9

Elizabeth entered the main house through the study’s garden doors. Although not yet dawn, the kitchen staff would already be preparing for the day’s meals and she didn’t want to chance crossing paths with one of them. Not with her hair a fright and her skin so flushed.

“Elizabeth.”

Startled, she jumped. Finding William in the open doorway, her stomach tightened.

“Yes, William?”

“A moment, if you please.”

Sighing, she waited as he stepped into the room and closed them inside. She braced herself.

“What in hell are you doing with Westfield? In our guesthouse? Have you lost your wits?”

“Yes.” There was no point in denying it.

“Why?” he asked, clearly confused and hurt.

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll kill him,” he growled. “To treat you like this, to use you so callously. I told you to stay away from him, that his intentions were dishonorable.”

“I tried, truly I did.” Turning away, Elizabeth sank into a nearby chair.

Muttering an oath, William began to pace in front of her. “You could have had anyone. If you were so set against marriage, you could have chosen a more suitable companion.”

“William, I love you for your concern, but I am a grown woman and I can make my own decisions, especially about something as personal as taking a lover.”

“Good God,” he bit out. “To have to speak of such matters with you—”

“You don’t, you know,” she said dryly.

“Oh yes, I do.” He rounded on her. “After suffering through your endless lectures about my licentious behavior—”

“Yes, you see, I learned from the best.”

William stilled. “You’ve no notion. You are in over your head.”

Elizabeth took a deep breath. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it is Westfield who is out of his depth.” If not, he soon would be.

He snorted. “Elizabeth—”

“Enough, William, I’m tired.” She stood and moved toward the hallway. “Westfield will call this evening to escort me to the Fairchilds’ dinner.” She’d tried to argue, but Marcus insisted her safety was in question. It was either with his escort or she couldn’t attend. He’d been adamant, in his charming, drawling way.

“Fine,” William snapped. “I’ll have a word with him when he arrives.”

She waved her hand nonchalantly over her shoulder. “Be my guest. Send for me when you’re done.”

“This is odious.”

“I gathered you think so.”

“An abomination.”

“Yes, yes.” She moved out into the hallway.

“I will thrash him if he hurts you,” William called after her.

Elizabeth stopped and turned to face him. As meddling as he was, he was acting out of love, and she adored him for it. With a tender smile, she returned to him and hugged his waist. He crushed her close.

“You are the most vexing sibling,” he said into her hair. “Why could you not be more pliable and even-tempered?”

“Because I would bore you to tears and drive you insane.”

He sighed. “Yes, I supposed you would at that.” He pulled back. “Be careful, please. I couldn’t bear to see you hurt again.”

The sadness evident on his handsome features tugged at her heart, and reminded her of the precariousness of her situation. Playing with Marcus was playing with fire.

“Don’t worry so much, William.” Linking her arm with his, Elizabeth tugged him toward the staircase. “Trust me to take care of myself.”

“I’m trying, but it’s damned difficult when you engage in stupidity.”

Laughing, Elizabeth released his arm and ran up the stairs. “First one to the vase at the end of the gallery wins.”

Easily reaching the vase first, William escorted Elizabeth to her bed chamber. Then he returned to his own room and wasted no time changing. He left a bewildered Margaret still abed and traveled into town to the Westfield townhouse. Taking the steps two at a time, he pounded the brass knocker that graced the door.

The portal opened, revealing a butler dripping in chilly hauteur as he gazed down the length of his nose.

Handing over his card, William barreled his way through the doorway and entered the foyer. “You may announce me to Lord Westfield,” he said curtly.

The butler glanced at the card. “Lord Westfield is from home, Lord Barclay.”

“Lord Westfield is abed,” William snapped. “And you will rouse him and bring him to me or I will seek him out myself.”

With a disdainful arch of his brow, the servant led him to the study, and then retreated.

When the door opened again, Marcus entered. William lunged at his old friend without a word.

“Bloody hell,” Marcus cursed as he was tackled to the rug. He cursed again when William’s fist connected with his ribcage.

William continued to rain blows as they rolled across the study floor, bumping into the chaise and knocking over a chair. Marcus made every effort to deflect the attack, but not once did he fight back.

