Wicked Promise (2 page)

The smaller man hurried to the door and jerked it open. To Nick's amazement, Elizabeth Woolcot, caught off balance, tilted precariously forward then stumbled into the room. Only Sydney's quick reactions kept her from landing in a heap on the inlaid parquet floor. As it was, the ribbon on her hat came loose and her bonnet went sailing into a corner, leaving her head bare, strands of glossy auburn hair floating loose around her cheeks.

For the first time Nick realized why it was Oliver Hampton was so determined to have her.

"I—I'm sorry," she stammered. "I was just... I was just..."

Nick came out of his chair. "You were just what, Miss Woolcot? Eavesdropping, I believe it is called. Isn't that the term?"

Soft color rose into her cheeks. They were high and finely carved. "No, not... not exactly. I was ... I was merely waiting outside in case you wished to see me."

Amusement curved his lips. She was lovely in the extreme, with big green eyes and hair the color of a dark winter fire. It was pulled back in a coil at the nape of her neck, but every time she moved, sparks of copper flashed in the lamplight. Her lashes were thick and dark, her skin as pale as fresh cream. She was slightly taller than average, with an elegant figure, ripe yet not overblown, alluring yet refined, and infinitely tempting.

Sydney Birdsall was frowning, struggling to defend the girl's unorthodox behavior. "Elizabeth is young and at times can be impetuous. She might be a little stubborn and perhaps a bit willful, but she is also keenly intelligent, loyal and caring, and generous to a fault."

Nick's eyes remained fixed on the girl. "I'm certain she is, but as I said, she can't possibly stay here."

"It wouldn't be for long," Sydney pleaded. "Your father made provisions for a sizable dowry. The Season will be starting in a couple of months. Once we find her a suitable husband and she is married, she'll be safe from Oliver Hampton and whatever dubious fate he might have in mind for her."

Nick shook his head. "It wouldn't work. Her reputation would be so blackened living under my roof she would never find a husband."

"She wouldn't come unchaperoned. Her aunt would accompany her. And for all your sins, you're still an earl and one of the wealthiest men in England. With careful planning a proper match could be made."

"I'm sorry, Sydney. If you were asking anything else—-"

A slender foot stomped down. "I wish you would both stop talking about me as if I weren't in the room. It is highly rude and no little discomfiting." Big green eyes locked with his and didn't look away. There was fire in those eyes, Nick saw, and perhaps a hint of desperation.

"At last she speaks." But she said nothing else, just stared straight ahead, her eyes fixed on the wall. Nick approached her, sizing her up from head to foot, admiring the lovely picture she made. He stopped directly in front of her, forcing her to tilt her head to look at him.

"Sydney tells me you are stubborn. That at times you can be willful. What do you say, Miss Woolcot?"

Her chin angled up. There was a tiny cleft at the bottom, he noticed, shadowed by the fullness of her wide bottom lip.

"If stubborn means I refuse to marry a filthy piece of trash like Oliver Hampton, then I must be stubborn. If willful means I have a will of my own, then I am that as well."

Amusement lifted the corner of his mouth. His gaze roamed over her. He didn't miss the tiny tremor that shook her hands. "I presume Sydney has told you about me."

"I am not ignorant of whom you are, if that is what you are asking. I am aware you were convicted of Stephen Hampton's murder nine years ago. I know you were transported for the crime and that you've been returned to England less than two years."

"And you still wish to stay beneath my roof? Surely you are afraid. Surely you would worry your life might be in danger."

Her shoulders subtly squared. "I am in danger from Bas- comb. I believe he will force himself on me at the earliest opportunity in order to press me into marriage. I cannot fathom his reasons, since I make no secret of my disgust of him. But I will do anything to keep that from happening. Aside from that, Mr. Birdsall assures me I have nothing to fear from you."

Sydney's voice rose from a few feet away. "As I said, Nicholas, I know your wicked reputation. I also know that behind that rakehell façade is a man of courage and honor, and that if you were to take this young woman into your care you would protect her with your very life."

Nick said nothing. What Sydney said was true—if he took the girl in, there was no way in hell he would let her fall prey to an animal like Bascomb.

He returned his gaze to Elizabeth Woolcot. "Your home in Surrey is next to the earl's. Is that not correct?"

