Anna Campbell: A Rake's Midnight Kiss

Genevieve still recovered from her odd reaction to the sight of those capable, deft hands handling her cat. She bent over Hecuba, hoping that nobody noticed that the usually unruffled Genevieve Barrett was indisputably ruffled.

Who was this fellow? Gentlemen of such address never came within her orbit. Or her father’s. Well, apart from the Duke of Sedgemoor. But he was so far beyond her touch, he hardly counted as a mortal man. Lord Neville might be wellborn, but he lacked the newcomer’s polish.

“Let Sirius stay.” She cursed her breathless tone. What on earth was wrong with her? At twenty-five, she was well past the giggly stage. Yet Mr. Evans had an extraordinary effect on her. He made her feel as though her world span out of control. And he’d done it with an ease that she couldn’t help resenting.

The man glanced at her and the laughter in his eyes stirred another shiver of awareness. She straightened against unwelcome giddiness. Mr. Christopher Evans was far too charming for his own good.

Or for hers.

“Thank you. He really is well trained.” As if to prove it, he clicked his fingers again and Sirius trotted to his side. Once more, Genevieve was struck by the contrast between the man’s breeding and the dog’s disreputable appearance.

“Allow me to make introductions.” She hoped Mr. Evans wouldn’t notice the catch in her voice, but she had a sinking feeling that he knew his power over susceptible women—among whom, apparently, she must count herself.

“This is my father’s friend, Lord Neville Fairbrother.” Genevieve couldn’t help contrasting Lord Neville’s blunt, swarthy features with Mr. Evans’s spare elegance.

“I hope I’m your friend too, Genevieve,” Lord Neville sniffed. He gave the stranger a distinctly condescending nod. “Evans.”

“Lord Neville.”

“And I’m Genevieve Barrett. Please sit down, Mr. Evans.” Her aunt had abdicated her duties as hostess in exchange for the delights of ogling their visitor. “I’ll ring for tea.”

“Thank you.” With a flourish, he settled on the spindly chair beside her aunt. The dog, as promised, behaved perfectly and lay at his side without glancing at Hecuba.

“My father is on parish duties.” Genevieve retreated to the window seat, still cuddling Hecuba.

The man smiled and Genevieve’s heart, which had almost settled into its usual rhythm, jumped again. Handsome? Mr. Christopher Evans, whoever he was, was downright beautiful.

“No matter. I hoped to extend my acquaintance in the neighborhood.”

Her skin prickled with preternatural warning. This didn’t sound good. This didn’t sound good at all. This sounded like he wasn’t just passing through. She wasn’t usually at the mercy of animal instinct, but every atom insisted that Mr. Evans wasn’t what he seemed. The moment he’d spoken, her heart had known him for a liar. And just what was he doing in Little Derrick?

“You’ll find no entertainment in this backwater,” Lord Neville said snidely as he resumed his chair.

“La, Lord Neville, you are unkind.”

Genevieve cringed at her aunt’s archness.

“Not at all.” He barely disguised his derision. “Beyond our scholarly circle, there’s precious little of interest.”

“His Grace recommended the scenic beauties of this corner of Oxfordshire.” Mr. Evans focused on Genevieve with intent that even a bluestocking couldn’t misread. “He didn’t exaggerate.”

Stupid, stupid blushes. She tried to hold Mr. Evans’s gaze, but her nerve failed and she stared out the window. She could already tell that he was an accomplished flirt. Even when the only female within reach was tall, awkward Genevieve Barrett with her ink-stained fingers.

Her hands tightened in Hecuba’s silky coat. The cat complained and wriggled free. Ignoring the dog, she twined around the furniture to leap into Mr. Evans’s lap. Immediately those hard capable hands curled around the black cat. Genevieve suppressed another discomfiting reaction.

A rattle along the back lane diverted her troubled thoughts. “Papa is here.”

“Excellent,” Lord Neville said. “He promised to show me that illuminated manuscript Carruthers sent.”

“I hear it’s a peach.” Mr. Evans’s enthusiasm wouldn’t shame the keenest medievalist.

Shocked, Genevieve met his brilliant eyes. “You’re an antiquarian, Mr. Evans?”

The doubt in her question had her aunt frowning. Poor Aunt Lucy. She’d lived at the vicarage since her sister’s death fifteen years ago, and she’d spent most of that time struggling to instill manners into her niece. With little success, Genevieve regretted to admit.

The mobile mouth quirked, although Mr. Evans answered politely enough. “In this company, I’d hesitate to describe myself as such.”

Too smooth by half, my fine fellow.

Her father bustled into the room, saving her from responding to their guest’s false modesty. “Lord Neville! An unexpected pleasure.” Then he turned and spoke with an unalloyed joy that set Lord Neville wincing. “And Mr. Evans! If I’d known you visited, I’d have put off my business. I so enjoyed our discussion last night. Have they given you tea? No? Goodness, what will you think of us? A bunch of country mice, begad.”

The vicar wasn’t a quiet presence. His voice bounced off the walls and set the dog twitching. Genevieve’s father strode across the room to wring Mr. Evans’s hand with a zeal that made Genevieve, inclined to disapprove of the newcomer, bristle with resentment. Her father was a man of international reputation, however ill-deserved. He didn’t need to toady to the quality.

She sighed, heartily wishing that Mr. Evans would slouch back to wherever he came from. Already she could foresee conflict between him and Lord Neville, and she didn’t feel up to dealing with another of her father’s crazes.

Fleetingly Genevieve observed her father as a stranger might. Tall, graying, distinguished, with a distracted air that indicated a mind fixed on higher things. Once she’d believed that. Now however much she loved him with a stubborn affection that never wavered, she couldn’t contain the coldness that crept into their relations. Her father looked like an Old Testament prophet, but at heart he was a selfish, weak man.

Dorcas chose that moment to bring in the tea tray. The small parlor became uncomfortably crowded. Advancing toward the table, the maid danced around the vicar. Genevieve blushed to see milk splash from the jug. Mr. Evans really would think they were bumpkins. Then she reminded herself that she didn’t give a groat what Mr. Evans thought.

Genevieve managed to serve tea without tripping over any of the room’s occupants, animal or human. Lord Neville drew her father into a discussion of some scholarly point. Her aunt engaged Mr. Evans in conversation about local amenities. Genevieve retired to the window seat and retrieved her embroidery.

She inhaled and struggled for calm. Absurd to let a handsome face affect her so. She’d always accounted herself immune to masculine attractions. Certainly none of the men in her father’s circle had set anything but intellect buzzing. Her reaction to Mr. Evans had nothing at all to do with intellect and it frightened her.

“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.