by Ask For It
“Oh but I would, and he wouldn’t stop me.” He came to a halt before her. “This volume looks suspiciously like a journal of Hawthorne’s assignments and it could be related to his death. If so, you are in danger. Eldridge will not tolerate that any more than I.”
“Why not?” she challenged. “Your feelings toward me are obvious.”
He stepped closer, until the tips of his shoes disappeared beneath the edge of her hem. “Apparently not. However, plead your case to Eldridge if you must. Tell him how I affect you and how you long for me. Tell him about our sordid past and how even the memory of your dearly departed husband is not enough to overcome your desire.”
She stared, and then her mouth fell open as a dry laugh escaped. “Your arrogance is stunning.” She turned away, hiding the way her hands shook. He could have the damn journal. She would seek out Eldridge in the morning.
His mocking laughter followed her. “My arrogance? You are the one who thinks this is all about her.”
Elizabeth stopped and spun about. “You made this personal with your threats.”
“You and I becoming lovers is not a threat. It is a foregone conclusion and has nothing to do with your late husband’s journal.” He held up his hand when she attempted to argue. “Save your breath. This mission is important to Eldridge. I insisted for that reason alone. Having you in my bed does not require working with you.”
“But . . .” She paused, recalling what he’d said to her earlier. He never stated his insistence was about her. Her face heated.
Marcus strolled casually past her, heading in the direction of the ballroom. “So feel free to disclose to Eldridge why you cannot work with me. Just be certain he understands that I have no difficulty at all working with you.”
Gritting her teeth, Elizabeth bit back every expletive that fought to blurt from her mouth. No fool she, she understood his game. She also understood he would not leave her be until he decided he’d had enough, mission or not. The only part of this debacle that was within her power to control was whether she survived this encounter with her pride intact.
Her stomach tightened. Now that she had rejoined society she would have to watch his seductions. She would be forced to associate with the women who caught his fancy. She would see the smiles he shared with them, but not with her.
Damnation. Her breathing quickened. Against every shred of self-respect and intelligence she had, she took the first step to follow him.
The soft touch upon her elbow reminded her of Avery’s presence. “Lady Hawthorne. Is everything well?”
She gave a jerky nod.
“I will speak with Lord Eldridge as soon as possible and—”
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. James.”
Elizabeth waited until Marcus rounded the corner and disappeared from her view before facing Avery. “My role is simply to deliver the journal. Once that is accomplished the rest remains up to you and Lord Westfield. I see no need to change agents.”
“Are you certain?”
She nodded again, anxious to finish the conversation and return to the ballroom.
Avery’s look was clearly skeptical, but he said, “Very well. I will assign two armed outriders to you. Take them with you everywhere and send word to me as soon as you receive details about the meeting.”
“Of course.”
“Since we’ve finished here, I shall depart.” His smile held a touch of relief. “I never cared much for these affairs.”
He lifted her hand and kissed the back.
“Elizabeth?” William’s booming voice rang through the vast space.
Eyes wide, she clutched Avery’s fingers. “My brother must not see you. He’ll suspect immediately that something is amiss.”
Avery, appreciating her concern and trained to think on his feet, nodded grimly and ducked swiftly behind a rounded bush.
Turning, she caught sight of William approaching. Like Marcus, he didn’t mince his steps. He walked toward her with casual grace, his leg bearing no outward sign of the injury that had almost taken his life.
Although they were siblings they could not have been more disparate in appearance. She had the raven hair and amethyst eyes of their mother. William had the fair hair and bluish-green eyes of their father. Tall and broad-shouldered he had the look of a Viking, strong and dangerous but prone to mirth as witnessed by the fine laugh lines that rimmed his eyes.
“What are you about?” he queried, casting an overly curious glance around the atrium.
Elizabeth tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow, and steered him toward the ballroom. “I was merely enjoying the view. Where is Margaret?”
