Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02] (16 page)

It made Evangeline simply stop breathing.

The surface of the water lapped teasingly just below the taut muscles of Elliot’s lower back. He was so close now, Evangeline could see the rivulets of water glisten as they ran down to hint at the slight curve of his buttocks. Awestruck, she watched as Elliot turned to almost face the copse of beech and hawthorn. He paused and, with an almost agonizing indolence, lifted his hands to wipe the water from his face, then raked his long fingers back through the unruly mass of too-long hair. The water skimmed low across his pelvis, accentuating the flat plane of his stomach and the dark line of damp, curling hair that ran from his chest and down his belly to disappear beneath the surface. To watch him was slow torture of the sweetest kind.

Then, just when she thought she might be able to breathe again, Elliot closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and lifted his elbows to wring the dampness from his hair. Hard chest muscles flexed as water ran down the taut cords of his neck, some of it trickling through the nest of dark chest hair, and lower still. Under the warm June sun, Elliot’s well-muscled arms glistened and rippled, sending something hot, urgent, and long dormant surging through her belly.

Fingertips pressed hard against her lips, Evangeline sank to her knees in the tender spring grass beneath the beeches. It was then, in that endless moment of heat and sun and water, that she fully acknowledged the magnitude of her desire for Elliot.

From the corner of one eye, Elliot caught a glimpse of dark blue fabric in the copse of trees beside the pond. He almost turned to stare, then froze in shock as he realized who it must be.
Evangeline
. Was it? Surely not. She was hardly the type of woman to spy on a group of naked men. Was she?

He saw the color again, a hint of dark blue fabric all but hidden in the lush foliage. It was Evangeline; he could feel her heated stare. Suddenly, Elliot felt possessed by the very demons he had thus far managed to keep leashed.
Miss Stone wants to watch
, whispered a dark, seductive voice. Slowly, he lifted his arms to run his fingers through his hair. With deliberate, leisurely motions, Elliot wrung the water from his hair, intentionally flexing the muscles of his chest and shoulders.

If it was her curiosity the lady sought to ease, Elliot was more than willing to oblige. Indeed, he would gladly show her anything she found to her liking; he only hoped he sent her scurrying away with a problem far more frustrating than simple curiosity. Perhaps she would then need him to oblige an urge of a different sort . . .

Suddenly, Elliot was horrified to realize that he had become a victim of his own seduction. At the mere thought of enticing Evangeline, of awakening her virginal ardor, an insidious, melting warmth had begun to uncoil low in his abdomen. In mortification, Elliot felt his shaft thicken and begin to rise up in the water. Good God, how humiliating! Flushing with embarrassment, he turned his back to the beech trees and waded deeper into the chilly pond, fervently hoping that Gus and the boys would keep their distance for a time.

For many days after returning to Richmond, the thought of how Evangeline had watched him haunted Elliot, making him feel confused and restless. When he slept, and it was difficult, she haunted his tempestuous dreams—wild imaginings of butter-yellow hair and eyes that burned him like a hot blue flame. Evangeline clung to him in these nocturnal fantasies, eager and yielding, her bare thighs slender and silken. Between the sheets of his imagination, they tumbled, wild and insatiable, hands and mouths pressed heatedly against each other until he awoke, often gasping for breath, in a tangle of linen.

“For heaven’s sake, hold still,” hissed Kemble in apparent aggravation. “One would think you wished to cease wearing cravats altogether.” With what felt like deliberate maliciousness, the valet drew the fine fabric another quarter inch tighter, then fashioned it into an elaborate, slightly embellished version of the
sentimentale
.

The final bow rested high beneath Elliot’s chin. “Feel like a bloody trussed-up Christmas goose,” muttered the marquis, thrusting out his arms for his embroidered waistcoat.

“What twaddle, my lord,” replied Kemble smugly as he slid the garment up over the marquis’s shoulders. “Indeed, that full effect would require corsets. Shall I oblige? Maurice can whip up something brutally painful in a trice.” The valet strolled around and began to fasten the buttons.

Elliot ran one long finger around his collar in an attempt to mitigate the damage. “With all due respect to Maurice’s skills, Kem, I sincerely hope I do not as yet require such artifice.”

