A Rake's Midnight Kiss (20 page)

“Christopher.”

She ceased wriggling and stared at him aghast. “I can’t call you Christopher.”

He still smiled. “Of course you can. Three syllables. Nice English name. ‘Chris-to-pher.’ Say it after me.”

Her brief charity with the bumptious Mr. Evans evaporated. How she wished she’d shot him when she had the chance. “I don’t want to call you Christopher. I don’t want to call you anything but someone who has left the neighborhood.”

He winced dramatically. “Cruel.”

She lowered her voice and injected all her outrage into her tone. “If you don’t let me go, I’ll sneak into your room when you’re asleep and smother you with a pillow.”

Sensuality weighted his expression. He looked like he wanted to kiss her. What on earth would she do if he did? “If you come into my room, we’ll do something much jollier than murder.”

“Right now, murdering you offers enjoyment beyond my wildest dreams.”

His laugh held a hint of admiration. “Ghoulish wench.”

It was all too much. “Stop it,” she said in a shaking voice. “For pity’s sake, just stop.”

To her astonishment, he released her. “I’m not acting the gentleman.”

“You don’t say.” She rubbed her wrist. He hadn’t hurt her, but the delicate skin tingled with his touch. She was getting heartily tired of arrogant males manhandling her.

Mr. Evans tilted his hat, becoming the man of the world instead of the impetuous suitor. “I’ll escort you to the vicarage.”

“You really mean to dog my footsteps?” she asked sourly. “You’ll drive us both mad.”

He extended his arm and his smile held secrets she resisted exploring. “I’m a big boy. I can bear it.”

“I’m not sure I can.” Reluctantly she accepted his arm. Surely it was her imagination that with the contact, warmth radiated through her.

“Soon you won’t even notice I’m around.”

How she wished that was true. But while she scorned his lack of principle, she remained aware of his every breath. It was like some horrible fairy-tale curse. And the only person likely to kiss her awake was this flirtatious rapscallion with questionable motives.

Heaven help her.

E
arly the next morning, Richard waited in his carriage. The sunlight lent scant warmth and he appreciated his greatcoat. Although the coat provided merciful little protection from Genevieve’s icy stare when she stepped into the stable yard.

“Mr. Evans—”

“Good morning, Miss Barrett. We’ll have a fine trip to Oxford.”

In salute, he touched the handle of his whip to his hat. Truly, she was a sight to behold. She’d made an effort with her appearance and the dark green velvet pelisse and bonnet with its green ribbons were fiendishly becoming. Her ensemble might be a few seasons out of date, but he couldn’t imagine anyone criticizing the way it clung to her impressive curves, nor how the rich color turned her creamy skin to living satin. Especially with annoyance tingeing her cheeks with pink.

“
I’ll
have a fine trip to Oxford,” she said sharply. “I asked Williams to have the gig ready.”

“Williams and I had a word last night.”

Her lips tightened. Richard found her temper arousing. Although, he had to admit, he couldn’t think of much about Genevieve that didn’t make him as hot as a geyser. Even when she and her father pursued some hopelessly abstruse argument about medieval history, Richard couldn’t help imagining how she’d feel under him.

“You had no right to countermand my orders.”

Richard set the brake, although his horses were too well trained to bolt. He leaped down and extended his gloved hand. “I’ll take you to Oxford.”

As expected, that raised her hackles. She turned toward the barn. “Williams will harness the gig.”

“Then I’ll follow. Won’t that feel rather silly?”

“In that case, I won’t go.”

“Suits me,” he told her retreating back, trim in its green velvet. “I can guard you more easily here.”

She stopped without turning. Her voice vibrated resentment. “You are the most irritating man, Mr. Evans.”

“I am indeed, Miss Barrett.” He was a lost case. Even calling her Miss Barrett put him in the mood for bed sport. Perhaps because it sounded so prim and decorous, when he’d seen her naked. Still, he didn’t want to bicker for the next ten miles. “Are you so set on winning the point that you’d delay your appointment?”

Slowly she turned and her lips curved in a triumphant smile. “It’s inappropriate for us to spend the day alone together.”

He smiled back. Rare enough that she smiled at him. He wouldn’t carp at the reasons behind it. “I’ve had a care for your reputation.”

As though he’d been listening—he probably had, if Richard knew anything about eleven-year-old boys—young George Garson rushed from the stables. He bowed breathlessly to
Genevieve. “Good morning, Miss Barrett.” He jumped into the phaeton’s fold-down rear compartment. “I’m ready, Mr. Evans.”

“Where’s Sirius?” Surprise and exasperation warred in her face.

“Tied in the stables and not best pleased. But he can’t run all the way to Oxford and George has his seat.”

“Will the boy be safe?”

“Of course. I designed it myself, even sat in it once or twice before I risked Sirius.”

A tiny line appeared between Genevieve’s brows as she surveyed Richard, the natty carriage and George. “Does your mother know you’re away all day, George?”

The boy responded with a carefree grin. “Yes, miss. Mr. Evans promised her a crown, and a shilling for me besides.”

“Aren’t you lucky?”

“Will your pique deprive George of his shilling?” Richard adopted a deliberately pathetic expression.

Her scowl indicated that it failed to convince. “Pique is such a petty description for what I’m feeling,” she said sweetly, but she firmed her grip on her satchel and approached the carriage.

“If only you had a gun handy,” he murmured, taking her arm to steady her as she climbed into the vehicle.

