A Rake's Midnight Kiss (5 page)

“How charming to see a lady at her sewing.”

Skeptically Genevieve glanced up. Mr. Evans leaned against the window frame, watching her. In his arms, that hussy Hecuba looked utterly enraptured.

“I like to keep busy, Mr. Evans.” She didn’t soften the edge in her voice. He needed to know that not every denizen of Little Derrick’s vicarage was ready to roll over and present a belly for scratching. However, the picture of lying before him begging for caresses was so vivid, her wayward color rose. She prayed he didn’t notice.

When he placed Hecuba on the floor, the cat regarded both humans with sulky displeasure before stalking away. He plucked the embroidery frame from Genevieve’s hold. She waited for some complimentary remark. For purposes that she hadn’t yet fathomed, the man seemed determined to charm.

A silence fell. Genevieve dared a glance. He maintained a scrupulously straight face.

“It’s a peony,” she said helpfully.

His mouth lengthened but, to give him credit, he didn’t laugh. “I… see that.”

“Really?” She retrieved her embroidery and inspected it closely. Even she, who knew what it was supposed to represent, had trouble discerning the subject.

Without invitation, Mr. Evans settled on the window seat. He crossed his arms over his chest and extended his long, booted legs across the faded rug. Surreptitiously she inched away.

“I believe you assist your father with his work.”

Unfortunately, he couldn’t have said anything more liable to annoy her. Her eyes narrowed and old grievances cramped her stomach. “I am most helpful, sir,” she said flatly.

The evening light through the window lay across his hair but caught no shine in the brown. Hecuba rubbed against his ankles, purring fit to explode. Catching Lord Neville’s
glower from across the room, Genevieve bent over her sewing. Surely he didn’t imagine she encouraged this decorative interloper. And even if he thought that, he had no right to censure her behavior.

“At Leighton Court last night, the vicar praised your abilities.”

“Are you surprised to hear of a woman using her brains?” she asked with a sweetness that would warn anyone who knew her.

He sighed and leveled a surprisingly perceptive regard upon her. “I have a nasty feeling that somewhere I’ve taken a wrong step with you, Miss Barrett.”

For a bristling moment, she stared into his face and wondered why she was so certain that he had ulterior motives.

“It hardly matters.” She should turn his comment aside. After all, he wasn’t likely to become a fixture in her life. Even if he lingered in the neighborhood, the vicarage’s fusty medievalists would soon bore him.

“If I’ve inadvertently offended, please accept my apologies.”

Curse him, he’d shifted closer and his arm draped along the windowsill behind her. She stiffened and, abandoning pride, slid toward the corner. “Mr. Evans, you are presumptuous.”

His lips twitched. “Miss Barrett, you are correct.”

“Pray be presumptuous at a greater distance.”

His laugh was low and attractive. “How can I argue when you’re armed?”

She realized that she brandished the needle like a miniature sword. Despite her annoyance, the scene’s absurdity struck her and she choked back a laugh. She stabbed the needle into a full-blown peony that sadly resembled a sunburned chicken. “You waste your attentions, sir.”

“I hate to think so,” he said with a soft intensity that had
her regarding him with little short of horror. Was that a challenge? And how on earth should she respond?

Luckily her father spoke. “Mr. Evans, Lord Neville wants to see that codex. Are you interested?”

The vicar’s question shattered the taut silence. Mr. Evans blinked as if emerging from a trance. She realized she’d been searching his face with as much attention as she gave a historical document.

He turned toward her father. “Of course, sir. Lead on.”

Without the gentlemen and Sirius, the parlor felt forlorn. As though Mr. Evans’s departure leached the light away. Genevieve glanced across to where her aunt stared into space, hands loose in her lap.

“What a lovely man,” she said dreamily.

Genevieve stifled a growl and stood to collect the teacups and place them onto the tray. “He thinks he is.”