"Yes. That is why I know the sort of man he is. Lord Bascomb is a cheat and a liar. He takes what he wants without the slightest qualm. Even now our upstairs maid, Priscilla Tweed, is heavy with his child. The poor girl was a servant in his household. Bascomb forced himself on her then cast her out when he discovered she was increasing."

Nick's jaw clamped shut. The story sounded all too familiar. But then Oliver and Stephen had both been cut from the same rotten cloth.

He took another long look at the girl, caught the faintest trembling of her full bottom lip. His attention turned to his solicitor. "All right, Sydney, you win. For reasons even I am loath to explain, I will let the girl stay and see that she is kept safe—on one condition."

"Which is?" Sydney asked with a hopeful glance at the girl.

"She and her aunt will occupy the far west wing, and except for meals when guests are not present, or unless they are invited, they will remain there. I refuse to change the way I live for Miss Woolcot or anyone else. If she can live with those arrangements—"

"I can," she broke in, her eyes suddenly bright with relief. "I mean... thank you, my lord, those conditions would be quite agreeable to my aunt and to me."

He almost smiled. "Good. Then perhaps this will all work out."

"Yes," Sydney said, smiling for the first time since his arrival. "We shall make certain it does." He clapped Nick on the shoulder. "I knew I could count on you, my boy. Thank you, Nicholas. I can rest easy now, knowing dear Elizabeth is safe in your care."

Nick made no comment. The girl was his ward and she would be safe at Ravenworth. He had given his word and he meant to keep it.

Turning, he walked away, determined to forget those big leaf-green eyes and the dark burnished sheen of Elizabeth Woolcot's hair.

Aunt Sophie arrived at Ravenworth Hall three days later. The earl had sent his plush traveling carriage to Elizabeth's home, and her plump, gray-haired aunt, Mrs. Sophia Crabbe, appeared on the front porch steps of the hall looking none the worse for the two-day journey from West Clandon, a small village three miles east of Guildford.

Hurrying in her direction, Elizabeth hugged the little woman just entering her sixty-fifth year, her mother's older sister, Elizabeth's closest living relative.

Aunt Sophie appraised her from top to bottom, then nodded, apparently satisfied with whatever it was she saw. "Well, child, apparently you've survived your first few days without a mishap." The butler accepted Aunt Sophie's woolen cloak while the heavyset woman turned to survey the entry. "All right, where is he? I should like to meet this ogre who has instead turned out to be our savior."

Elizabeth flushed as Nicholas Warring materialized like a ghost out of the shadows. It was the first time she had seen him since the day they had spoken in his study.

He smiled, though rather thinly, apparently nonplussed by Aunt Sophie's words. "Nicholas Warring," he said with a slight bow of his head. "A pleasure, Mrs. Crabbe."

He sounded as if he meant it, which she knew he did not. He wasn't the least bit happy about either of his most recent guests, but at least he was gentleman enough not to show it.

Aunt Sophie beamed, spots of red appearing in her apple- round cheeks. "Well, aren't you just the image of your father, and every bit as handsome, too."

A slashing black brow arched up. "I had forgotten that you knew my father."

"And your lovely mother, Constance, as well, God rest their poor, dear, departed souls. Good people—the salt of the earth—were your mother and father. I imagine you must miss them very much."

Something flickered in the earl's silver-blue eyes. His posture grew a little more erect. "Yes. I am sorry I wasn't here when they died."

"Yes, yes, terrible thing your being sent away like that, and all for killing that awful Hampton boy. No doubt he deserved it. No doubt at all."

"Aunt Sophie—" Elizabeth gently gripped her aunt's plump arm, hoping to steer her away from an unpleasant subject, but the older woman kept on talking.

"And what of your lovely sister?'' she asked. "Does Lady Margaret fare well?"

Any pretense of a smile slid from his lips. "My sister has chosen a life in the Sacred Heart Convent. Though I haven't seen her in quite some time, from the letters I receive, I presume she is faring quite well."

But for whatever reason, Nicholas Warring didn't seem happy she was there. Aunt Sophie opened her mouth to say something else, but Elizabeth cut her off before she could speak.

