The Elusive Lord Everhart: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series

  DEDICATION

  To my grandparents, my dad, my aunts and uncles, who shared stories around a harvest table each Sunday and taught me their craft. I love you all.

  EPIGRAPH

  “Love is three-quarters curiosity.”

  GIACOMO CASANOVA

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  An Excerpt from The Devilish Mr. Danvers

  About the Author

  By Vivienne Lorret

  An Excerpt from When Good Earls Go Bad by Megan Frampton

  An Excerpt from The Wedding Band by Cara Connelly

  An Excerpt from Riot by Jamie Shaw

  An Excerpt from Only In My Dreams by Darcy Burke

  An Excerpt from Sinful Rewards 1 by Cynthia Sax

  An Excerpt from Tempt the Night by Dixie Lee Brown

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  The end . . .

  Those words never failed to captivate Calliope Croft with their power.

  Holding back a sigh, she read the last page once more. Oh, perhaps twice. Then, she hugged the little book to her bosom, sending the story through the fur lining of her redingote and directly into her heart. The tale was over, and yet to her, the end signified a well-deserved beginning.

  With the thought, her gaze drifted across the carriage, past the snowy rolling hills of Lincolnshire beyond the window, to where her brother and his wife napped. They’d been married nearly six months now. An arm around his bride, Griffin rested a cheek atop her head, while Delaney nestled against his shoulder.

  If one ignored the fact that her brother snored like a bear and that her sister-in-law’s open mouth had formed a spot of drool on his greatcoat, the image they created was actually quite romantic.

  Calliope took complete credit for her brother’s state of matrimonial bliss. A smug grin flitted across her lips as she looked down to the couple’s joined hands.

  One day Griffin might even thank Calliope for having abandoned Delaney during a summer storm in an effort to hurry along their endless courtship. After all, some trials must be borne for the sake of a perfect ending—as every great romantic novel had taught her.

  Unfortunately, real-life happily ever afters were far too rare.

  After a final quixotic squeeze, Calliope placed the book inside her satchel. Somehow, her gloved finger caught against the hidden pouch she’d sewn into the lining. For a moment, she went still. Did she dare reach inside?

  Just once more, she promised.

  Then again, Calliope always told herself it would only be once more. After five years of keeping this secret, she was ashamed of how many once mores there had been.

  Her heart quickened. The rapid pounding in her ears was loud enough to awaken Endymion from eternal slumber. Worried her brother and his wife could hear it too, she cast a surreptitious glance across the carriage.

  Still asleep. Good. It was safe to indulge just once more . . .

  Taking a sip of air, she quietly lifted her treasure out of the satchel. Then carefully, she unfolded the thin, yellowed parchment that was so well loved it resembled a square of tea-stained linen.

  My love,

  I am wrecked!

  How can a single glance wield such power? Oh, but not even a glance—for you were turned away at first and all I saw were dark honey tresses spilling down the elegant curve of your neck. They pressed the barest of kisses to your shoulders. My own lips tingled.

  Even though I did not know your name, there I stood, transfixed by a foreign sensation. In that moment, I was a voyager witnessing land after a lifetime at sea, and blind to the rocks jutting up between us. My only desire was to breech any distance in order to stand by your side. I longed to see you turn, lift your gaze to mine, and recognize the soul that had inexplicably crashed into yours.

  Alas, before the tide could draw me in, you bestowed your smile upon another. The beauty of your face, alight with gaiety, speared through me with the green saber of jealousy. And yet, as I drew ever closer, the sight anchored me as well. For in your gaze, I saw no passionate glow from within. Instead, standing before me was a creature who yearned for something more but kept her wish carefully concealed.

  We are the same, my love.

  And this is love—I am certain. Nothing less dare swim through my veins at the thought of you. I feel at once as an anchor would—solid and unyielding—but also tethered to your hand. You are the line, the vessel, the sea, and the light that guides me to the shore. Your name is now a song that lives inside my heart—the siren call that compels me to dash myself upon the rocks of matrimony. Yes, matrimony!

  This is no easy declaration. It would mean the end of this life. But to begin another with you—only you—would calm the churning sea within me.

  Look for me, dear siren. My love. Call me to your shores and we will be united forever.

  Yours irrevocably,

  Calliope let out a breath. Her heart always paused for two full beats when she reached the bottom of the page.

  In the place of his signature, the parchment had been ripped—either by accident or by design, she did not know. Frayed and browning from years of her fingers tracing that jagged crescent-shaped edge, she still wished she knew the name that had once been there.

  Oh, but what was the point of wishing? She could cover a meadow with the falling stars to which she’d whispered in the dark.

  In the end, wishing had not given her back the last five years of her life.

  When she’d first received the letter, she’d cast aside everything for him. She’d fallen in love with him—whoever he was—and all because of these words. They’d opened something inside her. It was as if the cover of her own book had lifted for the first time, rousing a story from the depths of her dreams.

