Wicked Promise (24 page)

Tonight she would pretend that the future did not exist.

Nick made love to Elizabeth two more times that night, then awoke with the first dim rays of sunlight, the grayness creeping over the sill, invading his peaceful slumber. Beside him, Elizabeth curled against his side, her glorious dark auburn hair fanned out across his chest. For a moment, he simply watched her, thinking of the hours they had spent making love.

The game of seduction he had started had turned to something deeper as the hours wore on. Something indefinably tender. It was odd how it happened whenever he was with her. The loneliness he had lived with for so many years seemed to fade and disappear.

Nick ran a hand through his hair, knowing it was time to leave, reluctant to do so, disturbed in some way. It was the guilt, he suspected. The guilt he had hoped he would not feel. It wasn't right, what he was taking from Elizabeth, her warmth, her beauty, her innocence. Those things came with a price and that price was marriage, the protection of his name, the security of a home, the love of a family. He had none of those things to give and yet he took the gifts she offered just the same.

It bothered him, yet the decision had been made, and he was too selfish to alter the course he had taken.

With a sigh of reluctance, he eased himself from the warmth of her body and drew on his clothes. He meant to leave before she awakened, but when he turned, he found her watching, a hint of uncertainty etched into her face. Nicholas reached for her hand and brought it to his lips.

"What is it, sweeting? What's wrong? If you are worried about last night—"

She fiercely shook her head. "Last night was beautiful. Perfect. I'm not worried about what happened between us. It's just that... it's about something that happened at the costume ball, something that I didn't tell you."

He stiffened, wariness sifting through him like dirt through a threadbare rug. "You lied to me?"

"No! Of course not. I just... I just didn't tell you last night at the ball and I probably should have."

His temper began to rise, warming the back of his neck. "Tell me now."

Elizabeth flushed guiltily. "Last night Bascomb was there. He accosted me outside the ladies' retiring room. I didn't want to cause trouble. I didn't think—"

"You didn't think? No, you didn't. You didn't think at all." He caught her shoulders and dragged her up from the bed. "Dammit, Elizabeth, I am trying to protect you. If Bascomb was there, you should have told me. Something could have happened. Anything could have happened. God in heaven— don't ever—ever—do something that foolish again." He saw her wince, realized how tightly he held her, and eased his hold.

He drew in a steadying breath. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you. It's just that—" Just that he couldn't stand the thought of Bascomb being anywhere near her. His breath came out on a sigh of frustration. "What exactly did the whoreson do?"

Elizabeth glanced away, her cheeks a soft shade of pink above the sheet she held over her breasts. "He kissed me. The foulest, most repulsive kiss I have ever been forced to endure."

Nick clamped hard on his jaw. "What else?"

"Nothing. I slapped his face and ran away. That was all that happened."

"You slapped him?"

She nodded, then grinned. "As hard as I could. I'm surprised you couldn't hear it all the way into the ballroom."

He found himself returning the grin. "I wish I had." The smile slowly faded. "Listen to me, Elizabeth. Bascomb is a dangerous opponent. We have to be careful. You have to be careful. Promise me, if that bastard comes anywhere near you again, you'll tell me."

"I would have. I just didn't want you to get into trouble."

He reached out and caught her chin. "Promise me."

She sighed. "All right, I promise."

Leaning down, he gave her a quick, hard kiss. "Good girl." Nick turned away, his body responding, growing hard inside his clothes. He wished he could make love to her again but the sun was rapidly rising. "I have to go," he said a bit gruffly. "I'll see you tonight."

"Tonight? You're coming back tonight?"

His body tightened just to think of it. "Yes, love. I hardly think your study is complete after only a single lesson."

"No . . . no, indeed it isn't." Elizabeth smiled sweetly, and lust pulled low in his groin. She leaned back against the pillow with a dreamy smile. "Until tonight then, my lord."

Nick felt a tug of amusement. "Until tonight," he agreed, wondering why it was she had such a powerful effect on him—and how the hell he could possibly wait that long.

