Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02]

by My False Heart

  Focusing on the long, graceful turn of Evangeline’s neck, Elliot wanted, inexplicably, to press his lips to the warmth of her throat, to touch her ivory skin lightly—yes, just there—with his tongue and feel her pulse throb beneath it. Yes, he wanted to feel the warmth and life that surged within her, for, most assuredly, Evangeline Stone was alive. Despite her outward calm and deliberate reserve, Elliot was convinced the woman sheltered a passionate soul. Moreover, one could not lend life and passion to canvas as powerfully as this woman did without possessing a heart filled near to bursting with it.

  Good Lord. Soul? Heart? From what foolish recesses of his mind had such drivel been dredged? He simply wanted to seduce Evangeline Stone. Putting pretty names to his baser instincts made them no better than what they were. Damn right, he wanted her. Moreover, while wanting a woman was as common as an itch for Elliot, and about as easy to remedy, wanting a particular woman was a luxury he no longer allowed himself. In any event, the temptation was not Evangeline. It was this place. No, perhaps it was nothing more than the contrast with the cold despair that had been left to bear him company in the wake of another affair gone sour. It had to be caused by something; this sort of obsessive desire was appalling. But admittedly, Elliot had become painfully aware of his need last night in Evangeline’s dimly lit hallway, when she did not pull away from his grasp.

  Yes, that, too, was interesting. Until the very last moment, when she’d run for cover, Evangeline had held his gaze steadily as Elliot commenced his age-old routine of seduction. Within Elliot’s usual social circle, a little seduction along with a trinket or two could persuade almost any woman to overlook his hulking size, nasty disposition, and scandalous reputation. Indeed, within the demimonde, it was a routine that never failed to meet with success, and he had begun to suspect it might work on Evangeline.

  Elliot had watched intently as her breath quickened at his touch last night. It was an almost unmistakable sign, that. A bad one, too, perhaps. His folly in lingering in this house no longer had anything to do with his being tired, wet, and frustratingly lost in the rain-swept English countryside. It had everything to do with this hauntingly beautiful and damnably innocent woman.

  “Mr. Roberts?” Evangeline’s rich contralto voice brought him back to reality. “Would you kindly turn to the right just a trifle? Yes. Thank you.” She flashed Elliot just a hint of a smile and returned her eyes to the canvas.

  “Miss Stone?” He watched as Evangeline’s head jerked up, her brush poised halfway to her palette. Desire and uncertainty washed over him. “Yesterday afternoon, you said that you found me … striking. What, precisely, did you mean? Striking?”

  “Mr. Roberts, I am not at all sure I understand your—”

  “What I mean to ask is,” he interrupted bluntly, “was your remark intended as one of those backhanded compliments? Such as when one tells an exceedingly ugly woman that her face has great character?”

  A playful smile began to tug at Evangeline’s full mouth. “Indeed, your face does have great character, Mr. Roberts, and that is, after all, the most important thing. When I paint a really good portrait—one that comes from my heart—the subject’s character is what I paint.”

  At this explanation, Elliot inwardly shuddered. Certainly, he had no wish to view an artistic rendition of his character and couldn’t imagine Evangeline taking any pleasure in it, either. What would such a piece look like? A vast, gaping black hole? Or worse?

  As if she could read his thoughts, Evangeline’s gaze flicked up at him again. “Have a care, Mr. Roberts. I can tell a great deal about a man by simply studying his face, so I give you fair warning.”

  Elliot drew a deep breath and tried to keep his mouth shut, but his cold Scottish reserve seemed to melt in the presence of this woman. “Very well, Miss Stone, what do you see in my face?”

  Evangeline put down her brush and stared at him for a long moment as if she did not wish to answer. When at last she spoke, her words were soft yet precise. “Intelligence, certainly. The potential for goodness. Despair. Dissimulation. And … great anger, I think.”

  “I see,” he softly replied, suddenly no more eager than she to expound upon the subject. He felt a sudden urge to flee. Her perception was too disconcerting. But he could not tear himself away. “You did not answer my original question,” he said, trying to maintain a teasing voice.

