Wicked Promise (11 page)

"I also scared her half to death. It's a wonder she hasn't packed up and left." He shook his head. "I hope I can convince her it won't happen again."

Elias made a rude sound in his throat. "I hope ye can convince yerself."

Nick gave him a brief sidelong glance, stepped out in the hall, and closed the door behind him. Elias was right. As bad as he felt about taking advantage of Elizabeth the other night, he still wanted her. Now more than ever. Dammit to hell, if only he could send her away, get her out of his life, out of his blood. But he couldn't do that, at least not yet. Thank God the Season was fast approaching. Sydney Birdsall would already be compiling a list of eligible bachelors, suitable choices from which Elizabeth could find a husband.

In the meantime, he would simply stay away from her, do what he had been doing for the past nine years.

Soothe his appetites somewhere else.

The conservatory was humid and warm, a tall glass- enclosed structure sitting off at one end of the house. It wasn't a place he frequented, since he preferred the out-of-doors, but his mother had always enjoyed it. The last time he had been there, it was badly overgrown. He had meant to order the dead foliage stripped away and something green planted in its stead. He had never quite got round to it.

Now, as he pulled open the door, he was surprised to see Barnaby Engles, his chief gardener, furiously pulling weeds, tossing them into a growing pile at his feet. Elizabeth worked a few yards away, carefully scraping the dead leaves from the soil at the base of a row of miniature orange trees.

Nick watched her a moment then made his way in that direction, stopping directly in front of her. When she still didn't see him, he cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, nervous all of a sudden.

"I can see that you are busy. I'm sorry to intrude, but I was hoping I might have a word with you."

She brushed the dirt from the front of her simple blue gown, her face flushed with a hint of embarrassment that he had found her working on her hands and knees. "Of course, my lord."

He waited while she washed in a rusted bucket of water and dried her hands on a scrap of linen, then allowed her to walk in front of him out of the conservatory and back inside the house. He motioned her into a small salon he called the Quiet Room and softly closed the door.

Elizabeth waited for his direction, then took a seat in an overstuffed dark green velvet chair. Nick sat down in a carved wooden chair across from her.

He drew in a steadying breath. "This isn't easy for me, Elizabeth. I'm not a man used to making apologies, but the fact is, as much as I hate to admit it, I owe you one."

Her head came up. Color seeped into her cheeks. "That is the reason you brought me here?"

"Yes. I was out of line the other night. I was completely in the wrong and I am sorry. My only excuse is the fear I experienced when I saw what those men were trying to do. I was angry at myself for letting it happen and angry at you for putting yourself in danger."

She kept her eyes trained on his face, but her hands were clenched tightly together. "We were both of us upset. I was frightened; you were angry. It was really no one's fault."

Nick shook his head. "I took advantage. What happened between us should never have occurred. I'm your guardian. I am older, and obviously I should be—"

"You are not all that much older, my lord. And if you think I see you as some sort of father figure, you are quite mistaken."

For a long time he said nothing, but he couldn't help wondering just how Elizabeth Woolcot did see him.

"Your rescue was most timely. You were quite brave and I have been meaning to thank you."

"Thank me? Make no mistake, Elizabeth. You owe me no thanks. All I ask is that you forget what happened between us."

She glanced down, studied the smattering of freckles on the backs of her hands. Slender hands, long-fingered and graceful. "No one has ever kissed me that way," she said. "I doubt I shall ever forget it."

Nick felt a surge of heat at the back of his neck. It traveled through his limbs and settled low in his groin. He doubted he would forget it, either. "I've posted guards around the garden. You'll be safe there from now on. You'll be able to enjoy your birds without fear someone may be lurking behind the walls."

She smiled with such pleasure something tightened in his chest. "Thank you, my lord. I admit I have missed it sorely."

Nick simply nodded. "The conservatory was a shambles. I am grateful for your direction in setting it aright. Let me know if there is anything you need." He rose to his feet and she did as well, but she made no move to leave. He left her standing in front of the overstuffed chair, her gown slightly wrinkled, the hem covered with dirt, looking more desirable than any woman he had ever seen.