Oliver Hampton pulled open the door and motioned for Nathan Peel and Charlie Barker to step inside his wood-paneled study.

"We come as soon as we got your message," Nathan said, a battered felt hat gripped between his long, bony fingers. Charlie walked beside him, scratching his burly red beard.

"Yes, and it's a damned good thing you did." Oliver moved behind his heavy walnut desk and sat down in a black leather chair. "Some . . . complications have arisen. I should like the two of you to take care of them for me."

"Complications?" Barker repeated warily. "What complications? More trouble with that black-haired devil, Raven- worth?"

"Undoubtedly there is that. The man is my nemesis, appearing like a cloud of doom in the middle of all I do. In this case, however, it is merely Miss Woolcot's suitors I wish you to dispense with."

"You want we should kill 'em?" Nathan asked, the peak of his brow arching upward.

Oliver shook his head. "Nothing quite so permanent—at least not yet. I simply want you to discourage them from their courtship." He lifted the lid off the humidor on the top of his desk and pulled out a fat cigar. Running it slowly beneath his nose, he savored the rich tobacco scent.

"Let us say, for example, that footpads were to set upon the men. Their purses would, of course, be stolen, perhaps a blow or two delivered in the scuffle—along with a warning to stay away from Elizabeth Woolcot—if they wish to insure the incident doesn't occur again."

"What are the names of these men?" Charlie asked.

''From what Mr. Cheek has been able to discover, there were four men that Sydney Birdsall originally interviewed in regard to a match. Only two appear to remain in the running, David Endicott, Viscount Tricklewood, and Sir Robert Tin- sley. While you have your little chat with them, I shall subtly pass the word that Miss Woolcot is spoken for. A gentle hint here, a little pressure there, and Miss Woolcot's suitors will disappear like coins in a drunken sailor's purse."

"Tricklewood and Tinsley," Charlie repeated. "How do we find 'em?"

"Mr. Cheek has been keeping an eye on them. He has written down the places they usually frequent. Get a look at them, make certain you know which men they are, then simply deliver my message."

"We'll take care of it," Charlie said with authority.

"See that you do. And this time don't get caught."

Nathan's face turned red. Charlie stroked his beard. "What about the girl?" he asked. "Appears you still mean to have her."

Oliver clipped the end off the cigar with a pair of silver nippers. He studied the neatness of his work. "Things are a bit more difficult, here in the city. It may take a little more time, but in the end, it will all work out exactly the way I've planned."

Barker and Peel said nothing more, just stood waiting for the information they needed. Oliver gave them Cheek's address and dismissed them. In unison, they turned and started for the door.

Oliver watched them leave, thinking of the men who had been courting Elizabeth and feeling a smug sense of satisfaction. Whatever the bastards got, they deserved. Elizabeth belonged to him. The sooner they realized that the better.

The sooner she realized it the better. He remembered the slap she had delivered and his mouth turned hard. He liked a woman with spirit but Elizabeth carried the notion too far. She would have to learn her place, and soon. He would tolerate her defiance for only so long.

Oliver held the cigar beneath his nose a second time. Instead of the scent of tobacco, he imagined the fragrance of Elizabeth's soft perfume.

A storm set in, dense gray clouds and a thick damp mist. Elizabeth hardly noticed. Her thoughts were "too filled with Nicholas. He had come to the town house every night that week, staying until the first faint rays of dawn, making passionate love to her. It was sinful she knew, yet it was pow-erfully addicting. And each time they were together, her attraction to him grew.

He liked the same books she did, could quote her favorite poems. He liked to walk in the garden. When she spoke of her beloved birds, he didn't seem bored but actually interested, asking her to describe them, suggesting that perhaps she make sketches of the birds she had seen.

And yet there was something missing, a link of sorts, a connection found only between a husband and wife. Perhaps it was the fact that he didn't really love her. He cared for her, yes. But love? Elizabeth no longer tried to convince herself that love was what he felt. It was enough, she believed, that she loved him.

She ignored the inner voice that reminded her he was married, that called her a fool and a sinner. She ignored the haunting fear of what friends like Sydney Birdsall, the duke and the dowager duchess, even Mercy and Elias, would say once they found out.

