The Elusive Lord Everhart: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series

by Vivienne Lorret

  “As you are doing now, no doubt,” he remarked from a dark violet-and-gray striped chaise longue. The design of it was different from a standard chaise in that it sloped gradually at one end, curving in the manner of the bow of a sleigh.

  Reclining back, with his head propped on a pillow, Everhart seemed to pay little attention to her presence. Which made her want to disturb him all the more. Over the years, she’d often wondered how he’d so easily dismissed her and their friendship. Part of her resented him for it.

  Because it hadn’t been easy for her.

  The reason for that was now becoming muddled as she stared at him. The lean length of his body took up the entire space. He crossed his splinted leg over the other. Once again, he’d abandoned his coat and cravat. Those fine golden hairs that she’d examined rather closely that first night were on display between the V of his open collar. From there, her reluctantly captivated gaze set a natural course down the buttons of his silver satin waistcoat to his dark blue breeches.

  Her inner narrator looked away and advised Calliope to do the same. Yet she couldn’t.

  Everhart possessed a relaxed beauty that consistently drew her attention. Looking away would be like reading only half of a novel and never learning how it ended. Therefore, with his gaze fixed on the ceiling, giving every impression of ignoring her, she indulged her rampant curiosity.

  She wondered if the tailor intended to make Everhart’s breeches so . . . perfectly fitted. As a young woman, she’d discreetly studied paintings and statues in museums. After all, it was important to know something about the male form. Solely for informative purposes, of course.

  Nonetheless, the outlined shape Calliope witnessed now was substantially larger than what the artists and sculptors had portrayed. The sight reminded her of the novels she read and how that part of a man’s anatomy had once been described as a blade for virtue’s ruin.

  She swallowed, uncertain if this new leap of her pulse indicated fear or fascination.

  Everhart lifted a glass to his lips and drained the last of the pale golden liquid. “There are those who would find your silent study as forward too. Provocative, even.”

  Blazing heat rushed to her cheeks. Even her ears felt hot. Embarrassed, her gaze snapped to his face, only to see that he was still looking at the ceiling. Had he caught her, or was he merely taunting her?

  Hmm . . . If she knew anything about Everhart, she was inclined to believe the latter.

  Drawing in a breath, she summoned a wealth of hauteur. “If anyone could be accused of provocation, it is you. For now, it is my every wish to be a thorn in your side. A pebble in your boot.” Then, she added the absolute worst nuisance imaginable. “A worm in your book.”

  He feigned a gasp. “Not a worm in my book, Miss Croft.”

  His empty glass winked in the light of the single candelabra on the atlas table between them. As far as boundaries were concerned, the immense, lacquered waist-high table was quite a substantial one. In fact, it currently encompassed the South American continent.

  “Perhaps you would not laugh so easily if you knew that I have discovered damage from the very creature you are laughing about within the journal you were reading the other evening.” Absently, she trailed her fingertip along the intersecting longitudinal and latitudinal lines in the South Atlantic Ocean, wondering what it would be like to visit such a place. “I was just to the part where the ship had laid anchor when I noticed—”

  “What? What did you see?” He sat up so abruptly that she stopped speaking and withdrew her hand from the ocean. Candlelight stole over his furrowed brow and flashed in the depths of his blue-green irises. It was a rare moment, indeed, to see Everhart agitated.

  To be the cause of it might give one the sense of having the upper hand.

  With a grin tugging at her lips, Calliope returned her attention to the jagged coast of South America. “It could be of no interest to you. It’s just a book, after all.”

  “It is more than a book,” he argued. “That journal is a vital account of an exploration. Men will read such an accounting for years to come as a way of expanding their own world.”

  She rather liked seeing him so ruffled. Especially since Everhart was renowned for being unruffled.

  This was another side of him that she was certain few had ever witnessed. And while she wasn’t the type to make waves—certainly not like her sisters—she wanted to know what would happen if she did.

