Thanks to the continued snowfall, Elizabeth had elected to serve them an abbreviated Christmas dinner. She promised the full dinner when the entire compliment of guests arrived. It mattered little to her. For all the pleasure it gave her, the venison in brandy sauce, roasted beef, and pheasant might have been one of the emaciated chickens she and Mama dined on when their money ran short. The gentlemen praised each course, ate the syllabub and Brussels sprouts, and applauded when the Christmas pudding arrived alight with good French brandy. Even Aunt Merryweather managed to stay awake long enough to enjoy several dishes and a large portion of pudding before she returned to the bundle of pink knitting in her lap for a few rows before she dozed off.
At the foot of Delacroix’s table, Elizabeth sat fully aware that Nicholas watched her every move. She laughed and traded jibes with them. She kissed each of them on the cheek under the mistletoe. The comfort and camaraderie of those first few hours after they’d arrived had nearly returned. Nearly. Her brother’s friends—her friends—were keeping secrets. Once the meal was finished, she suggested they take their coffee in the library, ensconced Aunt Merryweather in the family parlor, and set her plan in motion.
By the time the men strolled into Ivy House’s large bookroom, Elizabeth had crept from behind the hidden door onto the library’s mezzanine and crouched at the rails beside a faded fainting couch to peer over and eavesdrop.
“What did she say precisely?” Winterbourne asked as he settled onto the horsehair sofa before one of the two fireplaces.
They’d obviously countermanded her order for coffee. Shepherds appeared with a bottle of Delacroix’s finest French brandy. Each time they’d returned from the battlefields, Elizabeth had noticed they smiled less and drank more. Their arrogance with regards to planning her future annoyed her; their pain broke her heart.
Delacroix sat in the armchair on one side of the hearth while Nicholas took the other. Once Shepherds filled each of their glasses with brandy and left the room, Delacroix answered. “She said she did not care to marry at Twelfth Night and we should wait until summer when the weather is more suited to a wedding.”
Elizabeth suppressed a laugh. The look on Delacroix’s face when she’d said this was beyond price.
“I see,” Winterbourne replied.
“Leistonbury, did we not promise him a good thrashing the next time he used that phrase?”
“We made a number of promises to each other, Delacroix,” Nicholas snapped. He downed his brandy in one swallow and banged the glass onto a nearby chess table. “We promised Sterling one of us would marry his sister before her harridan mother delivered her to some rich old cit or someone like Winterbourne’s father.”
Elizabeth covered her mouth with her hands. Of all the … She didn’t know who infuriated her more—these three loobies or her poor, dead brother.
“I am betrothed to her, Leistonbury.”
“Don’t.”
“Your brother has been dead for months. You are the Earl of Leistonbury whether you like it or not.” Delacroix studied him over the rim of his glass.
“We’re not talking about me. Elizabeth believes you are marrying her out of pity. She thinks you don’t love her.”
Did he have to make her sound so pathetic?
“I don’t love her. I’m fond of her. Very.”
Winterbourne threw up his hands. “No wonder she doesn’t want to marry you. You’ve certainly made a muddle of this betrothal business.”
“I had help.” He pointed an accusing finger at the duke’s heir lounging on the sofa.
“Me? What did I do?” Winterbourne sat up long enough to find the bottle of brandy Shepherds had left them.
“You were the one who suggested I bring up the special license and Twelfth Night this morning.”
“You’re taking courtship advice from the worst rake in England?” Nicholas stood and began to pace.
“If Delacroix doesn’t want her perhaps I should court her,” Winterbourne suggested.
“I will not have Elizabeth married to a man who changes women as often as he changes his neck cloth. Especially one who deliberately started a rumor he has the pox to keep the debutantes from chasing him.”
Elizabeth’s head began to throb.
“It worked. The debutantes flee from me in droves.”
“How terrible for you and your delicate constitution.” Delacroix rolled his eyes and held his glass out for Winterbourne to fill.
“Apparently, as desperate as they are to become a duchess one day, they aren’t willing to die for it.”
“What about an heir? You’re the last of the line.” Delacroix moved his feet as Nicholas continued to prowl a path in the Persian carpet.
