans tilted his hat, becoming the man of the world instead of the impetuous suitor. “I’ll escort you to the vicarage.”
“You really mean to dog my footsteps?” she asked sourly. “You’ll drive us both mad.”
He extended his arm and his smile held secrets she resisted exploring. “I’m a big boy. I can bear it.”
“I’m not sure I can.” Reluctantly she accepted his arm. Surely it was her imagination that with the contact, warmth radiated through her.
“Soon you won’t even notice I’m around.”
How she wished that was true. But while she scorned his lack of principle, she remained aware of his every breath. It was like some horrible fairy-tale curse. And the only person likely to kiss her awake was this flirtatious rapscallion with questionable motives.
Heaven help her.
Chapter Sixteen
Early the next morning, Richard waited in his carriage. The sunlight lent scant warmth and he appreciated his greatcoat. Although the coat provided merciful little protection from Genevieve’s icy stare when she stepped into the stable yard.
“Mr. Evans—”
“Good morning, Miss Barrett. We’ll have a fine trip to Oxford.”
In salute, he touched the handle of his whip to his hat. Truly, she was a sight to behold. She’d made an effort with her appearance and the dark green velvet pelisse and bonnet with its green ribbons were fiendishly becoming. Her ensemble might be a few seasons out of date, but he couldn’t imagine anyone criticizing the way it clung to her impressive curves, nor how the rich color turned her creamy skin to living satin. Especially with annoyance tingeing her cheeks with pink.
“I’ll have a fine trip to Oxford,” she said sharply. “I asked Williams to have the gig ready.”
“Williams and I had a word last night.”
Her lips tightened. Richard found her temper arousing. Although, he had to admit, he couldn’t think of much about Genevieve that didn’t make him as hot as a geyser. Even when she and her father pursued some hopelessly abstruse argument about medieval history, Richard couldn’t help imagining how she’d feel under him.
“You had no right to countermand my orders.”
Richard set the brake, although his horses were too well trained to bolt. He leaped down and extended his gloved hand. “I’ll take you to Oxford.”
As expected, that raised her hackles. She turned toward the barn. “Williams will harness the gig.”
“Then I’ll follow. Won’t that feel rather silly?”
“In that case, I won’t go.”
“Suits me,” he told her retreating back, trim in its green velvet. “I can guard you more easily here.”
She stopped without turning. Her voice vibrated resentment. “You are the most irritating man, Mr. Evans.”
“I am indeed, Miss Barrett.” He was a lost case. Even calling her Miss Barrett put him in the mood for bed sport. Perhaps because it sounded so prim and decorous, when he’d seen her naked. Still, he didn’t want to bicker for the next ten miles. “Are you so set on winning the point that you’d delay your appointment?”
Slowly she turned and her lips curved in a triumphant smile. “It’s inappropriate for us to spend the day alone together.”
He smiled back. Rare enough that she smiled at him. He wouldn’t carp at the reasons behind it. “I’ve had a care for your reputation.”
As though he’d been listening—he probably had, if Richard knew anything about eleven-year-old boys—young George Garson rushed from the stables. He bowed breathlessly to Genevieve. “Good morning, Miss Barrett.” He jumped into the phaeton’s fold-down rear compartment. “I’m ready, Mr. Evans.”
“Where’s Sirius?” Surprise and exasperation warred in her face.
“Tied in the stables and not best pleased. But he can’t run all the way to Oxford and George has his seat.”
“Will the boy be safe?”
“Of course. I designed it myself, even sat in it once o
r twice before I risked Sirius.”
A tiny line appeared between Genevieve’s brows as she surveyed Richard, the natty carriage and George. “Does your mother know you’re away all day, George?”
The boy responded with a carefree grin. “Yes, miss. Mr. Evans promised her a crown, and a shilling for me besides.”
“Aren’t you lucky?”
“Will your pique deprive George of his shilling?” Richard adopted a deliberately pathetic expression.
Her scowl indicated that it failed to convince. “Pique is such a petty description for what I’m feeling,” she said sweetly, but she firmed her grip on her satchel and approached the carriage.
“If only you had a gun handy,” he murmured, taking her arm to steady her as she climbed into the vehicle.
