Wicked Promise (22 page)

Now, as she sat in the drawing room, she pondered Nicholas's return. He had arrived at the town house late last night, his clothes wrinkled and smelling of liquor, his face unshaven, his features haggard and drawn. He had said not a word, had gone upstairs and locked himself in his bedchamber. She hadn't seen him since.

"You look tired, my dear." Aunt Sophie twined another piece of string around the dirty ball of odds and ends she held in her lap. They were seated in front of the fire, Elizabeth fidgeting, gazing toward the stairs, wishing she could somehow make Nicholas appear. "Worrying about his lordship will not do a single ounce of good."

Elizabeth flushed. Was she really so easy to read? "I was just . . . perhaps I am a bit tired." That was a lie. She wasn't the least bit weary, but certainly tired of whatever cat and mouse game the Earl of Ravenworth continued to play.

"Why don't you go on upstairs and get some sleep? Lord Tricklewood will be here again on the morrow. You did say that he would be taking us to do a bit of shopping?"

"Yes . . . yes, I did." David was the only one she had told about Bascomb. He had been outraged, of course, and agreed to whatever precautions Elias and Theo might make in order to keep her safe. Seeing himself as her protector had increased his ardor, as well as his determination to win her hand, but Elizabeth wasn't ready to make so grave a decision. Not yet. Not until she had spoken to Nicholas.

Not until he told her the truth about the way he felt.

He made an appearance the following afternoon. With a polite but brusque greeting, he ordered a light lunch served to him in his study and closed himself in.

At least he had shaved, she thought with a bitter pang, and the clothes he wore were presentable, but deep lines gouged his forehead and fatigue marred his harshly elegant face.

She stared at the door closed against her and an ache rose deep in her chest. Tears burned the backs of her eyes and she blinked to push them away. She refused to cry for Nicholas. She had suffered for him long enough.

For an hour, Elizabeth nervously paced the floor of the drawing room, waiting for him to appear, trying to work up the courage to confront him. By the time the clock struck four, her nerves were strung taut and anger formed twin spots of color in her cheeks.

Sweet God, he was as much to blame as she for what had happened. Whatever he was thinking, she deserved better treatment than this! Her hand slammed hard against the wall. Right or wrong, nervous or not, she had waited long enough!

Lifting the narrow skirt of her mint-green muslin day dress, Elizabeth stormed toward the drawing room door and out into the hallway. Her footsteps echoed along the marble passage, announcing her arrival long before she knocked on the study door.

"What is it?" The familiar cadence of his voice evoked a sharp sting of longing. Elizabeth didn't answer, just opened the door and walked in.

Nicholas's head snapped up. "Elizabeth ..."

"That is correct, my lord. I am surprised you remember my name, since my presence here seems to have slipped your mind these past few days."

He came to his feet behind the desk, but made no other move in her direction. "I've been meaning to talk to you. I thought perhaps later in the day—"

"Not later, Nicholas. Now. This very minute."

Ravenworth said nothing, but a muscle jumped in his cheek. There was something in his eyes, something dark and forbid- ding, something of regret or defeat. The sight somehow moved her, made the ache rise again in her chest, yet it did not weaken her resolve. She could not let it. The pain of not knowing was simply too great.

She forced up her chin. "You've been gone for three days. You left without a word. After ,.. what happened ... how do you think that makes me feel? You can't just simply ignore me. You cannot pretend that I am not here."

"I didn't mean to. It's just that.. " He broke off, glanced away.

"It's just what, Nicholas? I have to know. I have to understand what is going on in your head." A thick lump formed in her throat. She swallowed hard to get past it. "Whatever you are thinking, I can handle it. I'm a strong woman, Nicholas. Since my mother and father died, I have had to be." Unwelcome tears burned her eyes. She tried to blink them away, but they welled and began to slide down her cheeks. "I can deal with whatever it is you have to say." Her voice cracked. "All I ask is that you tell me the truth."

"Elizabeth... ah, God, love." He rounded the desk and walked toward her, and a painful ache throbbed in her chest. His hands came to rest on her shoulders, elegant hands, strong yet gentle. "I'm sorry," he whispered, trying to draw her close, but Elizabeth would not let him.

"Don't you dare say you are sorry. Don't you ever say that to me again."

Nicholas shook his head, his eyes dark with frustration. He raked a hand through his hair. "You don't understand. I'm not sorry that we made love, only that I've hurt you again. I'm sorry I didn't speak to you sooner, tell you the truth."

She brushed at the tears on her cheeks, feeling pitiful and lost and hating herself for it. "What truth?"