“Son of a bitch,” William growled, made more furious by being denied the fight he’d come for. “I’ll kill you!”

“Damned if you’re not doing an admirable job of it,” Marcus grunted.

Suddenly, there were more arms in the fray, intervening and pulling them apart. Yanked to their feet, William fought off the unyielding grip that held his arms behind him. “Damn you, Ashford. Release me.”

But Paul Ashford held tight. “In a moment, my lord. No offense intended. But Mother is home, and she does not care much for brawls in the house. Always made us go outside, you see.”

Marcus stood opposite him and a few feet away, shrugging off the helping hand of Robert Ashford, the youngest of the three brothers. The resemblance between the two was uncanny. Only Robert’s gold-rimmed spectacles and slighter frame distinguished the two. Unlike the brother behind William, who was raven-haired and dark-eyed.

William ceased his struggles, and Paul released him.

“Truly, gentlemen,” Paul said, straightening his waistcoat and wig. “Much as I love a good fracas in the morning, you should at least be dressed for the occasion.”

Holding a hand to his side, Marcus ignored his brother and said, “I trust your spirits have improved, Barclay?”

“Slightly.” William glared. “It would have been more sporting if you’d participated.”

“And risk angering Elizabeth? Don’t be daft.”

William snorted. “As if you have a care for her feelings.”

“No doubt of that.”

“Then why this? Why use her in this manner?”

Robert pushed up his spectacles, and cleared his throat. “I think we’re done here, Paul.”

“I hope so,” Paul muttered. “Not the type of conversation I prefer to have at this time of morning. Now be good, gentlemen. Next time, it may be Mother who intercedes. I would pity you both then.”

The brothers shut the door behind them as they retreated.

Marcus ran a hand through his hair. “Remember that chit you dallied with when we were at Oxford? The baker’s daughter?”

“Yes.” William remembered her well. A young, nubile thing. Beautiful and worldly, she was free with her favors. Celia loved a good hard fuck more than most and he’d been hot to give it to her. In fact, they’d once spent three days in bed, taking time only to bathe and eat. She’d been enjoyable with no strings.

Suddenly he caught the implication.

“Do you want to die?” William growled. “You are talking about my sister for God’s sake!”

“And a woman grown,” Marcus pointed out. “A widow, no innocent maid.”

“Elizabeth is nothing like Celia. She hasn’t the experience to engage in fleeting liaisons. She could be hurt.”

“Oh? She seemed able to jilt me well enough and she shows no remorse for her actions.”

“Why would she? You were an absolute cad.”

“We are both to blame.” Marcus moved to one of the wingbacks that flanked the dark fireplace and lowered himself into a weary sprawl. “However, things appear to have worked out for the best. She was not unhappy with Hawthorne.”

“Then leave well enough alone.”

“I cannot. There is something remaining between us. We’ve both agreed, as consenting adults, to allow it to run its course.”

William moved to take the seat opposite. “I still cannot understand that Elizabeth could be so …”

“Nonchalant? Laissez faire?”

“Yes, exactly.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “She was devastated at what you’d done, you know.”

“Ah yes. So devastated she married another man posthaste.”

“What better way to run?”

Marcus blinked.

“You think I don’t know her?” William asked, shaking his head. “Have a care with her affections,” he warned as he stood and moved toward the door. He paused on the threshold and looked back. “If you hurt her, Westfield, I’ll see you on a field at dawn.”

Marcus tilted his head in acknowledgment.

“In the meantime, come early this evening. We can await the women together. Father still has a fine collection of brandy.”

“An irresistible invitation. I will be there.”

Somewhat mollified, William made his egress. He also made a mental reminder to clean his pistols.

Just in case.

The ball was a massive success, as witnessed by the overflowing ballroom and the beaming face of the hostess, Lady Marks-Darby. Elizabeth wove her way through the crush, escaping onto a deserted balcony. From her vantage point, she could see couples wandering through the intricate maze of hedges in the garden below. She closed her eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath.

The last week had been both heaven and hell. She went to Marcus every night in the guesthouse and while he’d never promised anything in return, she’d had her own expectations.