He headed straight for the decanter of gin in his study. Tomorrow Baron St. George would be returning, along with Lord Percy and Richard Turner-Wilcox. They were bringing something "guaranteed to divert him," their message had said.

He had never been more grateful for such an occasion.

Elizabeth lay awake in her bedchamber, staring at the mauve silk canopy above her head. She was thinking of the earl, remembering his apology that afternoon. It was the last thing that she had expected.

Then again, perhaps it shouldn't have come as such a surprise. The earl took his duties seriously, she had learned, for all his rakish ways and wicked pastimes. Still, it had come as somewhat of a shock. An apology, she had reasoned, would not be forthcoming from a man who took what he wanted from a woman and never looked back.

And in truth, she didn't deserve one. After the first few startling moments, she had enjoyed the kiss. It was every bit as exciting as Nicholas himself, and as much as she knew she should regret it, she did not.

He is married
, the voice of her conscience told her.

He is lonely
, she argued.
He has been abandoned
. It was silly, she knew. A ridiculous rationale to keep her from feeling guilty, but in truth part of her believed it. Rachael Warring was no wife. The Earl of Ravenworth had no wife, nothing but a name scrolled beside his in the register of some ancient church. In the eyes of God, he was alone.

Elizabeth couldn't stop wondering what he might have been like if he had married a woman who loved him, who had stayed by his side when he needed her.

And she couldn't stop thinking about that kiss.

Elizabeth unbuttoned the top of her nightgown, suddenly overly warm. She could still feel the pressure of his tall, hard body, the movement of the muscles across his chest. Against the thin cotton fabric, her nipples peaked and her skin grew damp. It was desire, she knew. Desire for Nicholas Warring.

Elizabeth understood little of what happened between a man and a woman, but she knew desire was a part of it. In the hayloft back home in West Clandon, she had seen a couple lying naked, holding each other in a passionate embrace. She had turned away, of course, run like a deer back to the house, but she had never forgotten the rapture on their faces, or the soft sighs of pleasure that seeped from the barn.

She thought of that scene now, but the man she imagined naked wasn't one of her father's grooms. It was tall, dark Nicholas Warring. Brown-skinned and sleekly muscled, a tough man with a hard mouth that softened when he kissed. Sweet God, she wanted him. Wanted him to touch her, to kiss her. To do whatever it was a man did to a woman to make her his.

She was attracted to Nicholas Warring in a way she had never been attracted to a man before. In truth, she was afraid she was falling in love with him.

Sweet God, you must be mad, said the voice. The earl is the one man you can never have.

If only she could go home, back to her house in West Clan- don. She would be safe from this dangerous attraction she felt for the earl, safe from the riot of feelings he stirred whenever he was near. Elizabeth knew there was no going home. Not yet, not until she was safely married.

Oddly enough, a husband—her salvation from Bascomb, the home and family she had always dreamed of—was the last thing she wanted now.

Oliver Hampton surveyed his beaten and battered men. Nathan Peel had two black eyes and a cut beside his nose. Charlie Barker, with his swollen lip, scabbed-over knuckles, and bruises on his chin, looked as if he had fought in a war, to say nothing of the broken arm in a sling across his chest.

Oliver's lip curled in distaste just to look at them. "You two make me sick. I send you out to do a simple job and twice now you have botched it. I ought to have a go at you myself."

"The man's a bloody maniac, is what he is," Charlie grumbled. "Come at us outta nowhere, fought like some kinda madman."

"Yes, well, the man is a killer. You knew that when you took the job."

"He's got guards all over the place," Nathan said. "Ain't no way we can get to her now."

Oliver came out of his chair, his big hands fisted as he leaned over his desk. "You will find a way to get to her—do you hear? I shall hire a couple more men—someone who isn't afraid to use a little force. If you eliminate a few of those guards, you won't have a bit of trouble getting in."

"You ain't askin' us to kill someone?" Barker asked warily.

Oliver ground down on his jaw. "I'm not asking you—I'm telling you. I'm ordering you to get that girl any way you can. If someone gets in your way, you will deal with him."