“I know. My not marrying is my last shot across Father’s bow. But if you don’t want Elizabeth, I might be persuaded to reconsider.”
Lovely. They were trading her like a horse at Tattersall’s.
“I didn’t say I don’t want her.”
“Silence!” Nicholas roared.
Something hot crawled over her skin. They sat there talking about Elizabeth as if she mattered not at all. But in Nicholas’s voice—a catch, a tone made her think he might care more than he wanted anyone to know.
“Neither of you deserve her, damn you. How can you speak of her like this?”
They stared at him, imbecilic grins on both their faces.
“Hell,” Delacroix drawled. “Perhaps you should marry her.”
Elizabeth held her breath.
“I came to this farce of a house party to marry one woman only. Elizabeth Sterling is most definitely not that woman.”
Each word slashed her heart like a knife. She rose from her hiding place and brushed out her skirts. “For which, my lord, I am eternally grateful.” Three horrified faces tilted up to greet her.
Her words treacle sweet, her face alabaster rose perfection, she glided down the spiral staircase from the library mezzanine in a cloud of blue velvet and serene fury. Nodcocks! How long had she been listening? She shushed past Nicholas as if he didn’t exist.
My God, she’s magnificent.
“Lizzie.” Delacroix ran two fingers under his cravat and swallowed hard. He tossed Nicholas a pleading look. The man was barking mad if he thought Nicholas had any intention of getting in the middle of this lightning storm.
“I won’t be marrying you either, Christian Delacroix. As soon as this house party is over, I will return to Brighton, where only one person feels the need to list my faults.” Elizabeth’s frigid, even tone slid across the foot or so of carpet between her and her betrothed with the lethal quiet of a rapier. Nicholas wouldn’t have been surprised to see a pool of blood at his friend’s feet.
“No need to throw a man over for a few ill-chosen words now, Lizzie.” Winterbourne had risen from his normal sprawl on the sofa the minute Elizabeth had appeared at the top of the stairs. When she turned her unnaturally calm gaze on him, the usually unflappable heir to a duke appeared ready to leap over the sofa to safety. A part of Nicholas wanted to laugh, but something in Elizabeth’s eyes seared any bit of humor in the situation to ash.
“And no matter what ridiculous promise my brother extracted from the three of you, I wouldn’t be your duchess, Lord Winterbourne, for all the jewels in Mayfair, pox or no pox.”
Winterbourne mustered a weak shadow of his much-vaunted smile. “Uhm …thank you?” He glanced at Delacroix, who had reduced his cravat, appropriately enough, to a wrinkled noose around his neck. He looked at Nicholas. Elizabeth’s eyes never blinked from her expectant study of the future duke’s reddening face, until Delacroix spoke.
“Lizzie, darling, I …”
Mistake. Nicholas doubted Delacroix realized the best tactic when facing an angry lioness was to play dead. She whirled on the man and chased him back into his chair.
“I am not your darling, Christian Delacroix.” She poked a dainty finger into the man’s chest. “Once this house party is over, I will not be your anything.”
“But—”
“If it were not for this damned snow, I would leave in the morning and send Mama to serve as your hostess. I would leave you to the tender mercies of the Merryweather cousins, Mrs. John Merryweather, and Mama for the rest of the Christmas holiday and for all of the holidays to come.”
“Fair Lizzie, how could you be so cruel?” Winterbourne took one look at her face and backed away.
“Cruel. Cruel? I daresay you gentlemen scarcely know the meaning of the word.” She stormed to the library doors and flung them open. This time when she faced them, she only had eyes for Nicholas. “It has been a most enlightening evening, Lord Leistonbury. Thank you.”
Delacroix pushed out of his chair.
Winterbourne started forward.
Nicholas rounded on them both. “Do. Not. Move.”
He strode out of the library in time to catch a flash of blue velvet in the direction of the front hall.
“Elizabeth, wait.” He pushed himself to catch her at the bottom of the stairs.
“Unhand me, my lord.” She tried to free her arm, an arm he didn’t remember grabbing. He only knew he had to stop her. He had to explain.
“You weren’t meant to hear that nonsense.”
Her eyes blazed, luminous with unshed tears. “Oh, but I am eternally grateful I did.”