Aunt Lucy’s stare was surprisingly acute. “Because he treated you like a woman and not some moldy book from your father’s library, you’ve taken against him.”

“Don’t be a henwit, Aunt. That kind of man flirts with any female in reach. Today that’s you, me, and Hecuba.”

Hearing her name, Hecuba curled around Genevieve’s ankles. “It’s too late to make amends, you minx.”

“I hope he’ll be a regular visitor,” her aunt said. “I worry that you’ll never find a man to marry.”

Shocked, Genevieve nearly dropped the tray. “Aunt! Don’t be absurd. Even if I liked Mr. Evans—and I don’t, he’s too conceited—I don’t want a husband. I’ve got my work.”

It was a familiar argument. Her aunt was a conventional woman and couldn’t bear for her niece to die a spinster. In Aunt Lucy’s eyes, any halfway eligible man who wandered into Genevieve’s vicinity was a likely match. She’d once even suggested Genevieve set her cap for Lord Neville. What
a nauseating thought. The man was at least twenty years too old, he was bullying and dictatorial, and his touch made her skin itch with revulsion.

“Work won’t keep you warm at night.” Aunt Lucy paused. “I suspect Mr. Evans would be very… warm.”

T
o Genevieve’s chagrin and Hecuba’s delight, Mr. Evans stayed for dinner. Carefully Genevieve watched for any disdain for their humble fare or the country hour of the meal. Obscurely it griped her more than any sneer would when the fellow expressed his pleasure with arrangements and tucked in with hearty appetite.

As usual, discussion focused on the vicar’s scholarly preoccupations. At present, he was obsessed with proving that the younger prince in the Tower had survived. While her father harangued an apparently fascinated Mr. Evans, Genevieve caught the disapproving arch of Lord Neville’s eyebrows. He’d also joined them and now sat beside her. Thank heavens, they had leg of mutton and there was plenty, although plans for using the leftovers for cottage pies faded with every mouthful.

“Do you intend to stay long in the neighborhood, Mr. Evans?” she asked when her father finally lifted his wineglass, allowing someone else to squeeze in a word.

Mr. Evans, on her father’s right beside her aunt, smiled
at Genevieve with practiced charm. She could imagine that smile had set countless female hearts fluttering. Unfortunately for Mr. Evans, Genevieve Barrett was made of sterner stuff. Or at least she wished she was.

“I hope so. I’m in the fortunate position of having leisure to follow my inclinations.” A mocking light in his eyes hinted that he guessed how his efforts to please irked her.

“You’re acquainted with Sedgemoor, I believe,” Lord Neville growled, slicing at his mutton as if it were Mr. Evans’s hide.

Genevieve could imagine how Mr. Evans’s friendship with Camden Rothermere grated on Lord Neville. Lord Neville might dismiss what he termed the fribbles and flibbertigibbets infesting London society, but she’d long ago recognized the pique behind his derision. His lordship wasn’t sparkling company and wouldn’t shine outside antiquarian circles. Even in scholarly circles, he earned respect more for his family and fortune than for his intellect. While he was far from a stupid man and he had a magnificent collection that she’d been privileged to work on, Lord Neville remained a dilettante.

Mr. Evans sipped the fine claret that Lord Neville supplied to her father and answered with a coolness that only emphasized his lordship’s churlishness. “We were at school together. I’m proud to call him my friend.”

“Where are your people, Mr. Evans?” Until now, Aunt Lucy had sat quietly. The price of sharing her brother’s roof was enduring arcane discussions that held no shred of interest for her. “Evans is a Welsh name, is it not?”

“My family is in Shropshire. Perhaps we were Welsh originally.” His voice warmed as he addressed her aunt.

“Wouldn’t an enthusiastic amateur historian investigate?” Genevieve had no idea what Mr. Evans hoped to gain
from his association with her father, but she’d wager every penny she had that he harbored no genuine interest in the Middle Ages.