“With her acquaintances.” William slowed and then stopped, forcing her to halt with him. “I was told you danced with Westfield earlier.”
“Gossip already?”
“Stay away from him, Elizabeth,” he warned softly.
“There was no polite way to refuse him.”
“Do not be polite. I don’t trust him. It’s odd that he is in attendance tonight.”
She sighed sadly at the rift she’d caused. Marcus made poor husband material, but he’d been a good friend to William. “The reputation he’s established these last few years has justified my actions of long ago. I’m in no danger of being swept away by his charms again, I assure you.”
Tugging William toward the ballroom, Elizabeth was relieved when her brother gave no further resistance. If they hurried, she might be able to see where Marcus was headed.
Marcus stepped out from his hiding place behind a tree and brushed a stray leaf from his coat. Kicking dirt off his shoes, his gaze remained riveted on Elizabeth’s retreating back until she disappeared from his sight. He wondered if it was obvious, this maddening desire he had for her. His heart raced and his legs ached with the effort he exerted not to follow her and snatch her away for his pleasure.
She was infuriatingly stubborn and obstinate, which is how he’d known she was perfect for him. No other woman could arouse his passions thusly. Furious or consumed with lust, only Elizabeth made his blood heat with the need to have her.
He wished to God it was love he felt. That emotion faded eventually, burning out once the fuel was gone. Hunger only grew worse with time, aching and gnawing until it was fed.
Avery appeared at his side. “If that is what you call an ‘old friend,’ my lord, I would hate to see what your enemies are like.”
His smile held no humor. “She was to be my wife.” Stunned silence was the reply. “Have I rendered you speechless?”
“Damnation.”
“An apt description.” Girding himself inwardly, Marcus asked, “Does she plan to speak with Eldridge?”
“No.” Avery shot him a sidelong glance. “Are you certain your involvement is wise?”
“No,” he admitted, relieved his ploy had worked and grateful that, despite the years, he still knew her so well. “But I’m certain I have no other choice.”
“Eldridge is determined to catch Hawthorne’s murderer. In the course of our mission we may be forced to deliberately put Lady Hawthorne in danger to achieve our aims.”
“No. Hawthorne is dead. Risking Elizabeth’s life will not bring him back. We will find other ways to carry out our mission.”
Avery shook his head in silent bemusement. “I trust you know what you are about, even if I do not. Now if you will excuse me, my lord, I shall make my egress through the garden, before anything else untoward occurs.”
“I believe I’ll accompany you.” Falling into step beside his partner, Marcus laughed at Avery’s raised brow. “When engaged in prolonged battle, a man must be prepared to retreat on occasion so that he may return refreshed to seize the day.”
“Good God. Battles and brothers and broken engagements. Your personal history with Lady Hawthorne will only lead to trouble.”
Marcus rubbed his hands together. “I look forward to it.”
Chapter 3
“I am under siege!” Elizabeth complained as another
obnoxiously large display of flowers was carried into the sitting room.
“There are worse fates for a woman than being courted by a devilishly handsome peer of the realm,” Margaret said dryly, as she smoothed her skirts and sat upon the settee.
“You are a hopeless romantic, you know.” Rising to her feet, Elizabeth collected a tiny brocade pillow and tucked it behind her sister-in-law’s back. She deliberately kept her gaze diverted from the gorgeous and obviously costly flower arrangement. Marcus had implied that his interest was both professional and carnal, and she’d been as prepared as possible for such engagement. This soft assault on her feminine sensibilities was a surprise attack.
“I’m enceinte,” Margaret protested as she was arranged more comfortably. “Not an invalid.”
“Allow me to fuss a little. It brings me such pleasure.”
“I’m certain I will appreciate it later, but for the moment, I am quite capable of seeing to myself.”
Despite her grumbling, Margaret settled into the pillow with a sigh of pleasure, the soft glow of her skin displayed to perfection by the dark red of her curls.
“I beg to differ. You look more slender at five months pregnancy than you did before.”