"I'm certain my aunt is tired after such a long journey. If you don't mind, my lord, I would show her upstairs and help her get settled in her rooms." It was obvious the subject of his sister wasn't a pleasant one. Elizabeth couldn't help wondering why.

Ravenworth nodded stiffly and bent to take the old woman's white-gloved hand. He frowned slightly when he noticed the dirty ball of string she clutched like gold against her bosom.

Elizabeth forced herself to smile. "My aunt... ah, likes to collect things." She grimaced to think of the filthy bits of string, wrinkled scraps of paper, shells and odd-colored stones that would, if left unattended soon fill every corner of Aunt Sophie's room.

The earl stared down at the string. "So I see," he said dryly. He flashed her a pointed glare. "I'm expecting some friends from London this evening. Since I'm sure you and your aunt would prefer your privacy, I'll have supper sent up to your sitting room."

Elizabeth smiled thinly. "How thoughtful." He didn't miss the sarcasm and she didn't miss the warning in his eyes.
You know the rules
, that dark look said.
I'll expect you to obey them
. She nudged her aunt toward the stairs. "Have a good evening, my lord."

N
ick stood at the window of his study. A watery late February sun shone down between the branches of the trees, casting fingerlike shadows over the stark winter landscape. Strolling the gravel paths between the hedgerows, Elizabeth Woolcot's cloaked figure paused to study the hollyhocks and ivy beds, the skimmia and carpets of heath that made up the winter garden.

She wandered a little farther, toward a small meandering stream that tumbled over rocks, formed a pool, then disappeared into the rolling grassy fields beyond. Nick had seen her there before, heedless of the chill in the air, the blustery breeze, or even an occasional light fall of rain. It was obvious she liked the out-of-doors, and equally clear from the bloom in her cheeks that the fresh air agreed with her.

He couldn't help comparing her to his latest mistress, the self-centered Lady Dandridge, a woman who hardly set foot out of doors for fear of dampening her perfectly coiffed hair or freckling her flawlessly white, unblemished skin. He wondered what Elizabeth Woolcot would think of Miriam but he was fairly sure he knew the answer.

Footsteps sounded. Nick's gaze slid past the heavy walnut paneling, the rows of gold-lettered, leather-bound books, to the place where Nigel Wicker, Baron St. George, had just walked in through the open study door.

"Ah... so there you are, old boy. We were wondering where you'd got off to." He was a florid, overweight man in his early forties, prone to gout and somewhat foulmouthed. But he liked to gamble and he liked to whore. He was a friend of Lord Percy's, who was a friend of Lord Tidwicke's, and somewhere along the way they had all become friends of Nick's.

"Percy is looking for you," the baron went on. "Got a game of whist going in the Oak Room and they want you to join the play."

"It's early yet. I was just finishing up in here." Going over the ledgers, checking on his tenants, getting ready for the spring barley sowing, for planting vegetables, peas, and beans. But he didn't say that. It was no one else's business and it hardly fit his image.

"Richard's winning," the baron said, "feeling quite the thing. He says his luck is running. Tidwicke and I have a bet. I say you'll have Richard's winnings cleaned out and a marker to boot before it's time for supper."

His mouth curved at that. He could beat Richard Turner- Wilcox six ways to dawn if he put his mind to it and stayed off the drink. Then again, where was the fun in that?

"All right, I'll be there in a minute. Ask one of the servants to bring me some gin, would you?'' He grinned. "Suddenly I'm feeling very thirsty."

"Gin." St. George grimaced. "Most uncivilized." He went out muttering something about the evils of blue ruin, the cheap liquor Nick had developed a taste for during his years of indenture.

Nick didn't care. He'd given up worrying about what other people thought of him years ago.

A few minutes passed and a light knock sounded. Theophilus Swann, his number-one footman, appeared at the door. "Yer gin, milord." Dressed in Raven worth black and scarlet livery, blond and fair-skinned with a receding hairline, Theo lifted a crystal decanter and a thick-bottomed glass off a silver salver and set it on the desk. "Will there be anythin' else, milord?"

"Nothing at present Thank you, Theo." The footman backed away and Nick took a long sip of the cool, clear liquid, enjoying the burn as it began to warm his stomach. He gazed back out the window, easily finding the slender figure now perched on a wrought-iron bench beneath a willow tree at the far end of the garden.