He was a cad to notice how the movement ruffled her skirts to reveal a nicely turned ankle.
“How do you know I haven’t?” She sat and stroked the scuffed leather satchel with menacing intent.
“What about the Harmsworth Jewel?”
Genevieve cast him one of those glances under her lashes that hinted at secrets. “It’s safe.”
“And so shall you be, my lady.” He smiled at her and crossed to his side of the carriage. He settled beside her. Surely it was fancy that her hip felt warm against his through several layers of clothing.
“Walk on,” he said to the horses. He directed the vehicle toward the village.
Genevieve turned in surprise. “This isn’t the way to Oxford. We should have gone left after the lane.”
The carriage rolled past the grim ruins of Derrick Abbey. The Cistercian foundation had been destroyed during the Reformation and while Genevieve had spent hours exploring the site, she’d never liked it.
“I’m taking the long way,” he said calmly.
“Hurrah!” George shouted over and over, waving madly to everyone.
Mr. Evans slowed the carriage and set the horses stepping high. Blast him. It became more and more difficult to dislike him.
On market day, the village was bustling and Genevieve caught smiles from the people who stopped to watch. Perhaps George wouldn’t meet the strictest standards as a chaperone, but she caught no hint of censure in the faces they bowled past.
George saved his loudest cheers for his widowed mother and three older sisters, gathered outside their cottage to see the man of the house in his glory. Mr. Evans raised his whip in greeting to the family, who could definitely use the money he paid for George’s company today. Genevieve noticed that all three girls blushed at the attention. Of course they did. Mr. Evans was a man who set women’s hearts aflutter. Even sensible women like Genevieve Barrett.
Except sitting beside a breathtakingly handsome man as he tooled a stylish vehicle past people she’d known most of her life, she didn’t feel like a sensible woman. She felt like a princess. And she realized just how dangerous Mr. Evans could be when he set his mind to something.
The parade lasted mere minutes, even at the leisurely pace Mr. Evans set. Little Derrick was designated ‘little’ for good reason. Once they reached the outskirts, he turned the carriage toward Oxford and set out at a cracking rate.
Genevieve had never ridden in a high-perch phaeton. She thought she’d be terrified, but Mr. Evans was such a fine whip, the carriage proceeded with impressive smoothness. For the first few minutes, she clutched her seat for fear of overturning. He didn’t comment on her nervousness, but he cast her a sardonic glance when she finally ceased gasping at every bump.
“Go on, say it,” he said drily without shifting his attention from the road.
“Say what?” Her grip tightened on her satchel.
“That it was nonsensical to give George his moment in the sun.”
She lifted her chin and regarded him directly. “What makes you think I disapprove?”
“Your frown.” He paused. “And let’s face it, you rarely approve of what I do.”
“I thought it was rather wonderful and very kind.” She risked honesty. “You’re an odd man, Mr. Evans. Every time I think I understand you, you confound me.”
“There’s not much to understand,” he muttered.
She’d never seen him blush before. She studied him much as she’d study a historic document. Except Old English or Latin held no mysteries. And this man with his erratic generosity and concealed motives left her flummoxed. “You do yourself an injustice.”
Smiling secretly she turned to watch the scenery. She’d resented the way he’d commandeered her expedition. But the moment she’d realized how he’d taken the trouble to please a small boy and his family, her heart had melted. He might be a liar and a flirt, but there was good in him somewhere. She’d wager the Harmsworth Jewel on it.
Genevieve concluded her meeting with Dr. Partridge more quickly than expected and on an encouraging note. After months of negotiations, he agreed to publish her paper under her name, despite her lack of formal qualifications. She had dates to send material for checking and printing. The whole project became concrete in a way that it hadn’t when she’d worked in her study.
She swung under the museum’s impressive portico with a jaunty step and excitement bubbling in her veins. Life offered possibilities. And justice after years of her father claiming her work. Not even the threats posed by Lord Neville and whoever targeted the vicarage spoiled her mood.
“You’re looking remarkably pleased with yourself.”