  Tempted by the kind of passion she’d only read about in novels, she’d wanted to experience that kind of love with a desperation she still didn’t understand. Even now, her hands trembled as she refolded the letter and replaced it to the hidden pocket.

  In the same moment, Griffin stirred. His snore cut off abruptly.

  Calliope jerked her hand out of the satchel. Thankfully, her brother wasn’t paying attention to her and did not see. He shifted his hold on Delaney to peer out the window and rubbed a hand over the glass.

  “We are almost to Stampton,” he said quietly, without removing his gaze from the landscape. “Perhaps we should visit our cousin as we travel northward to Scotland. I received a letter from Aunt Augusta before we departed London, informing me that Pamela and Brightwell are at Fallow Hall.”

  Brightwell—her cousin’s new husband and the man that Calliope had refused five years ago because of that letter.

  Griffin waited. His gaze turned to Calliope. He was the only other person who’d known about the letter. Among
st tears and blubbering, she’d confided in him, confessing that she couldn’t possibly marry Brightwell when she loved someone else.

  And look how splendidly that turned out, Calliope’s inner narrator mocked.

  Offering a nod, Calliope encouraged Griffin to continue. She hoped it appeared as if she wasn’t bothered at all by the mention of Brightwell.

  “Apparently, Brightwell’s friends have recently taken up residence at Fallow Hall and offered the quietude of the country for Pamela’s . . . recuperation,” Griffin said with the arch of a speculative brow.

  Calliope remembered how Pamela had stayed in bed for over a fortnight because of a thistle in her finger. She hadn’t been able to lift a thing on her own, even with her uninjured hand. Often, Calliope imagined that Pamela believed herself born to be queen. Yet when no princes had courted her—or dukes, marquesses, earls, or viscounts—she’d settled for being the wife of a baron. Brightwell was of a nature to accommodate her every whim, so it truly was a perfect match. At least, for Pamela.

  Calliope’s lips pursed. “The carriage accident was over a month ago. Aunt Augusta assured mother that Pamela wasn’t injured.”

  “True. I have corresponded with her physician as well.” A curious smirk hid beneath Griffin’s stern expression. “And he states that she is well enough to return home once her mental faculties have returned.”

  Ah, now she understood the reason behind the smirk. Not only was Pamela used to being pampered, but she also was a bit scatterbrained.

  Calliope tried not to grin. “Had the physician been acquainted with our cousin before the accident?”

  “No.” His deadpan expression caused a giggle to bubble up her throat.

  “With enough inducement, I’m certain our cousin could remain wherever she was treated well . . . for a very long time.”

  “Yes,” Griffin said with a nod. “However, Aunt Augusta can no longer stay with her. According to her letter, there was a horrendous beast of a dog who abused her prized Pekinese abominably, forcing a hasty retreat to Springwood House.”

  Aunt Augusta had been known to exaggerate on occasion for the sake of spoiling all creatures in her charge. Therefore, Calliope wasn’t entirely certain this news warranted alarm. In fact, her aunt had once accused Calliope of abusing both Poppet and Lambkin when she’d refused to feed them the first bite of her tart.

  “Without her mother’s attention, it stands to reason that Pamela won’t stay much longer in Lincolnshire. There can be little amusement for her in a house with her husband and his friends.”

  “I’d come to the same conclusion,” Griffin said but with a trace of wariness in his tone.

  Unfortunately, Calliope understood the source. Her brother watched over every limb of their family tree. Even before it was assumed he would inherit the earldom from their great-uncle, Griffin had possessed an innate sense of protectiveness. Right now, if Calliope’s intuition was correct, he was battling between his duty to look in after their cousin and his desire to avoid causing Calliope distress.

  Even though Brightwell was likely an excellent spouse for her cousin, Calliope couldn’t help but think that he’d almost been her very own husband. Until that day in Bath five years ago when she’d said I cannot instead of I will.

  She often wondered if she’d made the right decision.

  Calliope drew in a breath and answered her brother’s unspoken question. “I haven’t seen Pamela since her wedding. It would only be right if we stopped by Fallow Hall while we are in Lincolnshire.”

  “If you are certain,” he said. When she gave him a firm nod, he continued. “Then we shall make our journey on the morrow and remain for only a few hours.”

  With that settled, he turned to press a kiss into Delaney’s auburn curls. “It is time to wake up, Mrs. Croft.”

  He whispered the words with such affection that Calliope blushed.

  Feeling like a voyeur, she pretended a sudden desire to check the state of the coals inside the brass foot warmer. No rise of warmth penetrated her Limerick gloves. Regardless, she lifted the lid only to find a bed of finely sifted ash. Closing the lid, she sat back. Then, adjusting the heavy woolen blanket over her lap, she reached for the fur muff on the seat beside her.

  Beyond the fogged carriage windows, heavy gray clouds shrouded the snow-covered countryside. The scenery should have appeared picturesque. Not bleak and desolate. But suddenly that was how she felt. Bleak, desolate . . . alone. In fact, if she were the lead character in one of the novels she read, she might expect castle ruins looming in the distance. Although, much the same, barren trees and scraggily shrubs marked the rutted landscape like scars along the Great North Road.