Tension crept into his shoulders, and Elizabeth felt a dull pang of dread. "I went to see Rachael. I asked her to give me a divorce."

"What?" Surely she hadn't heard him correctly. "You asked for a divorce? But why would you—"

"You know why, Bess. So that I could marry you."

Elizabeth said nothing, just let the incredible words sink in. You know why, Bess. So that I could marry you. Her heart began pounding, battering frantically against her ribs.

"Rachael said no," he went on. "She said she liked being the Countess of Ravenworth. She said she would make certain we were never able to marry."

"Oh, Nicholas." She went into his arms and he drew her close, cradling her head against his shoulder. "I never expected you to do something so wonderful, so terribly courageous." I only wanted you to love me.

His muscles went rigid again. Nicholas stepped away. "Didn't you hear me? She said no, Bess. There is nothing more we can do."

"I don't care what she said. It doesn't matter. All that matters is that you wanted to marry me, that you cared enough to risk yourself that way." She cupped his face between her hands. "I know the sort of scandal a divorce would cause. I know the kind of courage it took for you to go there. Can't you see? I don't care that you are married. I only want to be with you—any way that I can."

Nicholas shook his head, a thick black curl falling over his forehead. "You don't know what you're saying, what it would mean."

"I do know. Other men have mistresses. You have had any number of them. That I become one of them doesn't matter in the least."

"It does matter. I'm your guardian. You're an innocent young woman in my care. Once the ton discovers what we are about—and sooner or later they will—we'll be ostracized forever. This time there will be no return."

"I don't care. I don't care about anything but you."

"What about Bascomb? You need a husband to keep you safe."

Elizabeth shook her head. "I don't need a husband. At least I won't after Bascomb finds out you are sleeping in my bed. He wanted to marry me. I doubt he will want me after he discovers that I am a fallen woman."

Nicholas said nothing for the longest time. "That may be true, but there are other things to consider ... more important things even than Bascomb." His troubled gaze searched her face. "What if there are children, Elizabeth? You realize they will be bastards? Can you tell me in good conscience you would wish that on a child?"

Pain settled into her chest and she turned away. Having a child out of wedlock. She could barely imagine such a thing. "There are ways to avoid conception, if that is what you want."

He gripped her shoulders, turning her to face him. "That is not what I wan! I want sons. I want a family of my own. I have wanted it every day of my life for the past nine years. But the children we would have would be shunned by Society. They would suffer for our indiscretions and an illegitimate birth that is not of their choosing. I would not want that for my sons."

Fresh tears burned, formed a hot path down her cheeks. "If we had children, we would love them, Nicholas. We would love them and somehow we would protect them."

Nicholas reached for her, gathered her into his arms and buried his face in her hair. "Are you sure, Elizabeth? Are you sure that is what you want?"

She nodded against his chest, her hands clutching his shoulders. "I'm sure." She turned her face up to his and saw him through a film of tears. "I love you, Nicholas Warring. I didn't want to. God knows I tried not to—but the fact is I do. I don't want to marry Robert Tinsely or David Endicott. There is no one else I want but you."

He crushed her against him, held her for long, achingly tender moments. When he stepped away, the haunted look had faded from his face, the hollow, bone-weary expression was gone, "It won't be easy," he said. "We'll have to plan very carefully."

"Perhaps it would be best to return to Ravenworth Hall. My aunt and I could find a cottage nearby—"

Nicholas shook his head. "We can't leave London, not yet. We still have Maggie to consider. She has only just begun to make a new life. We cannot destroy what she has only just started to build."

Lady Margaret. How could she have forgotten? "No, of course not. I was being selfish. I hadn't thought of Maggie."

His hand gently brushed her cheek. "Already she is beleaguered with suitors. If we are careful, perhaps for a time— long enough to see my sister settled—we can manage to avoid being caught. The first thing we must do is get you out of here. I'll arrange to let a town house for you and your aunt somewhere near." He frowned. "It may be difficult to keep your aunt from finding out."

Elizabeth flicked a glance at the door, thinking of the woman who had come, to mean so much to her in the years since her mother had died. "I'll speak to Aunt Sophie. I know my aunt may be odd, but she is the most giving, warmhearted woman I have ever known. Aunt Sophie might have wished for a different sort of life for me, but I know she will understand. I believe she knew even before' I did, the way I felt about you. She has always just wanted me to be happy."