  It surprised Calliope to realize that she wanted more from Everhart than he gave to anyone else.

  “I am not a man, yet I have been reading it. Ghastly business about the rats in the cook’s pot, wouldn’t you agree?” She smiled sweetly. “If I ever went on an expedition, I should not like rat stew.”

  “You on an expedition?” he scoffed. “I think not.”

  The muscles of her neck tightened, but she refused to reveal how he’d pricked her irritation. “When I reach my majority next year, I shall have my dowry funds released to me. I believe it is substantial enough to earn passage on a ship.”

  “You are an unmarried woman,” he said, his tone flat. “You cannot travel alone.”

  Without looking at him, she clucked her tongue in disgust. “I am not a ninny, Everhart. Of course I wouldn’t travel with anyone other than perfect gentlemen.”

  “A voyage can take months. Years.” Surprisingly, he began to raise his voice. “No gentleman is that perfect.”

  Calliope feigned an absent shrug, as if she wasn’t stewing over his arrogance. Running her finger across the atlas, she plotted a course on the map. The truth was, she hadn’t considered an expedition until just now, when it seemed to cause a violent reaction in him. “I have a full year to consider my adventure. I imagine South America would be quite wild after that terrible battle. Perhaps I would pen my own journal, and future generations of men and women would read about my travels.”

  “You must promise me not to do something so foolish.”

  The harsh command drew her gaze, along with her incredulity. “Promise you? Why ever would I need to promise you anything? We are not even friends.”

  He sat forward as if he were about to spring, heedless of his injury. “We cannot be friends,” he said, gritting his teeth as he glared at her. “However, I am still the only person of your acquaintance who has traveled extensively—”

  “Brightwell has traveled,” she reminded, earning another sharp glare. “In fact, he was speaking of his travels the other evening in the parlor and that he did not enjoy Indian cuisine.”

  Everhart released his white-knuckled grip on the edge of the cushion beneath him and swiped his hands across his thighs. His mouth curled in a condescending smirk. “With you there to hang upon his every word, no doubt.”

  Abandoning the atlas, she set her hands on her hips. “Brightwell married my cousin, or have you forgotten?”

  “The question is, have you?”

  In that moment, she wondered why she was standing here in the first place. Had insanity drawn her? “You are right, Everhart. We cannot be friends. I don’t know why I continue to try.” She turned to leave.

  “Try? Thus far, your attempts have been to steal a book I was reading and then to goad me into an argument.”

  Calliope whipped around to face him. The gall of this man astounded her! “I have not goaded you into anything. Since my arrival, you have simply been quick to temper. Then again, I recall bringing out the worst in you years ago as well.”

  Had it only been a moment ago that she’d wanted to make waves and get a reaction from him? Now, with his boat capsizing, he seemed determined to take her down with him.

  His smirk fell. “What do you mean? I have always been civil to you.”

  “Civility under duress, perhaps,” she said on a huff, concealing the hurt she felt. “You do not have cause to dislike me. If Brightwell can forgive me, I do not see why you cannot.”

  “I do not dislike you, Miss Croft. I—” He stared at her for a moment, his lips
parted, but he said nothing more. He merely released a slow exhale and looked beyond the stacks to the banister that overlooked the room below, as if he were considering jumping over the edge.

  Perhaps she should give up. Her efforts were obviously in vain. Exhausted, she turned to leave, only to be startled by the sudden sound of piano music.

  A fluid meandering waltz filled the chamber. Montwood was right; it rang quite clearly inside the north tower. The score was achingly familiar but for a moment, she could not fathom why—not until her gaze returned to Everhart’s.

  In that moment, she recalled it perfectly. This was the waltz the orchestra had played in Bath, where they’d last danced. When it had ended, the intensity of his dislike had shone in his gaze.

  That same intensity was shining there now. It was volatile. Filled with such heat below the surface, she imagined he would begin to rant at her any moment.

  “They played this at the Randall ball,” he said without looking away from her.