  Since the clusters of evergreens did not suit a bout of melancholy, she chose to ignore their beauty and wallow for a moment longer. Because if one thought about snow-laden boughs, one naturally thought of sleigh rides. And no one could be unhappy while whisking through the brisk winter air with snowflakes kissing one’s cheeks.

  Calliope’s sigh fogged up the glass, obscuring her view completely. Perhaps she never should have refused Brightwell’s proposal. She’d genuinely liked his company. When he’d begun to court her all those years ago, she’d known the likely outcome.

  Calliope blamed the letter. And perhaps her own somewhat overly romantic nature.

  She could have made a life with Brightwell. Instead, she’d let him slip through her fingers. She could have had a sleigh-ride partner for the rest of her life.

  If she were the lead character in her own novel, she would have found the man who’d stolen her heart in a letter, married him posthaste, and lived happily ever after.

  But sadly, her life hadn’t turned out that way. She never found the man who’d written the most beautiful letter in existence. She’d spent years looking for him, compiling a series of lists in a journal on every gentleman of the ton who fit the criteria, and even those who did not.

  In her opinion, her love-letter lover would possess:

  1. A poet’s soul.

  2. A passionate nature.

  3. An undisguised yearning in his gaze.

  4. An inclination to marry

  Or in the very least . . .

  5. Ink on his fingertips.

  She’d conducted surreptitious interviews with every dance partner, every sister, every maiden aunt and mother. Oddly enough, there had been numerous candidates, likely because she possessed a rather idealistic view of the world. Or at least, she had.

  Until her love-letter lover had written to someone else.

  When the first of the infamous Casanova letters appeared, her heart had broken. Other debutantes began receiving letters as well, six in all. While Calliope had kept hers a secret, the others had not. Their letters had been recited during calling hours with a great deal of sighs, fanning, and even a few swoons.

  Yet while the other letters lacked the transformative intensity that hers possessed, she knew—after seeing them with her own eyes and noting the distinctive lettering—they were all written by the same hand.

  That was when Calliope had realized that the ton’s Casanova was a glutton. A heart collector. Soon, it had become all too obvious that Calliope had been a fool for refusing Brightwell.

  She’d often wondered if—upon his closer inspection—the anonymous author had found her nose too wide, her brows too straight, her lips too plump, and her brown eyes too plain. To each of those flaws she would concede. She believed, however, that her forehead sloped nicely to the edge of her blonde hair, and her ears were not too small. Those self-redeeming qualities notwithstanding, the result had been the same.

  She’d been nothing special to him.

  After the soul-crushing realization took hold, she no longer entertained the notion of having a Season. The love in her heart had turned from sweet to bitter. Afraid of breaking that fragile organ again, she gave up on marriage.

  Now, five years later and on the shelf—a veritable spinster—she still wished to discover his identity.
But not to marry him.

  Absolutely not.

  Instead, she wanted to expose this cad to the entire ton and make him pay for all the hearts and promises he’d broken.

  Perhaps, one day, she would have the chance.

  Gabriel Ludlow, Viscount Everhart, collapsed against the cushions of the sofa and gritted his teeth. The splint around his lower leg was a damnable nuisance. A month had passed since he’d broken the bone above his ankle, and he wasn’t certain which bothered him more—the steady ache from the injury or the constant pinching from the cure.

  Damn, he needed another drink.

  Reaching forward to massage his leg between the slats of wood, Gabriel answered the challenge his friend had issued a moment ago. “Forget it, Montwood. Only a fool would wager against you. You have a peculiar way of winning when it suits you.”

  “Aye.” Rafe Danvers nodded, the firelight glancing off his dark, angular features. Lifting a finger away from the glass in his hand, he pointed to the man in question. “I’ve seen you at the tables too many times to gamble with you, as well.”

  Renowned for his charm, Lucan Montwood ignored their comments and tossed the cork from another bottle into the fire. Lying on the floor in front of the hearth, the lanky gray dog that had made his home here in recent weeks didn’t even flinch.

  Arching black brows over amber eyes, Montwood considered the label of a rather costly scotch. A slow, appreciative grin followed.

  Gabriel knew firsthand that it was costly. His own father, the estimable Duke of Heathcoat, had railed at him over the price. The tirade had expanded to encompass an entire life of imprudent choices. “A waywardness that is unbecoming to the heir of a dukedom.”

  No stranger to these lessons in castigation, Gabriel shouldn’t have been bothered. Yet his convenient deafness during these moments had abandoned him of late. He was actually starting to hear his father. Bugger it all.

  “Then in celebration of the departure of our most recent guest, I offer a toast—”

  “Thank the Lord that Brightwell’s mother-in-law left today,” Danvers interrupted.

  Montwood continued without missing a breath. “To Fallow Hall, where the rent is cheap and the friends are wealthy.”