The tension eased from Nicholas's broad shoulders. "There is still the problem of Bascomb, but whether you are here or somewhere else will not change the threat he poses. The servants in my town house are all handpicked. They have long ago learned the value of discretion. The ones I brought from Ravenworth Hall would never do anything to betray me. You'll have Theo and Elias, Mercy, of course, and I'll be there as much as I can. Once Maggie's future is settled, we can return to the country. As soon as we do, we'll allow Bas- comb's spies to discover the truth about us, and you will finally be safe. We will both be ruined, but perhaps that is not such a high price to pay."

Something tightened in her chest. She would be his mistress, another of Nick Warring's women. It was a frightening step and yet she felt she had no other choice.

Reaching up, she cupped his cheek. "No. . ." she agreed. "If we can be together, no price is too high to pay." The silver of his eyes turned a hot, sultry blue. He lowered his head and kissed her, a long, hard, deeply erotic kiss that left both of them groaning, wishing they were somewhere—any-where—besides his study.

"We'll work things out," he whispered. "You won't be sorry, Elizabeth. I'll take care of you. You'll have everything you ever wanted."

A chill slid through her. Elizabeth pressed her face into his shoulder to hide a sudden feeling of doubt. She would be with him and he would take care of her, but Nicholas would never really be hers. He belonged to another woman. She told herself it didn't matter. All that mattered was Nicholas and that they would finally be together. But the niggling doubt remained.

If only he had told me he loved me. Surely he did, she thought. He had wanted her enough to marry her.

Still, the tiny flicker of doubt refused to go away. 

"Go on," Oliver prompted, leaning back in his deep red leather chair.

The little man scratched his balding head then looked up. "Like I was sayin', gov'nor. Until last week, she was making the social rounds, just like you said. Had at least half a dozen suitors—though me money was on Tricklewood or Sir Robert Tinsely. Then three days ago, the gel and her aunt moved out of his lordship's town house. Rumor was, it was better for the lady's reputation, him bein' the Wicked Earl and all."

Oliver suppressed a smile of satisfaction. So Ravenworth thought it was safe for her to leave, that Oliver had finally given up his pursuit. If the earl thought Elizabeth's suitors and the prospect of her marriage posed an obstacle he couldn't overcome, the man was a bigger fool than he had believed.

"How many men does Ravenworth have guarding her?"

The little man pursed his lips. "Near as I can tell, he's got men posted outside round the clock—the same who was guarding his town house. Inside there's his valet, Elias Moody, and a footman name of Swann."

"Yes . . . Ravenworth's convicts. He values their services highly."

"And rightfully so, the way I hear. Word round abouts is that Moody is as tough as boot leather, and one of the best men with his fists ever to come down the pike."

Oliver pondered that. He had known getting to the girl, especially here in London, wouldn't be all that easy. "I gave you the name of my man on the inside, the one who sold us information before. For enough money, I think he would sell his own mother. Did you have a chance to speak to him?"

Wendel nodded. "Talked to him first thing this mornin'. Didn't seem all that eager to help, but as you said, a bit of coin seemed to loosen his tongue."

"What did he say?"

"Not much. Said I'd heard right about Moody, and that Swann was a whole lot tougher than he looked. Said he'd keep his eyes open, let us know if there was anything he thought we oughtta know."

Oliver shoved a small leather pouch across his desk. It clinked pleasantly as the little man picked it up, hefting the weight of the coins in his hand.

"Keep up the good work," Oliver told him. "There'll be more where that came from as long as you keep me informed."

Wendel Cheek rose from his chair and slipped from the room as slickly as he did everything else. Oliver pondered this latest information. As soon as things settled down, he would send for the rest of his men. Charlie Barker and Nathan Peel had failed him before, but after he had saved them from a stint in prison—perhaps even a trip to the gallows—they were eager to make amends.

Oliver glanced down at the calendar that sat open on his desk. An invitation had been received for a costume ball tonight at the Duke of Chester's mansion, one of the social events of the season. Husband-hunting as she was, Elizabeth was bound to attend.

Oliver smiled thinly. He had stayed in the background long enough. He had missed seeing Elizabeth's lovely face, missed touching that silky auburn hair. In public, there was little he could do in the way of seduction, yet there was always the chance he might get her alone long enough to blacken her name and force her into marriage. In lieu of that, a bit of dancing, perhaps a little conversation, would have to do.

As wealthy and powerful as he was, if she wished to remain the darling of the ton, he knew she couldn't refuse.

The Duke of Chester's mansion on the outskirts of the city was nearly as impressive as Beldon's. He had spared no expense on the lavish costume ball that was his favorite event of the year and had become a sort of tradition. His third-floor ballroom glittered with thousands of candles, so many there were footmen with water cans at the doors in case of an accidental fire.

