Anna Campbell - A Rake's Midnight Kiss

“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.

They retired to the parlor for tea. Richard fell into conversation with Mrs. Warren. Aunt Lucy liked him. As did Hecuba, the man-hating cat, who purred on his lap. Sirius was tied up outside, sulking. What a pity the vicar’s daughter was as far from purring as Richard was from Peking. He had no idea what he’d done to raise her hackles, but she watched him as if expecting him to purloin the silver. She couldn’t recognize him as her burglar. He’d been masked that night, his hair was now a different color, and Sedgemoor had vouched for him.

In fact, it surprised Richard how easily everyone accepted him as rich Mr. Evans from Shropshire. He wasn’t used to meeting people without the scandal surrounding his birth tainting introductions. It was both appealing and galling, reminding him yet again of the barriers his bastardy placed between him and the world.

“Genevieve, leave those dusty books and help me sort my wools,” Mrs. Warren called.

“Papa wants to show me this document.” Genevieve didn’t shift from the table where she, Lord Neville, and the vicar pored over a manuscript.

“Tomorrow. You’re neglecting our guest.”

Richard caught the twinkle in Mrs. Warren’s eyes. He knew what she was up to. And she knew that he knew. Genevieve was aware too, but without overt rudeness, couldn’t ignore her aunt’s request.

He watched Genevieve approach. Today before arriving, he’d wondered whether he’d idealized her attractions, but one glance at that beautiful face, severe in his presence, and he knew that this was a gem worth the mining. A treasure to rival the Harmsworth Jewel. This afternoon, she’d played the cold goddess. Now in candlelight, she was all gold and shadows.

The pity of it was that she was a respectable woman. Honor precluded seduction. Although with all the lies he told, his honor grew grubbier by the hour.

“More tea, Mr. Evans?” Genevieve’s chilly question made him want to shiver theatrically.

“Please, Miss Barrett.”

Mrs. Warren turned to him. “Were you in Little Derrick for last week’s excitement, Mr. Evans?”

“Aunt, I’m sure Mr. Evans has no interest in local trivialities,” Genevieve said repressively.

“On the contrary, I’m all ears.” He hid a smile when she all but lashed her tail. Everything indicated her inexperience with men. A more worldly woman wouldn’t fling challenges with every flash of those arctic-gray eyes. She hoped to freeze him into retreating, whereas with her, ice burned.

“Genevieve saw off a thief!” Mrs. Warren’s breathless announcement earned a derisive glance from her niece. “Only shooting at the rascal saved her.”

Richard regarded Genevieve with exaggerated admiration. “Good heavens, Miss Barrett, you’re Boadicea reborn.”

Her lips flattened as she refreshed his tea. Heat bubbled in his veins as he remembered holding her. She’d been soft and fragrant. Her hair had slid against his skin like warm silk. Hecuba complained as his lap firmed. He stroked the cat and strove for control.

“The man was a coward. When he discovered the house occupied, he scarpered with his tail between his legs.”