“Brightwell, you’ve made me the happiest of women. If you weren’t married to my cousin, I’d kiss you.”
The sound of a low growl from the parlor doorway drew her attention.
“And if you so much as return the sentiment, Brightwell,” Everhart growled again, “I will kill you in a field of honor this very morning.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Gabriel’s hand squeezed the fragile stems in his grasp. Before he realized it, the bouquet of lilies of the valley collapsed over his fist, lifeless. The remains of a red ribbon dangled over his fingers. Unfortunately, he’d left his walking stick—along with his hat, coat, and gloves—with the butler, or else he’d have been armed with a silver-tipped spear and fully capable of wielding it directly through Brightwell’s heart.
“Everhart, there’s hardly a need for threats,” Calliope stated. She set her hands on her hips—which was fine with him, as long as her hands stayed far from Brightwell. “And just look at the violence you wreaked on those poor flowers. I certainly hope they weren’t meant to be an offering of any kind.”
Gabriel’s gaze sharpened on her. How dare she sound so merry and cheeky when his every moment apart from her had been utter misery!
Her eyes were bright, her cheeks glowing . . . and a moment ago, she’d nearly been in Brightwell’s embrace. Fortunately for Brightwell, Gabriel noticed that the chap had sense enough to keep his hands clutching the brim of the gray top hat. That hat may have saved Brightwell’s life. But not the flowers.
Glancing at the sad bouquet, he looked for a place to set it down. That was when he noticed that the parlor was filled with lilies of the valley. Small clay pots and colorful vases adorned every table. The room was fairly bursting with tiny white bells.
When his gaze met hers, a shared memory passed between them.
“As you can see,” Calliope said softly, “we’ve had an abundance of lilies of the valley in the past week. The gardener has never seen the like.”
She skirted past the sofa and stopped in front of him, standing on one side of the threshold with him on the other. Her gaze flitted across his, uncertain. Then, with tender care, she reached for the blossoms, her bare fingertips brushing his, lingering.
“Do you think you can salvage some of them?” he asked for her ears alone, his voice gruff with longing. It had been three weeks since he’d seen her. Since he’d held her. Since she’d told him that she never would have chosen their story.
She lifted her lashes, her expression a mystery to him. “I hope so.”
“Well, all this talk of murder for the sake of honor has made me realize I haven’t broken my fast,” Brightwell announced, donning his hat. “Everhart, should you still require a meeting this morning, you know where I live. Just please don’t kill me before I’ve had a proper cup of tea.”
“Noted.” Gabriel inclined his head, not fully convinced that murder wasn’t necessary. “We are gentlemen, after all.”
Brightwell paused in the foyer. “Did you know . . . with that tone of voice, you sound remarkably like your father?” With a laugh, he tipped his hat, bid them good day, and left.
Gabriel was no longer bothered by such attempts to rile him. When the front door closed, he refocused all his attention on Calliope. “Tell me, does Brightwell often visit you before calling hours?”
“That depends on what you consider often.” She smirked as she walked to a table near the window and laid down the bouquet. Next to her was a copy of the Post.
He noted that it was open to reveal his confession. Stepping inside the room, he took in his surroundings. The exotic blend of colors reminded him of his travels. The flowers reminded him of his home.
Home. With the thought, he automatically moved toward Calliope, who busied herself with untying the ribbon and sorting through the stems.
Beside her, he leaned in and set his hand on the newspaper. Absently, he trailed his index finger over the words. “Read anything interesting?”
She kept to her task, offering an indifferent lift of her shoulders. “There’s a new exhibit at the museum.”
“Hmm . . . Is that all?” His face was only inches from hers. The morning light loved her skin. She truly did have a glow about her. It was remarkable. Captivating.
She looked up, not at him but at the paper. Her hands were still busy with those tiny white bells, pinching off broken stems and saving the rest. “There was one thing that drew my interest. A confession. I can only imagine what the author’s family would think. He is a viscount, after all.”
He imagined his grandmother would laugh—only in private, of course. To the rest of the ton, Grandmama’s severe expression would challenge anyone to speak on the matter. As for the estimable Duke of Heathcoat, Gabriel liked to imagine that he would feel a sense of kinship. He’d once been a man of great passions, after all.
Though none of that truly mattered. “It’s my guess that the author doesn’t care about what his family thinks,” Gabriel said. “He only cares about her.”
“You may be right.” She pursed her lips. “However, there was one very large error in the letter.”
“What error?” He slid the page toward him and read over the words carefully. When he didn’t see anything amiss the first time through, he read it again. The confession was put in exactly as he’d intended.
“It’s dreadful,” she said with a tsk. “Now that he’s admitted to writing all those other letters, he will be forced to marry one of the women he wooed with his prose.”
Gabriel’s attention returned to Calliope’s profile. He caught sight of a faint line above the ridge of her brow. If he didn’t know any better, he’d guess that beyond the teasing there was actual concern that he would be forced to marry another. “I do believe he only proposed to one woman.”
“Without proof, there’s really no way of knowing for certain,” she said, her shoulders stiff. “Now that he’s revealed himself, any of the unmarried women could lay claim to him.”