  Eyes now focused on the canvas before her, Evangeline flushed slightly and refused to meet his gaze. “Mr. Roberts, I am quite certain that you are well aware of how unusually handsome you are, since innumerable women have no doubt told you so.”

  “Handsome? Perhaps a few women of my acquaintance have used that term,” he admitted grudgingly, “but gratuitous fawning can be motivated by some ugly and unpleasant things, can it not?”

  Evangeline’s eyes flicked up at him again as she dropped her brush neatly into a jar of solvent. Her rich voice was cool and steady. “Contrary, perhaps, to some of your past experiences, Mr. Roberts, my remarks are artistically, rather than economically or carnally, motivated.”

  “Touché,” he murmured softly, amazed at her audacity.

  “Your face is uncommon yet beautiful in a strong, stark way,” she continued dispassionately. “And it is far more pleasant for the artist when one’s subject is inherently beautiful, as you are. Then one feels no need to pretend.”

  “Pretend?”

  “Yes. That is to say, I need not paint superficially. I can be honest with my canvas without fear of the customer’s disappointment.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “Do you? I wonder. Tell me, Mr. Roberts, is this portrait really intended for your fiancée? I must admit, you seem more than a little indurate. Moreover, you have neither the look nor the demeanor of a man in love. And a man who goes to such trouble is, generally speaking, passionately so.”

  Elliot paused to consider carefully how best to respond to such extraordinary incisiveness. “How perceptive, Miss Stone. You have found me out.”

  “Indeed, Mr. Roberts, precisely what have I found out? I must say, it is not at all clear to me.”

  “My betrothal was … has been ended,” he responded slowly. That much, at least, was true.

  “I see. And yet here you are.”

  Elliot shrugged. “Well, I really did not intend to have my portrait painted. However, when I saw you, er, saw your work—”

  Evangeline’s brow furrowed. “Do you mean to say that you rode all the way to Wrotham-upon-Lea just to tell me—”

  “To—to where?” In his confusion, Elliot forgot his ruse. Good heavens, was he in the wrong damned village?

  Evangeline froze, her brush hung in mid-stroke. “To Wrotham-upon-Lea,” she repeated slowly and distinctly.

  “Yes. Yes, to be sure! To Wrotham-upon-Lea.” Elliot turned his palm upward in a gesture of apology. “Well, as it happens, I thought that a ride through the countryside might be pleasant—”

  “In the mud and the rain? Merely to tell me you didn’t want a portrait?”

  Caught in his first real lie, Elliot hesitated, beset by sudden guilt. It was a surprising reaction, and he was taken aback by the realization that he did not want to lie to Evangeline Stone. Nor, however, did he wish to tell her the truth. Something in the middle would have to suffice. Blandly, he smiled. Evangeline was still poised with a clean brush aloft. “Well, to be a trifle more honest, Miss Stone, I had other business in the area, and when I saw how beautiful you—your work was, I just couldn’t resist.”

  Evangeline blinked, then lowered her brush. “How odd!” was her only comment, and then she bent to resume her painting. For the better part of an hour, they continued thus, each watching the other, neither speaking a word. When at last Elliot felt his legs begin to grow numb, he rose and slowly began to stroll about the room, staring at but hardly seeing the paintings that hung on the walls.

  It was time. Time to go. Elliot could no longer postpone the inevitable, and the reasons he should leave were many, while
the reasons he had stayed bordered on the insane. Evangeline Stone saw far too much. And the ugly business with Antoinette remained, hanging over his head like a rusty blade. And as always, pressing business awaited him in town. Zoë awaited him as well, and it was long past time that he saw to her. He missed her, and in some way the children of Chatham Lodge made his loneliness and frustration all the more poignant when he thought of his daughter.

  Once he returned to Richmond from this pleasant diversion—and that was all it had been, a spontaneous, selfish, and ill-conceived diversion—he would immediately send a letter to Evangeline by private courier. He would enclose a cash payment for the commission and make some vague excuse for his inability to continue sitting for the portrait. That would be best for all concerned. Certainly, it was best for her. Indeed, a prompt and permanent disappearance was the only logical alternative left to him now that he had initiated this dratted mess.

