Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02] (5 page)

“Quiet, please!” called Miss Stone sharply over the din. “We are inundating our guest with people whose names he cannot possibly remember. Let us not add confusion and quarreling to the mayhem just yet!”

“Indeed,” murmured Winnie Weyden in agreement. “There are far too many of us!”

“Mrs. Penworthy,” directed Evangeline, “please show Mr. Roberts to the Tower Room. Frederica,” she said, looking at her little cousin, “go tell Cook there shall be nine to dinner. Michael, find Polly and tell her to prepare hot water for Mr. Roberts’s bath, for he’s been soaked to the skin.”

As Miss Stone’s young brother trotted off to do her bidding, Elliot opened his mouth to protest, but his hostess was still issuing orders while the people who filled the hallway stood at attention. For a moment, the directives seemed out of place coming from such a pretty, delicate thing, and it struck him that Evangeline Stone was a woman of great contrasts. Looks could, indeed, be deceiving, for there was apparently nothing delicate about her.

“And Bolton shall see to the brushing of your jacket and trousers, Mr. Roberts. Now, Gussie,” Evangeline continued, turning her gaze firmly upon the elder Weyden son, “go to the stables and tell Hurst he’s to stable Mr. Roberts’s horse for the night.”

“Oh, Evie! It’s pouring!” whined the young man pitifully.

“Then shut your mouth, Gus, and you shan’t drown,” replied Miss Stone firmly. “Now, Theo,” she said, turning her attentions to the younger Weyden boy, “finish cleaning the broken glass in the drawing room. And where is Nicolette? What has become of my sister?”

“Here,” said a soft voice from the drawing-room door. A beautiful young woman who looked very like Miss Stone darted into the crowded hall.

“Nicolette, I’m finished painting for the day. Will you clean brushes for me?” asked Miss Stone, and the girl nodded. “Later, we shall begin work on pigments for tomorrow, since Mr. Roberts has agreed to stay the night.”

Elliot was just about to point out that he’d agreed to no such thing when he was struck by two dissimilar thoughts. The first was that one did not easily disagree with Evangeline Stone’s instructions, and the second, even more surprising thought was that he really had no wish to disagree with her. Indeed, it was pleasant to have someone see so efficiently to his comforts—a bath, clean clothes, a warm meal, and good company. Someone who was not even being paid to do so.

After all was carefully considered, Elliot could think of nothing he’d rather do than spend the evening enjoying the odd companionship of this very large, very strange family.

Just for tonight
, whispered the devil. What could be the harm?

True it is, she had one failing; had ae woman ever less?

—R
OBERT
B
URNS

D
espite her outward calm, Evangeline watched with unsettled emotions as, one by one, the crowd trundled down the thickly carpeted hall to do her bidding. The housekeeper, still rattling on about the dreadful health hazards of damp weather, was slowly leading a rather dazed Mr. Roberts up the front staircase, and Bolton, the butler, had made an expedient escape to the warmth of the kitchen.

Beside her, Winnie Weyden gave a deep sigh of feminine satisfaction. “Oh, Lud!” she whispered. “What a charming, handsome man!” By far the shorter of the two, Winnie tugged on Evangeline’s sleeve. “Do you not find him handsome, Evie? I vow, he puts me so very much in mind of my dear Hans.”

“Winnie, every stunning looker over six feet puts you in mind of Hans,” interposed Evangeline with feigned disinterest, remembering all too well what she had felt upon seeing—truly seeing—Elliot Roberts for the first time. Holding his chin in her hand and letting her normally impartial artist’s eye roam across his hard, strong-boned face, Evangeline had felt a sudden knifing heat and a disturbing, inexplicable sense of intimacy. And he
was
handsome, Evangeline had to admit. Not classically beautiful but darkly seductive, in a fascinating, rugged way. Even now, watching his long, booted legs as he strode effortlessly around the final turn of the staircase, Evangeline could still feel the sensation of vibrant energy beneath her fingers as she had laced them tightly about his arm.