“But there is only one who has his proposal in writing.”
She let out a breath and a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Oh, but from what I heard, the letter was never signed.”
“Hmm . . . ” He reached into his pocket, withdrew the letter in question, and unfolded it. Nudging the lilies aside, he laid it on the table.
Calliope’s fingertips brushed his as she pointed to the missing bottom corner. “See? No signature.”
Gabriel reached into his pocket again and withdrew a slender leather pouch. He had her attention now. Slipping his hand inside, he first withdrew a rather scraggily red feather and set it on the table. Then he withdrew a polished green stone and placed it beside the feather. And then, carefully, he withdrew a small scrap of paper with a crescent-shaped edge. Like a puzzle piece, he fitted it to the bottom corner, complete with his signature.
Calliope’s hands flew to her mouth. Wide-eyed, she stared at the letter and then at him. “You’ve kept it, all this time?”
He nodded. “And this is the feather and the stone I found on the steps at Almack’s.” Refusing to wait a moment longer, he drew her into his embrace. “So you see, there really isn’t another woman who can lay claim to my heart. It’s only you. And it always has been.”
“I ought to write you a letter in return,” she said.
He pulled her closer. “And keep me waiting longer? No. Absolutely not.”
“Then I will tell you what I would write.” She rose up on her toes, linked her hands around his neck and kissed him. “My dearest Gabriel, I love you in more ways than I can ever express. Even before you wrote that beautiful letter, I was drawn to you. I want no sea to separate us. I want no more rocks between us—unless they are green. Please anchor your heart inside mine, where I will keep it safe. Always. Your siren, Calliope.”
Unable to contain his joy, he clutched her tightly to him and spun her around in a circle. “I will give you back each day of all the years we’ve lost because of my stupidity. You de
serve a long courtship.”
“Perhaps not a very long courtship.” She laughed, her eyes shining, before she whispered into his ear . . .
Hours later, Gabriel returned to the townhouse on Upper Brook Street.
Garnering a special license from the archbishop of Canterbury had been easier than he’d imagined. Of course, having the Duke of Heathcoat’s support had helped. And while his father may not have approved of the confession in the Post, or the need for a hasty wedding, he hadn’t been surprised either.
Gabriel had thought that confronting his father would have been the hardest part. Only now, standing in the Croft study, did he realize that the Duke of Heathcoat could take lessons in intimidation from Calliope’s father and brother.
“I should like your blessings, of course.” Gabriel swallowed. “But we will be married tomorrow morning.”
“A special license?” Griffin Croft bellowed. It was likely heard throughout all of London.
Gabriel held up a hand to ward off Griffin’s blow. He’d hoped that the reception would be less violent, but considering the circumstances, he understood. “Remember that day at Gentleman Jackson’s, when you’d said you owed me one?”
Croft hesitated. Then, begrudgingly, he lowered his hand. “One, Everhart. But she is my sister.”
“And my daughter.” George Croft’s hard fist collided with Gabriel’s jaw.
Gabriel landed, sprawled out on the floor. Looking up, George Croft stood over him. Only a moment ago, the man had been seated in his chair, looking frail. Now, he appeared larger than life.
Gabriel shook his head to clear it. Much to his regret, both father and son knew how to land a solid blow. Bending his leg, he rested his arm on his knee and worked his jaw back and forth. He deserved this, he knew. If a man had approached him with a special license for his daughter, then there would be hell to pay.
His daughter . . . Right this very instant, Calliope could be carrying his child.
Suddenly, he was far too content to feel pain. “My apologies, sir. I will do everything to keep your daughter happy all the days of her life.”
George Croft gave a sharp nod and then held out his hand to assist Gabriel off the floor. “Welcome to the family, son.”
EPILOGUE
Church bells rang merrily the following morning as Calliope and Gabriel settled into the carriage. She wore lilies of the valley in her hair. And he had a red feather and a green stone tucked into his pocket.
Her husband. Calliope smiled, beaming. She could not imagine greater happiness than what she felt in this moment.
Once the driver set off, Gabriel pulled her close and kissed her. “You are mine at last, siren.”
“I would argue the fact and state that, quite clearly, it is the other way around,” she teased. “However, I have cost you a pretty penny, indeed. You have lost the wager. Danvers’s and Montwood’s grins could not have been more smug.”
He tugged on a wayward lock of hair. “On the contrary, I have lost nothing. In fact, I’ve gained the only prize I’ve ever desired.”
“As much as I love you for saying that”—she placed her hand over his heart and pressed her lips to his—“I’m certain that your friends will not be satisfied with your reasons. They will want their winnings.”
“But who is to say that they will win? There are many months left in this year, and I now have you to help me.” Gabriel settled his hands at her waist and lifted her onto his lap.
She laughed and slipped her arms around his neck. “Nothing underhanded. I would prefer to help them find their perfect matches.”
“Whatever you say, my love.” He kissed her again, his mouth drifting below her jaw, along her throat, and then to the ribbon trim of her pale gold dress. “It is a good thing I ordered a closed carriage.”
She arched her neck, allowing him better access. “But we will arrive at our wedding breakfast in a minute or two.”
