The Elusive Lord Everhart: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series Read online

  That explained why she’d had the dream again. Although in truth, it was more a memory than a dream. The only difference was how it had really ended.

  When she’d refused Brightwell in Bath, Everhart had seized her for a waltz. After their dance, however, the intensity in his gaze had felt more like he was scolding her than any likelihood that he might have kissed her. His words, the only thing he’d said to her that evening, confirmed it. “You shed no tears over Brightwell.”

  At the time, she’d taken the full force of his censure and felt the first sting of tears that should have been for Brightwell instead of herself.

  Everhart had always been so affable with everyone else, but not with her. Perhaps it was because he’d felt his friend deserved someone better. It had been the truth, hadn’t it? Brightwell deserved someone who loved him. Someone who hadn’t been pining over a letter. Because of that, she’d borne Everhart’s reprimand, left the Randall ball, and promptly crumbled into tears.

  The memory of her foolishness still festered.

  Parting the bed curtains, she noted the warm glow of the embers in the hearth and surmised it was still hours until dawn. The sight awakened an irrepressible desire for toasted bread and warm tea. Her stomach rumbled. Pressing a hand to her middle, she knew it was no use. Sleep would evade her if she tried to reclaim it. She was still hungry from missing dinner. Perhaps if she slipped down to the kitchen . . . Then afterward, she would attempt sleep once more.

  Donning a wrapper over her soft flannel night rail, along with a pair of thick wool stockings, she left her chamber. In the hall, the sconces had all been doused, likely by Valentine. If not for the taper in her hand, she would have tripped over the large gray dog she’d met earlier in the map room. Sprawled out on the Persian runner outside her door, he merely lifted his head at the sound of her gasp, as if he was used to startling women in the dead of night.

  “Hullo, Boris Reginald James Brutus,” she said in the hopes of sounding more friendly than alarmed. Was it true that the scent of fear excited the appetites of large, beastly animals? If she were the lead character in her own novel, then she might very well need a dashing hero to stride down the hall and save her from harm.

  But the beast in question merely lowered his head to his paws, apparently bored by their brief exchange. One had to wonder how many women the rakes of Fallow Hall entertained to inspire such a bland response. Perhaps she didn’t need a hero after all, but someone who could figure out the dog’s name.

  Looking down at him, she recalled the name Everhart had used and decided he looked very much like an indifferent duke. “Hullo, Duke.”

  Since she didn’t expect a response, the quirk of his ears and thump of his tail caught her off guard. It wasn’t a complete victory in the name category, but he seemed to like it.

  Bending down, she gave him a scratch behind the ears, earning faster tail-thumps as her reward. “I don’t suppose you’d know the way to the kitchen.”

  Duke Boris Reginald James Brutus licked her hand and gradually assembled his large frame into a standing position atop his four saucer-sized paws. He took a few steps down the hall and then looked back at her, snuffing through his nostrils as if asking whether she planned to follow or stand there like a ninny.

  Beset by another rumble of her stomach and imagining a dog that size would know the precise location of the kitchen, Calliope followed.

  He headed down the curving main stairs, through the great hall, down a corridor, past the drawing room, and around a series of corners until he suddenly stopped in front of a familiar set of French doors. The map room.

  “This isn’t the kitchen,” she scolded quietly.

  Unconcerned, Duke sank down onto the floor, forming a rather large, dog-shaped, lumpy gray puddle. She had a mind to come up with her own name for him. Something far less noble to serve as a punishment for elevating her hopes.

  Pressing one hand to her stomach and contemplating which direction the kitchen would likely be, she let out a sigh—and promptly blew out her own candle. Then, she let out a second sigh because of her own stupidity.

  Now, she was completely immersed in darkness. Even down on the main floor, the wall sconces had been extinguished. Not to mention, the odds of finding flint and steel in an unfamiliar house without tripping over something first was remote at best.