  “Miss Stone,” he said quietly, still facing the wall, “I am afraid that I must take my leave. Not only have I imposed upon you far too long, but I have business to which I must attend.”

  He heard the clack of Evangeline’s brush as she put it down and the rustle of her skirts as she rose to pull the bell. Almost immediately, the sullen housemaid called Polly appeared at the door, and Evangeline gave orders to have Elliot’s mount brought around from the stables. Then she crossed the width of the room to join him by the broad south windows and tilted her head to look up at him. She seemed so small yet so vibrant, full of life and warmth. “I apologize,” she said softly, “for my tasteless remark about your paying me. It was not something a well-bred lady should say. But I was disturbed by your—your unwarranted self-deprecation.”

  In the brilliant sunlight, her blond hair was shot with glimmers of gold, and the blue of her eyes deepened to a rich shade of azure. A faint smear of white paint marred one otherwise perfect ivory cheekbone. He watched her as, almost uncertainly, Evangeline’s mouth curled into a serene yet alluring smile. “It has been a pleasure—no, a great pleasure—to begin painting you, Mr. Roberts,” she continued quietly, “and I hope that you really will return.”

  Elliot could not resist the urge to touch her. Slowly, he raised his hand and brushed his thumb back and forth across the oily smudge. “Paint,” he murmured, pulling out his handkerchief to wipe his hand clean. Elliot watched as her color heightened almost imperceptibly, enhancing her beauty. If I were an artist, Miss Stone, I would paint you, he wanted to say.

  But he did not. Elliot Armstrong was a great many things, none of them good and none of them remotely associated with life’s finer arts. His skills, such as they were, lay elsewhere, and they most assuredly should not be practiced on Evangeline Stone.

  At some point, Elliot had ceased to be fully aware that he was still staring into Evangeline’s eyes. “You will return, will you not?” she asked, her voice laced with doubt.

  She saw through him intuitively. She sensed his uncertainty. Elliot knew it, and he forced himself to smile. “Are you sure you want me to, Miss Stone, having now discerned but a few of my dark secrets?”

  Evangeline’s brows came together in confusion. “More than ever, as it happens,” she answered as if it were obvious. Slowly, they made their way through the house toward the door. For once, neither Bolton nor the housekeeper was anywhere to be seen. Indeed, the entire house seemed unusually empty. Evangeline retrieved his hat and gloves, handing them to him with what Elliot hoped was a measure of reluctance.

  Suddenly, all of his resolve gave way, collapsing onto the floor in a sinking, sliding heap. “When, Miss Stone?” he asked hollowly. “When shall I return?”

  Evangeline spoke without hesitation. “Next week? And plan to stay, if you can? The children greatly enjoyed your visit, and I hope you do not find them tedious. Until then, I must work on Leopold for Peter, but thereafter I would very much like to return my attentions to you.”

  Elliot bit back a rather impassioned response to that statement and merely nodded, curling his fingers hard into the fabric of his hat brim. “I shall return next week,” he agreed softly.

  Evangeline smiled. “Do you know, I rather like you, Elliot Roberts? Though you are a bit of an enigma—but that, of course, is something no true artist can resist.”

  She liked him? No, Miss Evangeline Stone surely would not like him, should she have the great misfortune to know him. Nevertheless, she liked Elliot Roberts well enough, and he was a fortunate man indeed. Again, Elliot found himself wondering what it would be like to be Mr. Roberts. It was odd, really, but Elliot was struck with the fact that the marquis of Rannoch rather wanted to be someone else. At what point had the deliberately mind-numbing whirlwind of debauchery ceased to bring him satisfaction? Or had it ever done? Elliot honestly did not know.

  His was an affluent lifestyle, of that there was no doubt. Elliot’s ruthless gaming sustained it, and his wealthy estates ensured it. Evangeline Stone was merely comfortable, yet here she stood, the very picture of domestic contentment. Furthermore, her extended family seemed blessed with all that was good and peaceful. The mere thought of leaving brought a jaded weariness pressing down upon him. Elliot stared at the gentle, elegant lines of Evangeline’s face and tried very hard to remember the last time he’d felt contentment. And then he tried with equal effort to remember a time when he had not felt angry.