"We'll have to get in the house," Nathan said. "We can't sit around waitin' for her to come out again."

"All right. We'll need someone to help us from the inside, but I can handle that. With the flotsam in Ravenworth's employ, it shouldn't be all that difficult to find someone with the taste for a bit of gold. It'll take me a little time to get everything lined up. As soon as I do, you'll go after her. I want that girl and I want her soon. And I don't want any more failures."

Charlie looked uneasy, but Nathan simply nodded.

Oliver pinned the bigger man with a glare. "What about you, Barker? Are you in or are you out? The man broke your arm. I would think you'd have a score to settle."

Charlie grunted. "I can still ride a horse and I can shoot. Ravenworth gets in my way, this time he's a dead man."

For the first time Oliver smiled. "That's more like it. You get this done and I'll pay you double what I promised. That'll keep you in women and liquor for a good long time." The words seemed to please them. The two men came to their feet while Oliver sat back down in his chair.

"You get us those men," Barker said, "we'll get you the girl."

"Done." Oliver watched them leave, his thoughts returning to Elizabeth Woolcot. In the eye of his mind, he saw her big green eyes and long dark auburn hair, remembered the feel of her breasts pressing into his chest that day on the sofa, and his body went instantly hard. He would have her. By God, he would have her and soon.

Oliver smiled. Reaching across his desk, he lifted the lid off a cut-crystal humidor sitting near the edge, and pulled out a fat cigar. All the years, all the waiting, would soon be over. Biting off the end, he bent toward the fire and lit the end.

It felt like a moment that needed a little celebration.

"The bloody leeches 'ave arrived." Mercy Brown shook her head, thick dark brown hair spilling over one shoulder. The girl often wore it down, clipped back on the sides, a tantalizing mass of curls that swung seductively against her broad hips as she moved.

"So I gathered," Elizabeth said. "A note came advising us the earl would be receiving guests tonight and that supper for my aunt and myself would be served upstairs in our suite." She plucked a loose thread from the bodice of her blue muslin gown, looked up to where Mercy stood beside the window. "By the way, which leeches are they?"

Mercy made a face, her pretty lips curling in distaste. "That foulmouthed Baron St. George and that no-good Lord Percy. And of course there's that lecher, Richard Turner-Wilcox. 'E's the best of the lot and all 'e thinks of is which of 'is tarts 'e's gonna tup next."

Elizabeth stifled a smile. She was growing used to Mercy's blunt language. In a way it was refreshing. Elizabeth had never known a woman who spoke with such candor. And yet, considering the way she talked and dressed, Mercy was surprisingly prudish. She wanted the men's attention, but she expected them to behave like gentlemen. Elizabeth wondered if perhaps she were angling for a husband.

Several hours passed. A commotion in front of the house announced that a second conveyance had arrived. Elizabeth was standing at the window when Mercy burst into the room, walking with her usual energetic stride toward the place where she stood.

"Turner-Wilcox and 'is bloody tarts—a sodden carriage- load of 'em."

Elizabeth turned back to the scene below, more curious than outraged as Mercy seemed to be. Four silk-gowned women stepped down to the gravel drive, their faces whitened with rice powder, their lips and cheeks reddened with rouge. With their flashy feather bonnets and ruffled silk parasols, they were garishly dressed and overdone, but still, they were pretty, their figures womanly, their breasts high and full, nearly spilling from the tops of their low-cut gowns.

"Wagtails for Turner-Wilcox and 'is no-account friends."

Elizabeth merely shrugged. She was no longer shocked by the earl's unconventional visitors. She didn't particularly like the idea of the house being overrun with ladies of the evening, but the earl was helping her when no one else would, and as she had said, it was not her place to disapprove.

And strangely enough, she wasn't worried about the effect the women might have on the earl. If Miriam Beechcroft was any example, his taste ran to a far more refined, more subtle sort than that.

As handsome as he was, even with—or perhaps because of—his sordid reputation, he was appealing to any number of females. Elizabeth didn't doubt there were a score of beautiful women from whom he could pick and choose.