So far there had been no such mishaps. The mirrored walls shimmered with light and glinted off the gold and silver sequins, pearls, and brilliants that studded the lavish costumes each guest wore. Women gowned as Cleopatra, Joan of Arc, and Aphrodite; milkmaids, mermaids, butterflies, and angels. Men dressed as sixteenth-century courtiers, knights in armor, sailors, soldiers—any and every sort of costume one could imagine.

With her future still so nebulous, Elizabeth hadn't really wanted to attend, but Nicholas had insisted.

"We have to go on with our lives as if nothing has changed. We have to think of Maggie."

In a way nothing really had changed. Though she and Aunt Sophie now had a town house in Maddox Street just a few blocks north of Berkeley Square, Nicholas had yet to make an appearance. She wasn't quite sure why. She knew he was concerned for his sister, hoping one of the men paying court to her would make an offer for her hand.

Not that he felt any of them were good enough. Not for his Maggie. Still, in the past his sister had wanted a husband and family. Now that she had left the convent, he wanted her to have the chance. Time was what she needed. Nicholas intended to see that she got it.

Elizabeth glanced around the lavish ballroom, wondering where he was. She had arrived with Aunt Sophie, Maggie, the Duke of Beldon, and the dowager duchess, an odd little assembly with Aunt Sophie dressed as a medieval matron in tunic and tall, cone-shaped hennin; the duke in a Roman toga that bared one powerfully muscled shoulder; Maggie as the lady Rapunzel; and the dowager as Madame du Barry.

"I loathe costume balls," the older woman grumbled. "I shall hold you in my debt for this, Elizabeth." But she winked as she said it, smiled, and held out a hand to her handsome son, who bowed extravagantly and guided her onto the inlaid parquet dance floor.

Alone for a moment, Elizabeth searched the crowded room for Nicholas, hoping to spot his tall, dark figure somewhere in the milling throng. Nicholas. At times, she couldn't believe she had agreed to become his mistress, a life so different from the one she had planned, a future that would have included a husband and family. But the die had been cast and she would not change things.

She had cooled the ardor of her four potential suitors by hinting to each of them her favor lay with one of the other three.

"I'm sorry, my lord," she had said to David Endicott, "but the heart is incredibly fickle. One never seems to know which way it will turn." The implication was that her favor would be cast to Sir Robert Tinsely, but of course to Tinsley she hinted of Tricklewood. All four had received the same subtle news, and though each continued his pursuit to a certain degree, only Tricklewood remained dogged in his efforts.

"I shall win you," David vowed. "In time you will see how perfectly suited we are."

Elizabeth had merely smiled, wishing she could tell him the truth. She liked David Endicott, and she was worried about him. She was afraid he was falling in love with her and she knew only too well the heartache that could bring. She was glad that tonight Lord Tricklewood was not there.

Elizabeth studied her reflection on the mirrored ballroom walls. Aunt Sophie had helped with her costume, donating feathers from her bizarre, somewhat bedraggled collection, helping her dye them a lovely dark green then sewing them onto a clingy white lawn gown. Tonight she was a female Icarus, determined to fly to the heavens, but in the end soaring too close to the sun.

Behind a forest-green feathered and sequined mask, she waited nervously for Nicholas to appear, trying in vain as she spoke to Maggie to keep her mind from wandering. She wondered what costume he would wear and hoped that tonight, disguised as they were, they might dance, as they had never dared.

He appeared an hour before midnight, and even with the red and black satin loo mask he wore, she knew in an instant who it was. He was dressed—appropriately, she thought—as the Knave of Hearts, his long, sleekly muscled legs encased in tight red and black satin breeches. She watched him cross the floor, admiring his broad-shouldered build and narrow waist, noticing the way the costume gloved the considerable bulge of his sex. Behind her feathered mask, her cheeks began to burn.

He paused directly in front of her, his eyes taking a long, appreciative sweep of her body, returning to where the bodice of her gown dipped low and dark green feathers teased the upthrusting swell of her breasts.

A corner of his mouth curved up. "Perhaps my memory deceives me, but I thought Icarus was a man."

Pleasure poured through her that he had guessed whom she portrayed. "Perhaps he was, perhaps not. It is a legend, after all, and as such there is the chance that the story is wrong."

His smile went broader. "That there is. At any rate, you make a beautiful Icarus"—he bent close to her ear—"and I should like nothing better than to strip away those feathers one by one." The heat in her cheeks burned hotter. Nicholas bowed elaborately over her hand. "Would you care to dance, my lady Icarus?"