  “Perhaps I should name you Prometheus and see if you can light this taper for me.” She glared down to the floor where she’d last seen the dog. That was when she noticed a faint glow, radiating through the gap beneath the bottom of the doors to the map room. If there was light, she thought, then there was a hearth fire enough for her wick.

  But just as she gripped the knob, it went stiff in her grasp.

  Suddenly the door swung inward, pulling her along with it. Too startled to make a sound, she tumbled forward—or nearly did. An instant before she fell to her knees, a pair of strong, warm hands caught her by the shoulders.

  “Thank you. I—Everhart!”

  His stunned expression matched the abrupt stillness that moved through her.

  Like that moment at the Randall ball, her heart and lungs seized when her gaze collided with his. She was trapped, mouth agape, unblinking. And standing far too close for propriety’s sake.

  Of course, it went beyond mentioning that unmarried women wearing nightclothes, thickly made or not, should never visit a gentleman in a secluded part of a dark house. Especially not a reputed seducer. One who’d abandoned his coat and cravat, no less. The dusting of fine golden hair emerging from the open neck of his shirt served as a potent reminder of this fact.

  She swallowed. “At this hour, I never imagined that you . . . In fact, I thought the house was . . . You see, I was hungry . . . But the dog . . . And then the candle . . . So I came in here to light it,” she explained in one breath, exhaling the last of her air. It was quite possible she would faint next.

  Calliope had never fainted before. Doing so would be a novel experience. Everhart was already holding her; therefore, she wouldn’t crash to the floor. In addition, if she fainted now, then she wouldn’t have to endure any reproach for disturbing him, or for being out of bed in the dark, or for any number of reasons.

  Unfortunately, it appeared as though she wasn’t going to faint. She distinctly felt her heart start beating again, albeit wildly. Her lungs filled, emptied, and filled again.

  Yet, Everhart still held her. Although his large hands had slid an inch or two lower. The tips of his fingers curled around to the underside of her arms, where she was certain no man had ever touched her before. That sensitive, undisturbed part of her tingled with awareness, just shy of tickling. His thumbs grazed her in tiny circles, as if he were worrying a coin-sized mark through the soft cotton.

  “That still does not explain why you are here in Fallow Hall, bewitching both man and beast in the wee hours of the morning,” Everhart said with the hoarse gruffness she’d come to expect from him. What she did not expect was the way his gaze shifted to her mouth.

  She blinked. He was impossibly close. His breath was sweetly scented with cloves and cinnamon as if he’d been drinking mulled wine. The firelight caught the growth of golden whiskers along his jaw, his chin, and lining the edge of his upper lip. A wild impulse to brush her fingertips over those short hairs rushed through her.

  She managed to tamp it down when she saw his lips compress in a line. Lifting her gaze to his, she noted the blue-green intensity had returned. He was either going to shake her or scold her. She wanted neither.

  Bewitching? Hardly. “I had no intention of doing so.”

  Everhart scrutinized her face quite thoroughly, as if searching for evidence to support his statement. “Your hair is down.”

  Unsteady from the oddness of this exchange, Calliope tilted her head, hoping to find understanding at this new viewpoint. She didn’t. However, she did note that his lashes were quite long, and darker too, like his brows. “The strands are rather fine and tend to escape their confi
nes.”

  “Like attracts like, or so they say.”

  She frowned, absorbing the meaning. “Are you suggesting that I’ve escaped my confines as well? I was not under the impression I was a captive here.”

  “Perhaps you should be,” he said, his voice softer, lower but no less accusatory. “You certainly shouldn’t be wandering the halls, disturbing those who would rather be sleeping.”

  She harrumphed. “I would happily leave you to your slumber, if you would unhand me.”

  “That I cannot do.” Unexpectedly, his lips spread into a slow, swoon-worthy grin—if one were inclined to swoon. She, however, was not. “You are holding me up.”

  “Oh.” She’d forgotten about his injury. Looking down, she saw that he was balanced on one leg, the other bent at the knee. Even standing like a wounded pirate captain at the helm of his ship did not detract from his virility.