Her question didn’t unsettle him. She reached the conclusion that Mr. Evans would retain his sangfroid standing naked between the French and English lines at Waterloo. While she’d never met a rake, something told her that Mr. Evans played the rake to perfection.

If he was a rake, perhaps he contemplated seduction. But surely she was beneath his touch and the only other female under thirty in the house was Dorcas. The idea of elegant Mr. Evans pursuing the scatterbrained maid tempted her to giggle into her gravy.

“I’m hoping your distinguished father will guide my research.”

“Hunting a noble ancestor?” Lord Neville scoffed, earning a frown from Aunt Lucy. “Some Welsh princeling?”

Mr. Evans’s affability didn’t falter. “We’re not a grand family.”

But wealthy with old money, Genevieve could tell. It wasn’t just that everything about him screamed expense. It was also his assurance, as though he found a welcome everywhere because of who he was. This man had never had cause to doubt himself.

“What about your wife, Mr. Evans?” Aunt Lucy asked with wide-eyed innocence.

Genevieve kicked her aunt under the table. Or at least that was the plan. Mr. Evans released a soft huff of surprise and shifted in his seat. Dear Lord. Now she’d demonstrated that she had the manners of a drunken cowherd. She must be as red as a tomato.

“Alas, I’m not married, Mrs. Warren. Perhaps I’ll discover some lovely ladies in Oxfordshire.” His lips curved in
pure devilment. “Of course, no ladies could be lovelier than the two sharing this table.”

“Sir, you flatter us,” Aunt Lucy simpered.

She’d been a pretty girl, the toast of Taunton. Much as Genevieve discounted Mr. Evans’s flummery, she couldn’t begrudge her aunt the chance to relive her youthful triumphs. The soldier she’d married had died within a year on the Peninsular campaign. Aunt Lucy was born to mother a brood of children and cosset a doting husband. Instead she’d landed up as companion to an eccentric, self-centered brother and his gawky daughter.

“Not at all, Mrs. Warren.” Mr. Evans raised his glass. “To my beautiful hostesses.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” her father interrupted with his usual insensitivity. “Lucinda’s too old for such flannel. Fifty if she’s a day.”

Genevieve bit back a remonstrance.

“True beauty knows no age,” Mr. Evans said firmly.

The flash of anger in his blue eyes mitigated Genevieve’s hostility, although it didn’t make her trust him any further. She still couldn’t work out why a man who looked ready to grace a royal banquet sat at her lowly table.

Richard enjoyed his evening more than expected, although meeting the beauteous Genevieve four days ago should have prepared him. The prospect of a leisurely flirtation while he convinced her to sell the Harmsworth Jewel became more appealing with each moment.

He even found the scholarly discussion interesting. At Oxford, he’d been an erratic student. Life had offered too many other amusements for a presentable young man of immense fortune. But apparently he’d picked up more in his history tutorials than he’d thought.

Dr. Barrett’s academic reputation was a puzzle. Before Richard embarked on this scheme, he’d read some of the vicar’s articles. They were clever and incisive, revealing a mind of breathtaking subtlety and imagination. After several hours in his company, none of those adjectives matched Richard’s impressions of Little Derrick’s vicar. Richard also picked up a trace of discord between the vicar and his daughter. Now, what in Hades was that all about? And how would it affect his plans?

Under cover of listening, he observed his companions. For an obscure country village, they were an intriguing lot. The aunt was charming and patently interested in forwarding his acquaintance with Genevieve. Lord Neville didn’t appreciate competition and bent more than one possessive glance at the oblivious girl. He wondered why Mrs. Warren didn’t promote that union. All the Fairbrothers were disgustingly wealthy, including this man’s nephew, the Marquess of Leath. Lord Neville was too old for the chit, but otherwise he’d make an enviable husband. Or so common sense insisted. Richard’s gut revolted at the idea of Genevieve’s beauty and spirit in thrall to the condescending rhinoceros.