When she suggested the affair, she assumed he would pounce on her immediately upon her arrival, carry her off to bed, and when finished with her body take his leave. Instead, he drew her into conversation or fed her sumptuous cold suppers he brought with him. He encouraged discourse on a variety of topics and appeared genuinely interested in her opinions. He asked her about her favorite books and purchased the ones she mentioned that he had not yet read. It was all so very strange. She was completely unaccustomed to such intimacy, which seemed much more pervasive than their physical connection. Not that Marcus ever allowed her to forget that.

He held her in a constant state of physical turmoil. An erotic master, Marcus used the entirety of his formidable skill to make certain he never left her mind for even a moment. He found ways to surreptitiously brush against her shoulder or slip his hand down the curve of her spine. He bent far too close when speaking, breathing in her ear in a way that made her quiver with longing.

Laughter from the maze below brought a thankful respite from her thoughts. Two women came to a halt directly beneath the balcony, their melodious voices floating up to be heard clearly.

“The marriageable men are slim in number this Season,” said one to the other.

“That is unfortunately true. And it’s hideous luck that Lord Westfield should be so determined to win that wager. He practically hovers over Hawthorne’s widow.”

“She seems not to care much for him.”

“Fool is unaware of what she is missing. He is glorious. His entire body is a work of art. I must confess, I am completely besotted.”

Elizabeth gripped the railing with white-knuckled force as one of the women giggled.

“Lure him back, if you miss him so keenly.”

“Oh, I shall,” came the smug reply. “Lady Hawthorne may be beautiful, but she’s a cold one. He’s merely in it for the sport. Once he has redeemed himself, he’ll want a little more fire in his bed. And I’ll be waiting.”

Suddenly, the women gasped in surprise.

“Excuse me, ladies,” interrupted a masculine voice. The two women continued further into the maze, leaving Elizabeth to fume on the balcony.

The unmitigated gall! She grit her teeth until her jaw ached. The damned wager. How could she have forgotten?

“Lady Hawthorne?”

She turned at the sound of her name murmured in a deep, pleasantly raspy voice behind her. She eyed the gentleman who approached, taking in his appearance in an effort to identify him. “Yes?”

The man was tall and elegantly dressed. She could not know his hair color, covered as it was by a wig that was long in the back and tied at his nape. He wore a mask that wrapped around his eyes, but the brilliant blue color of his irises refused to be contained by it. Something about him arrested her gaze, tugging at her memory in a vaguely familiar way, and yet she was certain she had never met him before.

“Are we acquainted?” she asked.

He shook his head and she straightened, studying him closely as he emerged from the shadows of the overhang. What she could see of his face was well deserving of such beautiful eyes. He was, quite frankly, beyond handsome.

His lips, though thin, were curved in a way that could only be described as carnal, but his gaze … his gaze was coldly intent. She sensed he was the type of man who trusted no one and nothing. But that observation was not what caused her shiver of apprehension. Her misgiving was due entirely to the way he approached her. The subtle cant of his body toward hers was decidedly proprietary.

The raspy voice came again. “I regret I must be importunate, Lady Hawthorne, but we have an urgent matter to discuss.”

Elizabeth shielded herself in her iciest social deportment. “It is the rare occasion, sir, when I find myself discussing urgent matters with complete strangers.”

He showed a leg in a courtly bow. “Forgive me,” he replied, his voice deliberately low and soothing. “Christopher St. John, my lady.”

Elizabeth’s breath halted in her throat. Her pulse racing, she took a preservative step backward. “What is it you wish to discuss with me, Mr. St. John?”

He took the position next to her, resting his hands on the wrought iron railing as he looked out over the maze. His casual stance was deceptive. Much like Marcus, he used an overtly friendly demeanor to reassure those around him, subtly urging others to lower their guard. The tactic had the opposite effect on Elizabeth. She tried not to tense visibly as her insides twisted.

“You received a journal that belonged to your late husband, did you not?” he asked smoothly.

The color drained from her face.

“How do you know of it?” Her eyes widened as her gaze swept over him. “Are you the man who attacked me in the park?” He did not appear to be suffering from any injury.

“You are in grave danger, Lady Hawthorne, as long as that book remains in your possession. Turn it over to me, and I will see to it you are not disturbed again.”

Fear and anger blended inside her. “Are you threatening me?” Her chin lifted. “I take leave to tell you, sir, I am not without protection.”