Good Lord, whatever had possessed her to clutch at him so? And why had he, a virtual stranger, looked back at her with such sudden and unsettling intensity? Evangeline had spent just over an hour alone with him, studying and sketching and . . . yes, enjoying the enthralling shadows and angles of his extraordinary face, and every moment had been an unexpected test of her artistic detachment. Not to mention her composure.

He had undoubtedly thought her serene, perhaps even distant, for such had been her intention. And yet, when she had laid her hand upon his arm, he had responded to her with a look so intimate and so unexpectedly penetrating that Evangeline had been almost frightened to return his gaze. But return it she had, and in it she had seen shock and warmth and something more.
Need?
Yes, for the briefest of moments, she had looked up into those stunningly clear gray eyes and had glimpsed a need that had very nearly mirrored her own.

But no, that simply could not be. She was perilously close to making an utter cake of herself, while Mr. Roberts was simply a client, a pleasant, handsome London gentleman who intended to gift the woman he hoped to wed with a betrothal portrait. Heat? Need? Intensity? What fanciful ideas she was beginning to have! And at a time when she could least afford them, too.

Winnie Weyden made a vague pout and, taking her friend by the arm, pulled her gently into the library. “Oh, Evie! Must you spoil a poor widow’s fantasies with your cool realism?”

Evangeline suppressed a sharp, bitter laugh at her companion’s misjudgment. Determined to maintain at least the semblance of composure, Evangeline collapsed into a chair by the hearth and watched as her best friend and former governess withdrew to a nearby table and poured two glasses of wine.

Deliberately, Evangeline shot her friend a teasing smile. “May I remind you, dear Winnie, that Mr. Roberts is not yet wed? Why do you not wear your red dress to dinner? The one with the bodice cut down to here”—Evangeline skimmed her index finger low across the swell of her bosom—“and he shall quickly be convinced of your many fine qualities. Particularly so, should one of them tumble out onto the tablecloth!”

Winnie returned to thrust a glass into Evangeline’s hand. “Madeira, darling,” she announced. “Perhaps it will restore a touch of color to your cheeks. Your pallor suggests that I am not the only one felled by the charms of our houseguest.”

Gratefully, Evangeline sipped at the wine. It was pathetically true, but even with Winnie, Evangeline was afraid to give voice to such a new and frightening emotion. Yes, despite Winnie’s good-natured teasing, any woman with an ounce of blood in her veins could see that Elliot Roberts was an artist’s dream come to life. His was a face that she knew as if it were her own, for indeed she had studied it well.

Many years ago, Evangeline’s mother, in the interest of expanding her sixteen-year-old daughter’s artistic horizons beyond those of France and Flanders, had taken her abroad to study the Italian masters. There, in the grand palazzo of a Florentine nobleman, had stood the bronze statue that was almost the very likeness of Elliot Roberts. Although painting had been Evangeline’s only passion for as long as she could remember, that godlike Etruscan sculpture had drawn first her eyes, then her hands, and ultimately her pencil, as if she were bewitched by it. Much to her mother’s consternation, Evangeline had insisted on spending hour after hour sketching the bronze from every angle while Marie van Artevalde had been left to stroll the piazzas of Florence with their remarkably hospitable host. Her daughter’s “obsession,” Marie had called it. And obsession was surely what Evangeline felt when she looked at Elliot Roberts.

She had felt the lure of his attraction, even before she had laid her hand upon his arm. No, he was not an Etruscan hero, made of once-molten metal which had long since cooled. He was hot blood and hard bone, lavish shades of light and dark, pulsing with life, breathing and wanting. And making her want. She had sketched him today like a madwoman, afraid that he might leave, for in him she had also sensed an uncertainty and an apprehension which she did not fully comprehend.