  It was no use. The memories, if there were any, would not come to him. An untoward sound of frustration must have escaped his lips, for Evangeline took a sharp step backward, and it was then that Elliot realized that she’d been standing very close to him, his long black greatcoat laid in neat folds across her slender arm.

  He reached out to take it from her, then slowly lifted his gaze to hers. “Next week, Miss Stone,” he repeated softly. “Until then, I shall count the minutes.” Impulsively, he grasped her hand and pressed his lips to it, and as Elliot felt the heat of her skin against his mouth, he knew that without a doubt he would come to her again. And again. And again, until he was found out for the scoundrel that he was. Or until he dredged up enough courage or choked on enough guilt to tell her the truth and face the ugly, unbearable consequences. Rocked by this chilling realization, Elliot spun about and walked rapidly down the steps and into the drive.

  Evangeline watched him go, her mind caught in a whirling vortex of emotion. She stood in the doorway as Elliot mounted his horse with an easy, languid grace, throwing one long booted leg across the saddle and urging the big horse forward in a smooth, flowing motion. Then, reining the prancing chestnut into a tight circle, Elliot held her eyes briefly, smartly touched his hat, and cantered down the long drive in a spray of gravel. At the end of Chatham’s lane, horse and rider turned north toward Wrotham Ford, quickly disappearing from sight. Elliot did not look back again.

  Evangeline remained standing in the doorway, unaware that Winnie had slipped into the hall until she felt a warm, familiar arm circle her waist. Winnie sighed and pulled her close. “Oh, Lud, Evie. I saw how he kissed your hand! He’s perfect. Perfect for you. What ill luck that such a man should be already betrothed.”

  Evangeline heaved a sigh, too. “Well, Winnie, there’s the rub.”

  “Oh, my dear!” Winnie clasped her hand to her chest. “You’ve fallen for him, have you not?”

  “He isn’t betrothed.”

  Winnie’s hand flew to her mouth, and suddenly Evangeline found herself abruptly shoved into the library, the door thumping shut behind her.

  “What do you mean, not betrothed?” Winnie demanded, leaning back against the door. Her hands were splayed stubbornly against it as if she feared Evangeline might attempt to escape her interrogation.

  “Mr. Roberts’s engagement has been ended, Winnie,” answered Evangeline softly, dropping down into her usual chair. “That is all I can tell you.”

  Winnie came slowly away from the door and wrapped her arms uneasily around herself. She walked to the front window to stare pensively across the gardens. “Evie, a broken
engagement is all but unheard of. Did his fiancée cry off ?”

  Evangeline pressed her fingertips hard into her temples in a futile attempt to forestall an approaching headache. Winnie was right. A sickening uncertainty pressed down upon her. “I do not know, Winnie. He simply said it was ended.”

  Winnie turned from her place by the window and began to flit throughout the library in quick, anxious motions, pausing to straighten books that were not crooked and to rearrange ornaments that were not out of place. As she moved, she spoke softly. “My dear,” she began in the low, thoughtful tones she so effectively employed with upset children. It was her governess voice, Evangeline always thought. “Peter does trust me to look after your best interests, though why he thinks I might do so effectively is quite beyond me, for I am the feather-head and you are the sensible one.” She paused to fuss with a floral arrangement that was already perfect. “Nonetheless, I find nothing disagreeable in Mr. Roberts’s countenance, and I think we must accept what he says at face value.”

  Suddenly, Winnie ceased her flitting and turned to face Evangeline’s chair. “Indeed, Evie, he seemed quite charmed by you. He scarcely took his eyes from you throughout the whole of dinner last night. I vow, he’s as besotted as poor Stokely.”

  Evie dropped her hands into her lap. “Winnie, given my responsibilities here, I hardly think—”

  Unexpectedly, Winnie cut her off with a sharp toss of her tiny hand. “Oh, I know, I used to be your governess, and Peter depends upon me to lend countenance to your present situation, but dash it all, Evie, you aren’t getting any younger. Consider your future!”

  “That, dear friend, is precisely what I do consider! And Michael’s, as well. Oh, Winnie, the child is but eleven! What shall we do if my grandfather dies and they try to take Michael away from me?”