He was a cad to notice how the movement ruffled her skirts to reveal a nicely turned ankle.

“How do you know I haven’t?” She sat and stroked the scuffed leather satchel with menacing intent.

“What about the Harmsworth Jewel?”

Genevieve cast him one of those glances under her lashes that hinted at secrets. “It’s safe.”

“And so shall you be, my lady.” He smiled at her and crossed to his side of the carriage. He settled beside her.
Surely it was fancy that her hip felt warm against his through several layers of clothing.

“Walk on,” he said to the horses. He directed the vehicle toward the village.

Genevieve turned in surprise. “This isn’t the way to Oxford. We should have gone left after the lane.”

The carriage rolled past the grim ruins of Derrick Abbey. The Cistercian foundation had been destroyed during the Reformation and while Genevieve had spent hours exploring the site, she’d never liked it.

“I’m taking the long way,” he said calmly.

“Hurrah!” George shouted over and over, waving madly to everyone.

Mr. Evans slowed the carriage and set the horses stepping high. Blast him. It became more and more difficult to dislike him.

On market day, the village was bustling and Genevieve caught smiles from the people who stopped to watch. Perhaps George wouldn’t meet the strictest standards as a chaperone, but she caught no hint of censure in the faces they bowled past.

George saved his loudest cheers for his widowed mother and three older sisters, gathered outside their cottage to see the man of the house in his glory. Mr. Evans raised his whip in greeting to the family, who could definitely use the money he paid for George’s company today. Genevieve noticed that all three girls blushed at the attention. Of course they did. Mr. Evans was a man who set women’s hearts aflutter. Even sensible women like Genevieve Barrett.

Except sitting beside a breathtakingly handsome man as he tooled a stylish vehicle past people she’d known most of her life, she didn’t feel like a sensible woman. She felt like
a princess. And she realized just how dangerous Mr. Evans could be when he set his mind to something.

The parade lasted mere minutes, even at the leisurely pace Mr. Evans set. Little Derrick was designated ‘little’ for good reason. Once they reached the outskirts, he turned the carriage toward Oxford and set out at a cracking rate.

Genevieve had never ridden in a high-perch phaeton. She thought she’d be terrified, but Mr. Evans was such a fine whip, the carriage proceeded with impressive smoothness. For the first few minutes, she clutched her seat for fear of overturning. He didn’t comment on her nervousness, but he cast her a sardonic glance when she finally ceased gasping at every bump.

“Go on, say it,” he said drily without shifting his attention from the road.

“Say what?” Her grip tightened on her satchel.

“That it was nonsensical to give George his moment in the sun.”

She lifted her chin and regarded him directly. “What makes you think I disapprove?”

“Your frown.” He paused. “And let’s face it, you rarely approve of what I do.”

“I thought it was rather wonderful and very kind.” She risked honesty. “You’re an odd man, Mr. Evans. Every time I think I understand you, you confound me.”

“There’s not much to understand,” he muttered.

She’d never seen him blush before. She studied him much as she’d study a historic document. Except Old English or Latin held no mysteries. And this man with his erratic generosity and concealed motives left her flummoxed. “You do yourself an injustice.”

Smiling secretly she turned to watch the scenery. She’d resented the way he’d commandeered her expedition. But the
moment she’d realized how he’d taken the trouble to please a small boy and his family, her heart had melted. He might be a liar and a flirt, but there was good in him somewhere. She’d wager the Harmsworth Jewel on it.

Genevieve concluded her meeting with Dr. Partridge more quickly than expected and on an encouraging note. After months of negotiations, he agreed to publish her paper under her name, despite her lack of formal qualifications. She had dates to send material for checking and printing. The whole project became concrete in a way that it hadn’t when she’d worked in her study.

She swung under the museum’s impressive portico with a jaunty step and excitement bubbling in her veins. Life offered possibilities. And justice after years of her father claiming her work. Not even the threats posed by Lord Neville and whoever targeted the vicarage spoiled her mood.

“You’re looking remarkably pleased with yourself.”

Slowly she turned to see Mr. Evans slouching against one of the Ionian columns. For a few marvelous moments, she’d forgotten Mr. Evans. His comment reminded her that just now, her life wasn’t an uncomplicated march to success, but a navigation through dark and complicated influences.

She struggled to cling to the happiness she’d felt when Dr. Partridge had extolled her painstaking scholarship. Soon, Mr. Evans would be gone. Her work was with her always. “Yes. It went well.”

He smiled and straightened to wander closer. His clothes were plain, but cut and worn with a dash that stood out, even here in cosmopolitan Oxford. “I’m glad.”

She sought but found no hidden meaning in his response. “Thank you.”

“Here, let me take that.”

“N—”

Too late. He slid her satchel from her arms with a smooth competence that reminded her how he’d disarmed her in her study. Right now, with the sun shining and Mr. Evans regarding her as if she was the prettiest girl in Oxford, she was surprisingly grateful that she hadn’t shot him.

He cast her a wry glance. “Relax. I promise I won’t run away with the jewel.”

The jewel was safe in her petticoat. She contented herself with a request to be careful with the bag.

He gestured with his gold-topped ebony cane. “It’s a fine day. Shall we walk?”

She frowned. “We should go home. I’ve finished my business.”

He was still smiling. She wished he wouldn’t. That smile played havoc with her common sense. He tucked his stick under his arm and extended an elbow. “Then it’s time for pleasure.”