  Her mouth went dry. Of all the things she expected him to recall, this was the last. “Yes.”

  “We danced.”

  “I remember.”

  When he looked surprised by her admission, she continued. “I’m not likely to ever forget. At the end, I thought you were either going to scold me or shake me, right there in the middle of the ballroom.”

  “I wasn’t,” he said without elaborating.

  “You look as if you could do the same right now.”

  “Do I?” His laugh sounded hollow, self-deprecating. “Perhaps I was just thinking about the dance and recalling how it felt to”—his gaze swept over her, his fists clenching around the edge of the cushion—“stand without the assistance of a cane.”

  Yet it seemed as though he’d meant to say something else entirely.

  She kept forgetting about his injury. He always seemed so capable to her. It was difficult to imagine that he couldn’t do whatever he wished, whenever he wished it. As he’d likely done all his life.

  “You could lean on me.” The words tumbled out unheeded, surprising her. She rationalized them away instantly, telling herself that it was only the nurturing aspect of her personality that caused her to make the offer.

  Everhart arched a skeptical brow. “A dance, for pity’s sake? I think not.”

  Not knowing what possessed her, Calliope decided to make one final attempt at friendship. Yet perhaps it wasn’t friendship that compelled her but something else entirely.

  She’d always hated the way things had ended years ago. So abruptly and without warning. Although she never admitted it, out of everyone from their circle of friends, she’d missed Everhart the most.

  Remembering that loss keenly made walking away impossible now.

  Calliope sat down beside him. The sloped portion of the chaise did not allow much room to keep a proper distance. Then again, what she was about to suggest wasn’t entirely proper either. “Then a dance for friendship’s sake.”

  “We cannot be—” He stopped as she pivoted her upper body toward his, her hand slipping onto his shoulder.

  Before she could rethink her plan or accustom herself to the warmth emanating from his close proximity, she reached down and eased his grip from the cushion’s edge, sliding her other hand into his.

  “Friends,” she finished for him.

  “I have no women friends.” He swallowed, his gaze drifting from her eyes to her mouth as if in a silent warning. Or perhaps it was more of an invitation.

  A shiver coursed through her as his arm slipped around her waist. His hand opened against the small of her back and slowly drifted upward to rest just beneath her shoulder blades. Alone like this, it would be easy for him to nudge her closer. Perhaps that was exactly what he wanted her to imagine.

  “You seduce every woman of your acquaintance, then? The same way you are seducing me now?”

  “I beg to differ.” He offered a mocking grin and lifted their joined hands into a less-than-formal waltzing pose. “You are the one seducing me. You are wearing me down to the point where my head is spinning as if we were actually dancing.”

  His gaze bore into hers, and she thought for just a moment that instead of scolding her or shaking her, he might want to kiss her. The way it had been in her dream.

  “My head is spinning too,” she admitted on a breath. Her gaze drifted to his mouth.

  Everhart shook his head. “Don’t close your eyes.”

  “But if I don’t, then I’m likely to . . . ” She wet her lips.

  “Likely to . . . what?”

  To kiss you, she nearly said. Thankfully, her lips didn’t form the words. Yet in the same breath, her head must have misunderstood. Because before she knew it, her lips were on his.

  She gasped the instant she realized what she’d done.

  Yet as he’d commanded, she kept her eyes on his. They were of like mind, both holding perfectly still. The only movement he made was an exhale through his nostrils. His breath mingled with hers. He didn’t even blink. But as he stared at her, his pupils grew larger, like onyx gems rimmed with aquamarine.

  When she heard a low, raw rasp tear from his throat, she realized something very important. Everhart had had no intention of scolding her or shaking her. It was quite possible that all along, the intensity of his gaze had everything to do with kissing.

  To be certain, she kissed him again. This time, she lingered and pressed her lips to his again in the only type of kiss she knew how to give. Even she knew it was not enough. It was too . . . chaste. Certainly not a kiss that a woman of four and twenty gave to a rake. Yet she’d had very little experience.