  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 . . .

  The words from the letter suddenly thrummed through her heart. No, she said to herself. Absolutely not. She was not going to slip into another one of her daydreams while standing in front of Everhart. She could only bear so much humiliation.

  In a hurry to end their encounter, she turned to stand beside him and settled her arm around his lean waist. Ignoring the staggered look he cast down at her, she took a step, urging him forward. “Do not be alarmed, Everhart. I’m merely offering assistance, as I’ve learned to do for my father when he suffers a bout of weakness.”

  Yet even she knew that this was not the same. A quaking sensation trampled through her limbs. Which was not entirely unpleasant. Far from it. At the moment, she didn’t want to think about how overly familiar or inappropriate the gesture was, or how warm and solid Everhart felt pressed to her side. She only wanted to help him to the sofa and leave as quickly as possible.

  His acquiescence came by way of his arm draped over her shoulders. “Offering assistance? No, what you are doing is ensuring that I will not sleep at all this night.”

  Not even a word of gratitude. “Perhaps you are the one disturbing me and deserve the full blame.” She produced a believable huff of exasperation to let him understand that she was acting against her will. Mostly.

  “I think not.” He ground out the words.

  “You needn’t have opened the door with such force. In addition, I would not have stood there at all, had you not employed nefarious tactics.” The gall of him, standing in front of her with so much of his flesh exposed for her to admire. No matter how many novels she’d read, nothing could have prepared her for that.

  He chuckled, the sound rumbling from his body and through hers, eliciting all sorts of unwanted but enthralling sensations. “And what might those be?”

  “You know very well what they are.” She did not appreciate being the cause of his amusement when she was sacrificing her humility for his sake. They had been among the same circle of friends at one time, but apparently he’d forgotten. “Every nuance of your character heightens your reputation as a rake and seducer. I was merely startled at being a first-time recipient. Normally, I am singled out for your reproach, though you did manage to add enough of that as well.” Calliope nearly gasped at the boldness of her speech. Perhaps being on the shelf for so long had made her more brazen and less willing to leave matters unsaid.

  Everhart made no comment.

  The heat of a blush rose to her cheeks. “Never fear, Everhart, your resolve to detest me is still very much intact.”

  Gabriel held his breath. This torment went beyond the pale.

  Surely, this must be a dream that brought Calliope Croft to him. Any moment he would awaken to see the vast empty map room. The softness of her body pressed against his side, the subtle shifting of her supple breast with every step must be a fantasy created by his cruel mind. “Yes.”

  “Is that your only response?” She lifted her face, annoyance evident in the way her slender brows drew together. Her brown eyes glittered like moonlight across wet sand or, given her mood, more like lightning striking the shore. Dark golden waves of hair cascaded down from a center part in her hair and swayed like a curtain against her cheek. He was so tempted to lift those strands to his lips, to feel the softness and draw in her unique rosewater-and-mint fragrance, that his hand twitched. Fighting the impulse, he curled his hand into a fist and then nearly laughed aloud at the absurdity of his action.

  It had been five long years since he’d stood near her, let alone touched her. Did he actually think that the simple act of keeping his hand fisted would be enough to rein in his desire?

  He shook his head. “I do not detest you.”

  “It is fine with me, you know. I am a complete person with or without your approval.” She stopped as they neared the sofa and lowered her arm from around his waist.

  He’d always like that about her—the aura of completeness that surrounded her. She knew her own mind, her likes and dislikes, and hadn’t cowed to the influence of those around her. Part of him wished she’d married Brightwell—so that she was beyond his reach in a manner that would have put a stop to the incomprehensible yearning he’d once felt. And perhaps still did.

  “I did not plan to hurt your friend all those years ago,” she added suddenly, as if her thoughts were in alignment with his. What cruel joke would it be if they were always in line with his, even after all this time?