“Nearly five months,” Margaret corrected. “And it is difficult to eat when you feel wretched most of the time.”
Pursing her lips, Elizabeth reached for a scone, set it on a plate, and offered it to Margaret. “Take it,” she ordered.
Margaret accepted with a mock glare, then said, “William says the betting books are filled with wagers on whether Lord Westfield still has matrimony in mind or not.”
In the process of making tea, Elizabeth gaped. “Good God.”
“You are a legend for jilting him—an earl so handsome and desired that every woman wants him. Except for you. It is simply too juicy to ignore. A tale of a rake’s love thwarted.”
Elizabeth snorted derisively.
“You’ve never told me what Lord Westfield did that caused you to break off your engagement.”
Her hands shook as she spooned the tea leaves into the steaming pot. “It was long ago, Margaret, and as I’ve said many times before, I see no reason to discuss it.”
“Yes, yes, I know. However, he clearly is desirous of your company, as witnessed by his repeated attempts to call on you. I admire Westfield’s aplomb. He does not even blink when he is turned away. He simply smiles, says something charming, and takes his leave.”
“The man has charm in bushels, I agree. Women flock to his side and make fools of themselves.”
“You sound jealous.”
“I am not,” she argued. “One lump or two today?” Never-mind. You need two.”
“Don’t change the subject. Tell me about your jealousy. Women found Hawthorne attractive as well, but it never appeared to bother you.”
“Hawthorne was steadfast.”
Margaret took the offered cup and saucer with a grateful smile. “And you’ve said Westfield was not.”
“No,” Elizabeth said with a sigh.
“Are you certain?”
“I could not be more certain if I’d caught them in the act.”
Margaret’s mossy green eyes narrowed. “You took the word of a third party over that of your fiancé?”
Shaking her head, Elizabeth took a fortifying sip of her tea before answering. “I had a matter of grave urgency to discuss with Lord Westfield, grave enough that I ventured to his home one evening—”
“Alone? What in heaven’s name would goad you to act so rashly?”
“Margaret, do you wish to hear the tale or not? It’s difficult enough to talk about this without you interrupting.”
“My apologies,” came the contrite reply. “Please continue.”
“I waited several moments after I arrived for him to receive me. When he appeared, his hair was damp, his skin flushed, and he was attired in a robe.”
Elizabeth stared into the contents of her cup and felt ill.
“Go on,” Margaret prodded when she didn’t speak.
“Then the door he’d come through opened and a woman appeared. Dressed similarly, with hair as wet.”
“Good grief! That would be difficult to explain. How did he attempt it?”
“He didn’t.” Elizabeth gave a dry, humorless laugh. “He said he was not at liberty to discuss it with me.”
Frowning, Margaret set her cup and saucer on the end table. “Did he attempt to explain later?”
“No. I eloped with Hawthorne, and Westfield left the country until his father passed on. Until the Moreland ball last week, we’ve never again crossed paths.”
“Never? Perhaps Westfield has collected his error and wishes to make amends,” Margaret suggested. “There must be some reason he’s pursuing you so doggedly.”
Elizabeth shivered at the use of the word “pursuing.” “Trust my judgment. His aim is nothing as noble as making amends for past wrongs.”
“Flowers, daily visits—”
“Discuss something less distasteful, Margaret,” she warned. “Or I will take my tea elsewhere.”
“Oh, fine. You and your brother are a stubborn lot.”
But Margaret was never one to be denied, which is how she’d convinced William to give up his agency life and marry her. Therefore, Elizabeth anticipated the moment when Margaret would return to the subject of Marcus and was not surprised when it came later that evening.
“He is such a beautiful man.”
Elizabeth followed Margaret’s gaze across the crush of guests at the Dempsey rout. She found Marcus standing with Lady Cramshaw and her lovely daughter, Clara. Elizabeth pretended to ignore him even as she studied his every move. “After hearing about our past, how can you be taken by the earl’s pretty face?”