Kemble swept an appraising glance over him. “No, indeed, my lord. Far from it,” he answered, his voice smooth and serious. He paused for a few seconds. “Who is she, my lord?” The question was interposed like a casual afterthought.

Elliot peered down at the smaller man, one brow crooked in deliberate arrogance. “Who is who?” he asked noncommittally.

“
Cherchez la femme
,” muttered Kemble, eyeing his employer suspiciously while giving a final tug on the waist coat. “Is that not what the French advise? And in this case, I am sure they must be quite right! You are always from home. You smoke like a bad chimney. You insist on wearing dreadful clothing and twitch as if you’ve contracted Saint Vitus’s dance on those rare occasions when I try to dress you properly—”

“Kem!” Elliot’s voice held a warning, but the valet was on a tear, pointing his elegant finger at the bed, its sheets a hopeless tangle.

“You sleep fitfully and at odd hours when you are here, and you almost never go to town. Moreover, Scotland cannot ferment that vile whisky fast enough to suit you.” Kemble drew a deep breath and concluded, “Only a lover can be the cause of such disruption to a well-ordered life.”

“Humph,” grunted Elliot, abruptly shoving his arms into the sleeves of the coat Kemble held open. He turned around for another set of buttons, absently thinking that his valet was too damn smart by half. “If you must know, Kem,
la femme
in question is an exceedingly nice young woman. She is beautiful, sensitive, and gifted. An artist, in fact.”

“And this goddess has deigned to keep company with
you?
” The valet looked up from his work, pausing in mid-button, his tone arch.

“Yes.”

“Of her own volition? Or have you locked her in the attic?” Kemble stared at him in all seriousness.

The question stung, and Elliot chose to ignore it. He knew that Kem did not mean to hurt him, and so he changed the subject. “What of your new tailor friend? Maurice, did you say?”

Kemble nodded, cheerful for once. “Ah, he’s in good looks these days, my lord! Busy, too, what with the season upon us. All the new fashions! Maurice says breeches are completely
démodé
, and trousers are now
de rigueur
in town. That is very good for business, of course.”

Elliot nodded, still tugging at his collar. His eyes flicked down at the valet in sympathy. “Why not take the evening off, Kem?” he suggested softly. “I imagine I can get myself out of this rig when the time comes. Besides, Hugh and I are off to the club. We’re to play a hand with Winthrop and Linden, and I shall doubtless be quite late.”

Kemble did not wait for a second offer. Elliot’s coat now fully buttoned, the valet darted through the room gathering up the marquis’s stick, hat, and gloves, then dashed out the door with nary another quip or question. Elliot was left standing alone in the center of his vast bedchamber. He cast another glance at the tousled bedcovers, then threw down his hat and gloves in despair. He was glad to be rid of Kem. He did not want to go to the club. Not with Hugh. Not with anyone. He did not want to play cards. Nor did he want to be alone in this desolate house.

What he wanted, damn it all, was Evangeline Stone. Yes, he wanted her with an agonizing desperation that was almost tangible.

But it just was not possible. Moreover, it was foolish. Had he not learned his lesson at an early age? It was not worth it. Far better he should simply rip his heart from his chest and toss it to Winthrop’s pack of rabid hounds. It would be quicker, and far less painful, than losing himself in another woman, for Elliot knew that despite his hardened resolve, were he to fall in love again, he would fall blindly, hopelessly, and irretrievably. It was his way, and he could not seem to alter the course. Already, he felt frighteningly near the precipice, mooning over another lost love as if the devastation of it might bring the spinning earth to a halt.

His first night back from Chatham, in an effort to dispel Evangeline’s tantalizing memory, Elliot had forced himself to go drinking and whoring with Lord Linden, telling himself that his problem was, simply put, the deleterious consequence of self-imposed celibacy. Since Antoinette’s last ugly tantrum, Elliot had been without a woman. It was perverse. Toward the end of their relationship, Elliot had found himself sick to death of his paramour’s increasingly heavy drinking and volatile moods. Yet Lily, the young actress whom Antoinette had quite accurately assumed was to become her replacement, had also ceased to hold his interest. Regrettably, upon careful consideration, the alternatives seemed no more appealing.