Peter Weyden referred Evangeline few portraits these days, for her other work had become far more profitable. Yet, after one glance at Elliot Roberts, it was obvious why Peter had recommended this commission. The man possessed the sort of rare, unrefined beauty almost never seen among the English. A hard, huge man with long legs and arms, Roberts had a hard, chiseled face to match. Black hair, heavy, straight, and far too long, emphasized Roberts’s strong jaw and square, stubborn chin. Cool eyes the color of smoke gave way to a nose that was too prominent, too arrogant, and slightly crooked, while his forehead was high and aristocratic. The man was too much of everything. The combined effect was overwhelming.

From across the expanse of her studio, Roberts had immediately commanded her attention, and she had been unable to restrain her hand, which had been drawn, inexplicably, to touch his face. There had been something in the sharp, assessing light of his eyes that had made her instantly aware that she was not only an artist but a woman as well. And that he was, in every sense of the word, a man. In that one unexpected moment, Evangeline had felt the sharp, sudden pain of emptiness, of yearning for what she had never known and could not afford.

Despite his overwhelming height, the man was lean, narrow-hipped, and broad-shouldered, and for the first time in her life, Evangeline Stone found herself wishing that she were a sculptor instead of a painter. Two dimensions could not possibly do justice to Elliot Roberts. He was an artist’s gift, this man, so starkly beautiful that she’d finally yielded to her foolish inclination to wrap her hand around his arm and beg him to stay. What would it be like, she wondered, to run one’s fingers over the lean, hard muscles of Elliot Roberts’s back? To shape and mold his—

“Evangeline!
Evangeline!
Do attend us, please!”

Wine glass still clutched in her hand, Evangeline looked up to see both Winnie and the cook, Mrs. Crane, standing very near, peering owlishly at her. “Oh . . . very sorry,” she answered, straightening herself in the chair. “You—you were saying?”

Winnie’s lips turned up into a sly smile. “Cook is asking about the pippin tarts.”

Mrs. Crane, wiping her hands on her apron, nodded energetically. “Aye, miss. We’ve enough left over, for them as may want ’em. And the rice—to be stewed with the beef as usual?”

Between dragging out the extra blankets and supervising the pouring of Elliot’s bath, Mrs. Penworthy had made it plain to him that Chatham Lodge kept country hours and that the household would sup promptly at half past six. From her warm but precautionary tone about the early dinner hour, Elliot could easily surmise that he was not the first London visitor to occupy the Tower Room, and he found himself wondering what sort of guests the Stones were in the habit of entertaining.

“There, sir,” said Mrs. Penworthy, rising with a little grunt from her stooped position over the tub. “ ’Tis hot enough, I vow. And if there be aught else you’re wishful of, you’re to pull the bell straightaway. Miss Stone does like her guests proper treated, I do assure you!”

“Thank you,” murmured Elliot, “but I shall try not to inconvenience anyone. Do I take it that Miss Stone entertains with some frequency?”

Mrs. Penworthy nodded and beamed at him. “Oh, indeed! I don’t scruple to say this house loves a guest here better than any I ever saw. Expect ’tis because they don’t go about much.” The housekeeper threw open an ancient, heavily carved armoire, tugged out a stack of thick towels, and dropped them onto a stool by the tub. “But I do say that Quality will tell, and a proper English gentleman—for I can plainly see, sir, that’s what you are—is a fine treat for house and staff alike.”

Elliot rose from his seat by the deep, mullioned window and strolled slowly toward the tub, lifting his gaze to watch the housekeeper carefully. “Does Miss Stone not normally entertain Quality?”

Mrs. Penworthy’s eyes widened in obvious consternation. “Oh, no, sir! I mean, indeed, sir, she does—nothing but the finest ladies and gentlemen, to be sure! But foreigners, mostly. Sometimes a London customer, but usually Frenchies and Italians and, oh, I don’t know what all! All friendly enough, too, I suppose—could you but understand a word what gets said. ’Twas a regular Tower of Babel here when that nasty little Corsican got loose, and no mistake! Mrs. Weyden and the young miss had foreigners tucked into every cupboard and cranny.”