Making her way along the paving stones in front of the town house, her heart suddenly heavy, Elizabeth climbed the steep stone steps to her front door, Elias Moody on one side, Theophilus Swann on the other.

She stopped beneath the crystal chandelier in the entry. "Thank you, gentlemen. It looks as though the weather may continue to improve. If it does, perhaps we might go out again on the morrow."

Elias made a slight inclination of his silver-flecked dark head. "As you wish, miss." If he thought it unusual she had begun to visit the church each afternoon, he didn't say so. And she felt better for the journey.

"Ah, there you are." Aunt Sophie waddled up on her way to the drawing room. "I thought you'd be home before this." Her girth seemed to have increased by several inches since their arrival in the city. She needed more exercise, Elizabeth thought. At Ravenworth, her aunt spent a good deal of time out of doors. Perhaps Aunt Sophie missed the place as much as Elizabeth did.

"I had a bit of shopping to do," Elizabeth told her, continuing beside her into the drawing room, "then I stopped at St. Mary's Church. It is always so peaceful there."

Aunt Sophie frowned. "You were there yesterday and the day before that. I've never known you to be quite so pious."

Elizabeth glanced away. "I suppose until now I never had reason to be."

A thin gray eyebrow arched up. "I didn't realize you felt that way. If I had, I might have tried harder to dissuade you from the course you have taken. It isn't like you to do something you are ashamed of, Elizabeth."

"I'm not ashamed—not exactly. I don't know how to explain it. I love Nicholas. I know in my heart there is no one else for me, but—"

"But no matter what you feel or even what his lordship might feel, he isn't your husband. In truth, he is married to another woman."

Something burned at the back of her eyes. "Yes." She shook her head. "I told myself it didn't matter. Rachael Warring abandoned her husband nine years ago. As far as I am concerned, she has no claim on him now. She cares nothing for him and he cares nothing for her."

"If all of that is true then why are you spending half the afternoon down on your knees in church?"

A painful knot rose in Elizabeth's throat. "I don't know." The tears she had been fighting began to slip down her cheeks. She sank down on the sofa and Aunt Sophie sat down beside her.

"I believe I do," her aunt said gently. "I believe the answer is that as much as you love Lord Ravenworth, you were never raised to be the sort of woman you must become in order to keep him."

"You mean being his mistress.'' She hated even saying the word.

"That, my dear, is exactly what I mean. You were raised to be a wife and mother, to make a home for your husband and his children. True, your mother had her own odd set of values, but they were never truly yours. You were always more like your father, a man of dignity and honor. He would never have done something that went against the principles he believed in, and under most circumstances, neither would you."

A painful ache rose in Elizabeth's chest. She wiped at the tears on her cheeks. "But these aren't most circumstances. I'm in love with a man who is carrying a burden he shouldn't have to carry. He is desperately lonely, Aunt Sophie. He has suffered for nine long years. Whether or not I am his wife, Nicholas needs me. No matter what my conscience says, I cannot abandon him."

Aunt Sophie patted her hand, gave it a gentle squeeze. "I know you can't. I wish I could tell you what to do, my dear, but in this I simply cannot. You must do what your heart and your conscience dictate. That is the only way you will ever be happy."

Elizabeth said nothing. What her aunt prescribed was impossible. Her heart and her conscience were at odds on this particular issue. Even the hours she spent in church couldn't seem to help her find a way to bring them together.

Yet equally powerful was the feeling that she couldn't abandon Nicholas, no matter that the church and society both saw their union as wrong.

 "I believe I could use a cup of tea," she said, feeling suddenly weary. "Would you care to join me?"

"I don't think so, if you don't mind. Our neighbor down the block, Mr. Whitfield, passed away last month, and some of the items from his home are being put up for sale. I thought perhaps I would see if I might find something useful."

For the first time that day, Elizabeth smiled. "You always find something useful, Aunt Sophie. That is the reason there isn't an inch of space left upstairs in your room."