The cloying ways of the demimonde had grown tiresome, while the manipulations and machinations of the
ton’s
bored wives and widows were downright dangerous. He was tired of creeping in and out of assorted French windows, back doors, and service entrances just before cock crow. Moreover, on those rare occasions when his hearing failed him or he was otherwise too distracted, the aftermath was equally unpleasant. He had a scar on his arse to remind him. During the last ten years, Elliot had grown excessively weary of riding out at dawn to shoot and be shot at, over women who were, all too frequently, inadequate between the sheets.

Furthermore, he knew perfectly well what such women were about. These paragons of the
beau monde
, while all too willing to bed him in some vain attempt to lessen their ennui, ease their curiosity, or spite their husbands, would later arise—his scent, no doubt, lingering on their sheets—and very nearly trot across Bond Street to avoid having to cross his path and greet him in public. Some, like Jeanette, were worse. Contrary to all her feigned passion, she had sought nothing more than his seed. Jeanette had been anxious for a child, and any virile man, she had finally explained, would have done just as well.

Elliot suppressed a snort of disgust and rubbed the old wound. The manipulative vixen had used him, and perhaps that had been just as he deserved, for he had not cared for Jeanette. Indeed, he had not even liked her. But she had been beautiful, willing, and seemingly desperate for him. Unfortunately, her elderly husband, arriving home very early and very inebriated from White’s one evening, had not appreciated Elliot’s assistance in getting an heir on his young wife. Worse still, the man had not bothered to issue a challenge, which Elliot could have handled. Instead, he had taken a rather shaky but moderately successful aim out Jeanette’s bedchamber window, lodging a ball of lead somewhat south of Elliot’s black heart.

It was a sennight before Elliot could sit down with any measure of comfort. Since Lord Stephen was known to be an aging pantywaist, as well as a notoriously bad shot, the entire affair had been widely whispered about as something of a joke. The powerful family matriarch had not, however, seen any humor in the situation. Come hell, high water, or, in this case, lascivious scandal, her unwavering plan required Lord Stephen to carry on the family tradition of wielding parliamentary clout and leverage among the most resolute members of the Tory aristocracy. In retaliation for their antics, Lord Stephen’s stepmother had suspended Jeanette’s allowance and forced the hapless couple into rustication, as if they were nothing more than recalcitrant children. Wisely, however, the old lady had stopped short of maligning the marquis of Rannoch, who was both richer and meaner. Elliot had been almost disappointed.

It should have come as no surprise, therefore, that last night’s sinful foray with Linden had been an unmitigated disaster. The women had been forward and fawning, and the drinking, rather than serving as his consolation, had instead left him despondent. There would be, it seemed, no peace for Elliot Armstrong. Hell, maybe he didn’t deserve any. Maybe Evangeline Stone was nothing more than a just punishment for his worldly sins, a celestial enchantress sent down to inflict his remaining days on earth with regret and torment. What, then, would perdition be like, he wondered?

Slowly, he inhaled a deep, ragged breath and walked to the tray holding his whisky decanter to try again. He jerked out the stopper with a scrape, sloshed three fingers into a glass, then pressed the chilly crystal surface to his temple. It felt cool and soothing against his throbbing pulse. Holding it thus, he walked to the window and stared down at the Thames, still visible in the dying light of the summer’s evening.

He stared across the water toward Houndslow, watching mindlessly as, up and down the river, the last of the day’s boats put to shore on the north bank, leaving the river empty and forlorn. Vast. Desolate. Pensively, he sipped at the whisky, rolling it over his tongue and trying to take some pleasure from the smooth, woody burn as it washed down his throat.

It was no use. Absently, he set the glass down inside the deep windowsill and leaned his head forward until it rested against a cool pane of glass. Yes, he would go to Brooks’s to gamble and to drink and to look for trouble if he could find it. Yet trouble, like satisfaction, seemed ever more elusive these days. Indeed, even trouble seemed to stare suspiciously over its shoulder and walk a wide, cautious circle around him.