“I’ve asked the driver to take a tour of the park first. Unless you’d rather begin with breakfast.” He nudged her sleeve off one shoulder and . . .
Calliope gasped. “No, you are right. This is the perfect beginning.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to my Facebook peeps—April Shafer, Cara Ross, Kim Castillo, Lori Worthington, and Lynne Ernst—for helping give the “matchmaker” of this series his name.
Thank you to Chelsey and the spectacular Avon Impulse team for all your hard work, dedication, and a swoon-worthy cover.
Thank you to the romance community and the fans of historical romance, for all your love and support.
Vivienne Lorret’s steamy new series continues!
Keep reading for a sneak peek at the next book in her
Rakes of Fallow Hall series
THE DEVILISH MR. DANVERS
Coming April 2015 from Avon Impulse.
An Excerpt From
THE DEVILISH MR. DANVERS
When Hedley Sinclair inherits Greyson Park, she finally has a chance at a real life. The only person standing in her way is Rafe Danvers, her handsome neighbor who also claims ownership over the crumbling estate. Rafe is determined to take back what’s his—even it means being a bit devilish. Knowing the stipulations of her inheritance, he decides to find her a husband. The only problem is, he can’t seem to stop seducing her. In fact, he can’t seem to stop falling in love with her.
“A young woman in society usually flirts when given the opportunity.”
How was she supposed to flirt when she could barely think? Rafe stood close enough that she could feel the alluring heat rising from his body. Hedley drew in a breath in an effort to think of a response. When she did, however, her nostrils filled with a pleasant scent that only made her want to draw in another breath. It was his fragrance. From their previous encounter, she recognized the woodsy essence and a trace of sweet smoke.
Hedley caught herself rocking onto the balls of her feet to get closer, but then quickly rocked back to her heels. She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “I am not in society. Nor am I likely to be. Therefore, I have no reason to flirt.”
“You don’t need a reason.” He leaned in, his voice low. The angular cut of his side-whiskers seemed to direct her gaze toward his mouth. “Flirting is a skill. You use it to get what you want.”
Hedley forgot why she’d come here. To get what you want . . .
The more she stared at Rafe’s mouth, the heavier her eyelids seemed to weigh. Why was she suddenly so tired? Perhaps it was too early to pay a call. Or perhaps it was because he stood so close that his warmth blanketed her. It would only take a single step to rest her head against his shoulder. “Like a type of currency used in society?”
“An astute observation.” He grinned.
She was definitely out of her element. The least she could do was try to keep her wits about her. “Then, I should assume that you want something from me.”
He moved closer, but she dared not imagine that he was under the same trance. No, he was far too skilled in the ways of society for that.
Even so, the curve of his knuckles brushed her cheek. “What shade of pink do you suppose this is?”
“And that was a terrible change of topic.” Believing that he was speaking of one of the colored glass vases in the cabinet, she looked them over. She found deep red, the color of merlot; a blue vase, bright and clear as a summer sky; daffodil yellow, among other hues. Turning away from the cabinet, she lifted her gaze to his. “Besides, I see no pink.”
“No, this color. Here.” His thumb caressed her cheek, his fingers settling beneath her jaw.
Was it possible for a man to have eyelashes that looked as if they were smudged with soot, all soft and curled up at the ends? It didn’t seem possible to her. Yet that’s exactly what she saw as he studied her. Knowing that her skin had betrayed her thoughts in a blush should make her want to shy away. Yet she’d gone too long without being noticed to feel an ounce of shame. Instead, she reveled in the attentiveness of his gaze, the nearness
and warmth of his body, and the contact of his flesh to hers—even if it was a false show for him.
While not entirely certain that he expected her to answer, she indulged him. “Some roses are pink.”
“True.” He tilted her chin. Four thin, horizontal lines appeared above the bridge of his nose, as if he truly were studying her. “Though when I think of rosy pink, it is darker, redder than this.”
She tasted his breath on her lips. Other than their clumsy spill on the ice, this was the closest she’d ever been to a man. Heat poured from his body, sweeping over her, compelling her to draw nearer to the source. She couldn’t help it.
“Berries are sometimes pink,” she whispered, wondering if he could feel her breath as well.
He licked his lips. “Only unripe berries are pink, and you are a most decidedly ripe fruit, sweeting.”
The tone of his voice changed ever so slightly. The silky timbre turned deeper, indulgent, like slipping into a pair of warm velvet slippers.
She wanted to sink into that sound. “Pink carnations.”
“Yes. That’s it.” Abruptly, his hand slipped away. “A carnation pink blush, and berry-stained lips.”
Missing the contact, her chin tilted of its own accord. His gaze slowly dipped to her mouth. Whatever this game was, she wanted it to continue. “Was this a lesson in flirting, or is the color of actual importance?”
Abruptly, he stepped away from her and headed toward a tasseled bell-pull on the far wall. It was almost as if he suddenly wanted to put as much distance between them as possible.
She had her answer. He was only using flirting in order to gain something. The only thing she possessed that Rafe Danvers wanted, however, was not for sale. No matter how tempting the currency, she would not give him Greyson Park.
The Elusive Lord Everhart: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series Page 22
