The Elusive Lord Everhart: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series by Vivienne Lorret Page B

issued a groan that was more frustration than pain.
    A familiar laugh sounded from the doorway. “Did I just hear Miss Croft call you a condescending prig ?”
    Gabriel didn’t bother to look at Montwood. “You left out conceited .”
    “Even better.” From the sound of glass clinking and knowing what bottles remained on the sideboard, Montwood was now pouring a whiskey. “She left in quite the rush.”
    “I made sure of that.” He was sure that she would never come back either. He’d already given in to temptation once—twice, if he counted the second kiss to her nape—and he would likely do so again.
    He couldn’t risk it. Too much was at stake. He needed to make sure she knew that he couldn’t be relied upon to behave properly, no matter the circumstance.
    Montwood tsked. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you.”
    “I’m going to make this impossible.” Hearing his friend’s even footsteps approach, Gabriel sat upright and accepted the offered glass of whiskey. He downed it in one swallow.
    “You’d deny yourself for the sake of a wager?”
    It wasn’t all about the wager. Not for Gabriel. His reasons had deeper roots. “Would you do any less?”
    Montwood didn’t answer. Instead he moved to the hearth and poked at the logs on the grate as they sizzled and popped in response. “And in a year’s time, will you marry her then?”
    He couldn’t believe that Calliope had thought all this time that he hadn’t liked her. That he disapproved of her. It was as disconcerting as it was liberating. He could easily perpetuate the lie in order to keep her away from him.
    “Before she leaves Fallow Hall,” Gabriel said, his mood darkening, “I’ll make sure she never wants to see me again.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
    G abriel opened the portal window on the far side of the attic. He closed his eyes against the blast of cold, damp morning air, perspiration cooling on his flesh. Having alternated between the use of his cane and one-legged hops, he’d managed to navigate all the stairs. He hoped the exercise would dispel the futile desires that had plagued him all night.
    Typically, he enjoyed early morning hours. During travels abroad, he’d written in his journal of each sunrise and the first sounds of each new day on any given spot on the earth. Lincolnshire hosted its own sounds—the silken hush of the wind through the evergreen boughs, the quiet rush of servants’ footsteps combined with the subdued murmur of their voices. It was comforting to know where one’s place was on the map at any given moment. Which was hardly something that a gentleman with the reputation for being an aimless wanderer could admit.
    By all accounts, he was supposed to roam, to revel in exploration. And he did. He loved experiencing new sights, sounds, fragrances, and flavors. But as wonderful as those experiences had been, there had been something missing.
    He knew what it was, of course. A man did not advance to eight and twenty without a sense of his own mind. He’d learned firsthand how lonely traveling could be, even when among friends. For him, there had always been a certain amount of poetry to the journey home to England. Even when he had not been returning to any home in particular.
    He’d never felt such acute yearning for a home until recently. It was unsettling. More than anything, he wanted to run from this feeling. Run from Lincolnshire. Run from Calliope Croft and everything she represented. But with this damnable broken leg and the restriction of his monies, he couldn’t. He was trapped here.
    That restlessness had woken him before dawn.
    Turning away from the window, he began to rummage through crates, searching for something to alleviate one source of his distress. By the time he reached the third one, he’d found what he was looking for. “Ah. Here is something that might prove useful.”
    Valentine stood beside him, holding a brace of candles. “My lord?”
    “Pay particular attention to this