Slowly she turned to see Mr. Evans slouching against one of the Ionian columns. For a few marvelous moments, she’d forgotten Mr. Evans. His comment reminded her that just now, her life wasn’t an uncomplicated march to success, but a navigation through dark and complicated influences.
She struggled to cling to the happiness she’d felt when Dr. Partridge had extolled her painstaking scholarship. Soon, Mr. Evans would be gone. Her work was with her always. “Yes. It went well.”
He smiled and straightened to wander closer. His clothes were plain, but cut and worn with a dash that stood out, even here in cosmopolitan Oxford. “I’m glad.”
She sought but found no hidden meaning in his response. “Thank you.”
“Here, let me take that.”
“N—”
Too late. He slid her satchel from her arms with a smooth competence that reminded her how he’d disarmed her in her study. Right now, with the sun shining and Mr. Evans regarding her as if she was the prettiest girl in Oxford, she was surprisingly grateful that she hadn’t shot him.
He cast her a wry glance. “Relax. I promise I won’t run away with the jewel.”
The jewel was safe in her petticoat. She contented herself with a request to be careful with the bag.
He gestured with his gold-topped ebony cane. “It’s a fine day. Shall we walk?”
She frowned. “We should go home. I’ve finished my business.”
He was still smiling. She wished he wouldn’t. That smile played havoc with her common sense. He tucked his stick under his arm and extended an elbow. “Then it’s time for pleasure.”
She regarded him warily. The word “pleasure” summoned heated memories of kissing him. “I don’t trust pleasure.”
His smile intensified. “You mean you don’t trust me.”
“That too.” She glanced around. “Where’s George?”
“At the stable I use for my carriage. They’ll keep an eye on him.”
“He loves horses.”
Mr. Evans shrugged. “He’s a good lad. I’d give him a job on my estate, but if he left Little Derrick, he’d break his mother’s heart.”
Startled, she stared at him, so astonished she didn’t notice when he took her arm and escorted her down the steps to busy Broad Street.
“I’d give him a place with Williams, but we can’t take on further staff right now.”
“Given Williams has extra duties with my horses, perhaps George could come outside school hours.” He paused. “I should have thought of it before.”
She appreciated that he
didn’t point out that if she sold the Harmsworth Jewel, she could cram the vicarage with staff. “You’re being kind.”
Genevieve had a horrible suspicion that Mr. Evans was kind. In a self-effacing, untheatrical way that contrasted with his amiable languor and urbane charm.
After Magdalen College, the crowds thinned. She kept hold of his arm, although it was no longer strictly necessary. She even found, wicked girl she was, stolen excitement when his body brushed hers.
“Genevieve?”
Her name from his lips set up an enjoyable inner ripple. She’d given up insisting that he call her Miss Barrett. She was starting to feel silly addressing him as Mr. Evans.
“Shall we do that?”
From his tone, she guessed that it wasn’t the first time he’d asked the question. Curse her blushing. “Do what?”
She sought the familiar mockery, but his expression conveyed fondness. While a somnolent heaviness in his blue eyes acknowledged the anticipation simmering between them.
“If his mother agrees, I’ll pay George for a few hours each week under Williams’s supervision.”
Mrs. Garson would welcome the money and the chance of advancement for George. Genevieve couldn’t imagine her saying no. Even if she was inclined to refuse, when Mr. Evans stared at Mrs. Garson the way he currently stared at Genevieve, she’d happily sell her son to the Grand Turk. Yet again Genevieve warned herself to beware this man’s wiles. But here on this sunny street with his long stride matched to hers and his deep voice shooting secret thrills through her, her barriers crumbled.
“That’s a good idea.”
“Capital.” He smiled. “That’s settled.”
It struck her that today produced yet another miracle. She’d managed a perfectly civil discussion with Mr. Evans about a matter of common concern without one whisper of hostility or innuendo.
Ahead the river sparkled. The velvet pelisse, suitable for an early departure, made her skin prickle with heat. She’d kill for a cup of tea. She supposed Mr. Evans meant to walk for miles. He’d packed a breakfast of rolls and cheese which they’d shared on the way—another sign of thoughtfulness; today abounded with them. That makeshift meal seemed a long time ago.
A Rake's Midnight Kiss (Sons of Sin) Page 14