  Or perhaps that was fanciful thinking and the reason was because Brightwell—both in her refusal and Gabriel’s involvement—was always between them.

  “Surely even you can see that it has worked out the better for him in the end,” she continued. “I would not have made Brightwell happy.”

  The notion was preposterous. “And why wouldn’t you have made him happy?”

  “Because I did not love him.”

  The forthright simplicity of her statement irritated him, but he did not take any time to question the reason. “Perhaps you do not know what love is.” Love is agony, sacrifice, and seeing what you want but knowing you can’t have it. Knowing that there would be nothing left if you surrendered to it.

  “I have a deeper understanding of that emotion than you could ever comprehend,” she spat, her nostrils flaring. “And I’ve had quite enough of your censure for one evening.”

  Without thinking, he reached out to stop her from leaving. Once again, his hands encircled her upper arms, his fingertips nestled into her warmth. He couldn’t resist the barest caress. Odd, but even after five years it seemed impossible to be this close and not touch her.

  “First you accuse me of seduction, and now censure. Pray, which one is it, Miss Croft? For one cannot do both simultaneously.”

  “Are you sure of that?” she challenged, her chin jutting forward. “You’ve made no effort to conceal your state of undress since my arrival. I’m quite certain you are aware that my eyes are at the level of your exposed flesh. Therefore, I would be unable to avoid noting your obvious display of . . . masculinity.” She swallowed. “And—do correct me if I am mistaken—but are you not, even now, caressing my arms as you hold me close?”

  He was, bugger it all! And he wanted to do so much more. A keen, throbbing ache filled his entire body as he pulled her closer. He couldn’t seem to help himself.

  “A moment ago, I was assisting you to the sofa,” she continued, her voice no more than a breath against the open V of his shirt. “And now you’ve maneuvered me into your embrace again, all the while leveling me with the intensity in your gaze and the harshness of your tone. If anyone could manage both seduction and censure, then it is you.”

  He stared down at her, fighting the urge to kiss her with every ounce of his being. It was like trying to hoist the mast of a ship with a single finger. He strained to keep himself still and not lower his head even a fraction.

  If he kissed her now, he would never be free of her. His life would change fo
rever.

  If he kissed her right now, he wouldn’t be able to stop. Ever. That knowledge hit him like a blast of arctic water off the bow of a ship.

  “Miss Croft,” he began with surprising calm, while a sea of thwarted desire raged inside him. “Has anyone ever accused you of having an overactive imagination?”

  She blanched as if he’d thrown the words at her. Beneath his hands, he felt her tense. “Another perfect example of seduction and censure. Very good. You’ve managed to wound me while drawing me closer still.”

  His level of restraint grew weaker by the moment. “Perhaps there is no censure at all, but your own bad opinion of me that overshadows this encounter.”

  “It is not my opinion that needs alteration,” she said on a breath, her ripe bosom rising and falling, drawing unnecessary attention to her own state of undress and forcing him to imagine how easy it would be to remove so few clothes. “It matters not what we think of each other. I will be gone in mere hours. We can both keep what is ours—opinions, censure, and overactive imaginations—in separate houses.”

  “Do not forget to mention nefarious tactics of seduction.” To prove a point, and because he couldn’t resist the urge, he loosened his grasp of one arm without freeing her. In a slow caress, he trailed his fingertips along her shoulder toward her throat, lightly grazing the silken flesh exposed above the prim ruffled edge of her night rail. “Be warned. Should you enter my house again, I cannot be held responsible for my actions.”

  Lifting her hands between their bodies, she settled them atop his chest. Cool on contact, he felt a wayward need to warm them, to chafe them between his own hands.

  “Nor I,” she said with a shove as she stepped out of his embrace before turning on her heel.

  Taken off guard, he lost his footing and fell backward onto the edge of the sofa. His splinted leg shot out and nicked the edge of the low table. Pain knifed through him as he hissed through his teeth. Wincing, he looked up to see if she would look back with concern.