“Ah, yes. I see.” Elliot nodded, choosing his next words carefully. He had to evaluate his risk of exposure. “And, of course, I expect Peter Weyden is here regularly?”

The housekeeper was smiling broadly again as she picked up the top towel, threw it open with an efficient snap, then spread it carefully alongside the tub. “Oh, yes, sir. Regular’s what he is,” she answered cheerfully, but Elliot’s momentary alarm was quickly allayed. “Reliable as the calendar, that one! Comes two hours afore Christmas Eve dinner and then leaves a’ Plough Monday at first light. ’Tis his curious way of things, you know. A right partic’lar fellow he is!”

Elliot felt himself relax and bent to dip a finger in the deep tub. It was, indeed, pleasantly hot. “And Miss Stone’s family—I expect they are regular visitors as well?”

At this, Mrs. Penworthy’s sharp eyes narrowed, but her smile did not waver in the slightest. “No family but what’s under this roof, sir. Leastways, none as I’ve ever heard tell of, and I’ve done for the Stones since the young miss took me on in 1810.” And with that, the housekeeper bade him enjoy his bath and trundled out the door, pulling it shut with a hearty thump.

Though Elliot had certainly never considered provincial family life interesting—indeed, he found little that interested him these days—such an odd mix of people living in apparent harmony under the same roof nonetheless intrigued him. Mrs. Weyden, Evangeline had said, was her companion. She was also Peter Weyden’s sister-in-law. Yet Mrs. Weyden had two sons: the handsome, irrepressible Augustus and the accident-prone Theodore, both of whom appeared to reside in the house.

In addition to her brother, Michael, and her sister, Nicolette, Evangeline Stone had an unusual cousin, the exceedingly pretty and obviously foreign Frederica d’Avillez. An interesting child, that one. And given her olive skin and black hair, there was an interesting story to go with her, Elliot had no doubt. And who the hell was Stokely? Another cousin? Another uncle? Elliot, who had very little family at all—and certainly one couldn’t count his bloodless mother—was already struggling to keep up with the identities of the pleasantly rambunctious crowd occupying Chatham Lodge.

Slipping deeper still into his steaming bath, Elliot asked himself why he cared. It was the painful contrast, he supposed. Though he’d never considered his home precisely cold, he had certainly felt it to be so this afternoon when he had stood outside looking into this lovely oasis. But Elliot’s home was lovely, too, and far more grand. Nonetheless, his stately residence, soaring four stories above the south bank of the Thames, seemed always empty, despite the fact that his infamous uncle, Sir Hugh, maintained extensive second-floor apartments within. But Sir Hugh, when his gout permitted, preferred to warm the beds of London’s middle-aged widows and neglected wives, who were always, he argued, generous with their brandy, obliging in the boudoir, and willing to listen to his war stories. Oh, he and Hugh were exceedingly fond of each other, albeit in that “hail fellow” way that was so common among men. But Sir Hugh was a busy fellow, more apt to be seen across the river in Chelsea than in Richmond where Elliot’s vast house was located.

And then, of course, there was Zoë. Elliot felt a rare and unexpected wave of guilt for having left his eight-year-old daughter behind, but surely by now she was used to it. Zoë had never known her mother, who had been but another of Elliot’s many affairs gone awry. Maria had been a capricious Italian dancer who had cheerfully deposited her babe on Elliot’s doorstep en route to a carefree life on the Continent. Now, Elliot himself was often absent for days at a time, and Zoë had learned never to question his absences. With her innate sensitivity, she seemed to know what was expected. And what not to expect. It was his own doing, too, for in his inexplicable, withdrawn way, Elliot knew that he had deliberately isolated himself from her, for he did not know what else to do.