She’d deliberately avoided social events for the last week, but in the end had accepted the Dempsey invitation, certain the Faulkner ball up the street would be more likely to attract Marcus. The annoying man had found her anyway, and dressed so beautifully. His deep red coat fell to his thighs and was liberally decorated with fine gold embroidery. The heavy silk gleamed in the candlelight as did the rubies that adorned his fingers and cravat.
“Beg your pardon?” Margaret turned her head, her eyes wide with bemusement. She pointed her fan across the room. It was then that Elizabeth saw William and she blushed furiously at her mistake.
Margaret laughed. “They make a stunning couple, your Westfield and Lady Clara.”
“He is not mine and I pity the poor girl if she’s caught his eye.” She lifted her chin and looked away.
The telltale swish of heavy silk skirts announced a new participant in their conversation. “I agree,” murmured the elderly Duchess of Ravensend as she completed their circle. “She’s just a child and could never hope to do that man justice.”
“Your Grace.” Elizabeth dipped a quick curtsy before her godmother.
The duchess had a mischievous gleam in her soft brown eyes. “Unfortunate that you are now widowed, my dear, but it does present you and the earl with renewed opportunities.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes and prayed for patience. From the very beginning her godmother had championed Marcus’s suit. “Westfield is a scoundrel. I consider myself fortunate to have discovered that fact before saying my vows.”
“He is quite possibly the handsomest man I have ever seen,” observed Margaret. “Next to William, of course.”
“And attractively formed,” added the duchess as she peered at Marcus through her lorgnette. “Prime husband material.”
Sighing, Elizabeth fluffed her skirts and fought the urge to roll her eyes. “I wish you both would set aside the notion that I marry again. I will not.”
“Hawthorne was barely more than a boy,” noted the duchess. “Westfield is a man. You will find the experience to be quite different should you choose him to share your bed. No one said marriage was required.”
“I have no desire to be added to that libertine’s list of conquests.
He is a voluptuary. You cannot deny that, Your Grace.”
“There is something to be said for a man with experience,” Margaret offered. “Married to your brother, I would know.” She waggled her brows suggestively.
Elizabeth shuddered. “Margaret, please.”
“Lady Hawthorne.”
Turning quickly, she faced George Stanton with a grateful smile. He bowed, his handsome face awash in a friendly grin.
“I would be pleased to dance with you,” she said before he could ask. Eager to get away, she placed her fingertips upon his sleeve and allowed him to lead her away.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“You appeared to be in need of rescue.”
She grinned as they took their places in line. “You are remarkably astute, my dear friend.”
With a sidelong glance, she watched as Marcus bowed over the young Clara’s hand and escorted her to the dance floor. As he moved toward her, Elizabeth couldn’t help but admire his seductive gait. A man who moved as he did would be an expert lover, there was no doubt. Other women watched him as well, coveted him as she did, lusted for him . . .
When he lifted his head to catch her gaze, Elizabeth looked away quickly from his knowing smile. The man knew just how to rile her and was ungentlemanly enough to use that knowledge to his advantage.
As the steps of the contredanse brought the dancers together and then moved them apart she followed his progress out of the corner of her eye. The next step would bring them together. Heated anticipation coursed through her veins.
She withdrew from George and turned gracefully to face Marcus. Knowing the encounter would be fleeting she permitted herself to enjoy the sight and smell of him. She drew a deep breath and set her palms against his. Desire flared instantly. She saw it in his eyes, felt it in her blood. She retreated with a sigh of relief.
As the music for the dance concluded, Elizabeth rose from her low curtsy. She couldn’t resist smiling. It had been so long since she’d danced, she had almost forgotten how much she enjoyed it.
George returned her smile and deftly moved them into position for the next dance in the set.
Someone stepped in front of them, blocking their way. Before she looked up, she knew who it was. Her heart rate quickened.