"I should like that above all things, my lord."

A silvery glint came into his eyes. "All things, my lady? I should think perhaps there is something else, something more ... intimate ... that might please you even better."

Desire rolled through her. Dear sweet God. She could feel that hot silver-blue gaze burning as if he touched her. He was flirting with her, playing games of seduction he had never allowed himself to play in his role as her guardian. He felt safe behind the mask, permitting her to see a side of him she had never seen before. Seduction was a game the Earl of Ra- venworth played without equal. It made her feel womanly and warm.

She lowered her lashes. Perhaps two could play the game. "You are far too bold, Knave of Hearts. But in truth, there is something about you I find pleasing. Perhaps a kiss would help me discover what it is. A long, very deep, very hot kiss with your body pressed to mine. Perhaps that would—"

Nicholas's groan cut her off. "Vixen. I thought you were new at this game."

"I am a very quick study, my lord. And you are a very good teacher."

"There is much I wish to teach you, my lovely Bess. We've had so little time together. A night of guilty pleasures, a hasty coupling in the garden. Tonight, I will come to the town house. We'll take our time, begin your lessons in earnest. 'Twill be my privilege to teach you the art of making love."

Elizabeth's mouth went dry. Heat swirled in her stomach and moisture collected lower down. To-night. Nicholas would come to her tonight.

"In the meantime, I would still like that dance."

He danced as he moved, with elegance and grace, his steps flawless and completely instinctive, yet there was purpose in his eyes, and whenever he touched her hand or his arm went around her waist, heat shimmered over her skin. Dressed as he was in black and scarlet, he looked dangerous and seductive. An air of sensuality seeped from his very pores.

For the first time it occurred to her the will it had taken to hide this side of himself for so long. He had done it for her, done it because she was his ward and he had given his word. She admired him for it—and she was glad that the tight control he had bound himself with was finally gone—or at least it was gone for tonight.

Tomorrow they would resume their respective roles, but now Elizabeth had glimpsed the dangerously attractive, wicked side of his nature, and in the long hours of the night he would show her more. The promise in his eyes said tonight he would take her as he never had before.

Her hands trembled and she pressed them into the folds of her skirt. Her heart hammered and her breasts felt deliciously swollen. She would enjoy the ball with Nicholas for as long as she dared, then make her excuses and leave. Elias Moody and Theo Swann had accompanied the duke and his party. She would be safe with them on the journey home.

Nicholas had chosen the town house with care; it had windows that could be shuttered and locked—and a separate outside entrance that led directly upstairs. She glanced in his direction, felt the heat of his gaze, caught the faint curve of his lips. There was promise there, too, sweet and erotic.

He left her with her aunt while he danced with his sister, who, costumed in a gown of blue silk and a long blond wig that nearly touched the floor, had been dancing all evening with one man after another. The ballroom was crowded. Someone jostled her from behind. She turned and gripped a pair of wide shoulders to keep herself from falling.

"I beg your pardon. I—I didn't see you—"

"My, my, St. George, look at the lovely little bird who has flown into our midst.''

She knew that voice. The sandy-brown hair above the gray silk mask belonged to the Viscount Harding, and beside him, Nigel Wicker, Baron St. George. Even his disguise as an overweight sultan couldn't hide his familiar girth.

"I'm afraid you will have to excuse me, my lords. I was just on my way to the ladies' retiring room."

"Were you now?" Harding moved closer. "I shall be happy to walk you, my dear Miss Woölcot. We wouldn't want you getting lost before you get there."

She glanced up. "How . . . how did you know it was I?"

Harding smiled. "The feathers, I suspect. Or perhaps it was all that glorious auburn hair."

"Gel's a beauty, all right." St. George eyed her lewdly from head to foot. "Had to be to snag Ravenworth in her claws. Must be a veritable tigress in bed."

Elizabeth's face turned a bright shade of pink. She was glad for the dimly lit room and the cover of her mask. "His lordship would not appreciate your crude insinuations and neither do I. If you will excuse me—"

Harding didn't try to stop her, just laughed as she walked on by, and St. George's booming laughter chimed in. For the first time she realized just what being Nicholas's mistress would truly entail. She shuddered to think of it and continued out of the ballroom and down the stairs to the room set aside for the ladies' use on the second floor.

She had just rounded a corner of the long carpeted hall, when she heard the echo of heavy footsteps behind her. Certain that Nicholas had followed, she turned with a smile and stopped dead still at the sight of Oliver Hampton bearing down on her.