  Everhart was patient, neither withdrawing nor pushing her naïve exploration. Inspired by that thought as much as the map on the table behind her did, she wondered what it would be like to explore Gabriel Ludlow, Viscount Everhart. She imagined that his lips were the continent rising up from the sea, awaiting her . . . first . . . step.

  This was new territory. Calliope tilted her head, nuzzling the tip of her nose into the valley beside his. Her mouth slanted, silk against velvet, soft against firm. The sensations riveted her, making her wonder why she’d wasted her life on anything other than kissing expeditions. If she’d had forethought, she could’ve been proficient by now. As it was, with her nose pressed against his, breathing became harder. Opening her mouth seemed the only solution because she couldn’t bear to draw back, even for a single breath.

  Her lips parted. Against his warning, her eyes drifted closed.

  Everhart shifted, tilting his chin up a fraction as his mouth opened too. He exhaled the essence of sweet whiskey. She swallowed, feeling it warm her all the way down to where her stomach seemed to have drifted, heavy, throbbing in a foreign place deep within her.

  Like a dedicated cartographer, her lips pressed, brushed, and traced. Still, it was not enough. Her tongue followed the same route, earning another rasp from him. Unable to hide the pleasure that the sound gave her, she smiled against his lips. She liked kissing Everhart, more than she’d ever imagined. And she had imagined . . .

  Then he moved, drawing her closer. His tongue delved beyond the boundaries of her lips and into her mouth. A sound that was neither rasp nor moan but something in between rose from her throat. Reflexively, she lifted her outer leg and turned, draping it over his. Half lying on top of him, her hands opened against his chest and closed over his waistcoat. This is mine, she thought. This waistcoat. This kiss. This man. All . . . mine.

  The powerful need to possess him startled her. She began to pull back, only to have him follow and coax her into the kiss once again. She went willingly.

  Her leg glided wantonly against his, earning a growl of approval from him. His skillful hands answered her entreaty, sliding over her back, along her sides, until they drifted up along her rib cage to map out the twin islands of her breasts. Her back arched in supplication, offering her breasts into the care of his hands.

  “If you are not seducing me,” she whispered agai
nst his lips, “then what are you doing with your hands?”

  “I’m merely following the siren call of your body.” He scraped the short nails of his thumbs across both of her nipples, eliciting a shock of pure pleasure.

  A quake traversed her entire being. It pulsed in the air around her, coming out on a gasp. She let her head fall back when he did it once more. A debutante would certainly be scandalized, not only by his actions but by her own response. How many novels had warned her about the follies of a young woman taken unawares?

  As for Calliope, she was neither young nor unaware. In fact, she was all too aware of everything she felt in this moment—the taut aching of her breasts, the tingles covering her heated flesh, the immodest pressure of his thigh between hers.

  She never wanted it to stop. “For a man named after an angel, you have very wicked hands.”

  He lifted her higher, his lips against her jaw, her throat, nipping her clavicle. “Imagine what I could do with my mouth.”

  Hmm . . . “I’m certain I shouldn’t.”

  He lowered her a fraction, sliding her body along the firmness of his thigh, and kissed her once more. “But you already have. I can see it in your gaze.”

  The clock below started to chime, reminding her of the person she’d been just an hour before when her foot first touched that bottom tread. “It is midnight already?”

  “I don’t care if it is,” he said, his wicked, greedy mouth following the line of her shoulder, where he’d pulled one side of her gown free, taking with it the tapes of her stays and petticoat.

  “My maid will wonder where I am.” But Calliope didn’t really care either. She was inside a book—her own story now. Each turn of the page brought new adventures, new sensations she’d never before experienced.

  “Let her wonder.”

  Yes, the heroine of her own story said. Let her wonder. On the verge of fainting, her inner narrator fanned herself.

  Still, for propriety’s sake, she said, “I could not compromise you in such a manner.”