“I am well aware of your prowess with a pistol, but that skill is no proof against the type of danger you find yourself facing now. The fact that you have involved Lord Eldridge only complicates matters further.” He looked at her and the barrenness in the depths of his eyes chilled her to the bone. “It is in your best interests to give me that book.”

St. John’s voice was laced with soft menace, his eyes piercing from behind the mask. His casual pose was unable to hide the vibrant energy that distinguished him as a dangerous man.

Elizabeth couldn’t stop her shudder of fear and revulsion. He cursed under his breath.

“Here,” he murmured gruffly, reaching into a small pocket that graced his white satin waistcoat. He withdrew a small object, and held it out to her. “This belongs to you, I believe.”

Refusing to take her eyes from his face, she closed her hand around it.

“You must—” He stopped and swiveled quickly. She followed his gaze and relief flooded her to find Marcus standing in the doorway.

Pure ferocious rage radiated from him in waves. The lines of his face were harsh, reflecting murderous intent. “Back away from her,” he ordered. His tension was palpable, coiled like a tight spring, ready to lash out at the slightest provocation.

St. John faced her unperturbed, and bowed again. His casual deportment fooled no one. A profusion of ill will and resentment poisoned the air around the two men. “We will continue our conversation some other time, Lady Hawthorne. In the meantime, I urge you to consider my request. For your own safety.” He walked past Marcus with a taunting smile. “Westfield. Always a pleasure.”

Marcus sidestepped, halting St. John’s escape to the ballroom. “Approach her again, and I’ll kill you.”

St. John grinned. “You’ve been threatening me with death for years, Westfield.”

Marcus bared his teeth in a feral smile. “I was merely biding my time until the proper excuse presented itself. I have it now. Soon I shall have what I need to see you hanged. You cannot evade justice forever.”

“No? Ah, well … I await your convenience.” St. John glanced at Elizabeth one more time before circumventing Marcus and melting into the crowded ballroom beyond.

She looked down at the object in her hand and the shock of recognition forced her to grip the railing for support. Marcus was beside her instantly.

“What is it?”

She held out her open palm. “It’s my cameo brooch, given to me by Hawthorne as a wedding gift. I broke the clasp. See? It is still broken. He offered to return it to the jeweler’s for repair the morning of his death.”

Marcus plucked the pin from her hand, and examined it. “St. John returned it? What did he say? Tell me everything.”

“He wants the journal.” She stared up at his grim features. “And he knew of the attack in the park.”

“Bloody hell,” Marcus growled under his breath, pocketing the brooch. “I knew it.” Wrapping her hand around his arm, he led her from the balcony.

Within moments, Marcus had retrieved their cloaks and called for his carriage, assisting her inside as soon as it rolled to a halt. Ordering the outriders to guard her, he turned back toward the manse, his stride lengthening with purpose.

Leaning out the window, Elizabeth called after him. “Where are you going?”

“After St. John.”

“No, Marcus,” she begged, her fingers gripping the sill, her heart racing madly. “You said yourself he’s dangerous.”

“Don’t worry, love,” he called over his shoulder. “So am I.”

Elizabeth waited endlessly, devastated to her very soul. For the first time since starting the affair, she acknowledged how little control she had. Marcus cared nothing for her worry or her distress. Knowing how she must feel, he’d left anyway, deliberately courting danger. And now she waited. He’d been gone so long. Too long. What was happening? Had he found the pirate? Had they exchanged words? Or fought? Perhaps Marcus was hurt …

She gazed sightlessly out the window as her stomach roiled. Certain she was about to cast up her accounts, Elizabeth thrust open the door and stumbled down. The outriders moved to her side just as Marcus appeared.

“Sweet.” He pulled her close. The heavy silk of his coat was cold from the night air, but inside she was far more chilled. “Don’t be frightened. I will protect you.”

Elizabeth gave a choked, half-mad laugh. The most pressing peril came from Marcus himself. He was a man who thrived on reckless behavior and lived for the thrill of the chase. He would forever be placing himself in jeopardy, because taking risks was ingrained in his nature.

The agency…St. John…Marcus…

She had to get away from them all.

Far, far away.