“Elizabeth, please.” He gripped her shoulders and turned her to face him. In all her magnificence, he’d missed the pain now so evident in her gaze, in the very way her body shook beneath his hands.
“You can have nothing to say which I care to hear, my lord.”
“Don’t.”
“And if you think I am going to return your sister’s locket you have run mad. Estelle was a dear friend to me. Made more so because, in addition to an illness, she had to suffer a complete arse for a brother.”
Tears tracked glistening streaks down her perfect face. Her plump bottom lip trembled in spite of the even white teeth clamped over it to hold it in place. He didn’t know what to do to stop her weeping. So he did the only thing he wanted to do. Nicholas wrapped his arms around her and kissed her.
He kissed her and she tasted of joy and sunlight, of tea and Christmas pudding. He cradled her head in his hands and knew why he’d fought so hard to survive swords, rifles, cannons, mud, and mayhem. When he paused to press his lips to her temple and trail them down her cheek, she whispered “Nicholas,” and he pulled her into his body close and closer still. Her hands slid up his arms and locked around his neck. A few gentle flicks and she opened to his softly seeking tongue. She gasped for the space of a breath and then sighed. He caressed and sipped, and all the while, his body burned for hers. His hands ran down her sides and pulled her hips into his. He wanted her to feel, to know how much he wanted her. His right hand moved to brush the side of her breast and then cup it, shape it, feel the perfection of it. She shivered and then nipped at his bottom lip. Nicholas groaned. Elizabeth opened her eyes. And suddenly the whole world turned cold. Such trust shone in those eyes. Trust he would never, ever deserve.
“Elizabeth, I—” He let her go, inch by agonizing inch, and stepped back. She touched her fingers to his lips. He took another step back. Her hand fell to her side. He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t. I made a promise.” His throat closed. Her confusion and hurt nearly knocked him to his knees. “I can’t.” He walked away. His footsteps boomed like thunder on the marble floors. He didn’t run for fear he’d fall, and if he fell, he’d never get up again.
Elizabeth watched Nicholas until he disappeared into the conservatory. Is this how he survived the war? Overran his enemies defenses, rendered them senseless, and then walked away? The entrance hall finally stopped spinning, and when it did, she spied Winterbourne and Delacroix peering at her from behind a garlanded banister.
“Go to him,” she heard herself say.
“Lizzie, about what you heard—”
“Delacroix, please. You and Winterbourne go to him.”
Winterbourne pushed Delacroix ahead of him in the direction of the conservatory. Once they were out of sight, Elizabeth walked to the front door, opened it, and stepped onto the portico. After a few minutes, she came back inside and leaned against the door, eyes closed and heart still pounding. The icy wind helped but a very little. She still burned. Everywhere he kissed, everywhere he touched, her skin simmered on the inside and on the outside glowed as if she’d fallen asleep too near the fire. What had he done to her? And why had he stopped?
The three not-so-wise gentlemen’s tête-à-tête in the library had hurt, yes, but it had also stung her pride. She slowly circled the entrance hall, hands clasped behind her back as she remembered their conversation word for word. Brother, dear, I miss you terribly, but if you were here, I’d black your eyes and kick your shins for holding your friends to such a ridiculous promise. Nicholas owned much of the blame as well. He used his honor to make decisions for all of them. He deserved a kick or two of his own.
He cared for her. He wanted her. What promise kept him from loving her?
I came to this farce of a house party to marry one woman only. Elizabeth Sterling is most definitely not that woman.
Mary Tidings was to meet a gentlemen at this house party.
“Christmas pudding,” Elizabeth muttered. “Flaming Christmas pudding.”
She picked up her skirts, and in a very unladylike manner, raced up two flights of stairs, past two injured footmen, a maid with a tray, and a shocked Mrs. Holly to knock once on Mary Tidings’s chamber door. Elizabeth lifted the latch and burst into the room so suddenly the dog jumped from his place on the hearthrug and began to bark.
“Miss Tidings, is Nicholas St. Gabriel the father of your child?” Apparently being kissed senseless deprived one of all thought of good manners.
“Hush, Joseph. Down.” Once the dog obeyed, Miss Tidings indicated the chair next to her bed. “Sit down, Miss Sterling. It is time I told you the truth.”