Sylvia Day - [Georgian 01]

by Ask For It

  Gray eyes assessed her sharply. “A trade?”

  “I would prefer to work with another agent.”

  He blinked. “And what are you offering in return?”

  “Hawthorne’s journal.”

  “I see.” He leaned back in his chair. “Has Lord Westfield done something in particular, Lady Hawthorne, which would cause you to seek his replacement?”

  She could not prevent her blush. Lord Eldridge pounced on the telltale sign immediately. “Has he approached you in some manner that would not befit his duties? I would take such an accusation seriously.”

  Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably. She did not want Marcus reprimanded, simply removed from her life.

  “Lady Hawthorne. This is a personal matter, is it not?”

  She nodded.

  “I had valid reasons for assigning Lord Westfield to you.”

  “I’m certain you did. However, I cannot continue to work with him, regardless of your motives. My brother is growing suspicious.” That was not her only reason, but it would suffice.

  “I see,” he murmured. He remained silent for a long time, but she did not waver under his intimidating scrutiny. “Your husband was a valuable member of my team. Losing him and your brother has been difficult. Lord Westfield has done an excellent job of shouldering a great deal of responsibility despite the demands of his title. He is truly the best man for this assignment.”

  “I don’t doubt his ability.”

  “Still, you are determined, are you not?” He sighed when she nodded. “I will consider your request.”

  Elizabeth nodded, understanding he had conceded as much as he was going to. Standing, she smiled grimly at his assessing gaze. He escorted her to the door, pausing a moment before turning the knob.

  “It is not my place, Lady Hawthorne, but I feel I should point out to you that Lord Westfield is a good man. I am aware of your history, and I’m certain the ramifications are uncomfortable. However, he is genuinely concerned for your safety. Whatever happens, please keep that in mind.”

  Elizabeth studied Lord Eldridge silently, and then nodded. There was something else, something he was not telling her. Not that she was surprised. In her experience, agents were always tight-lipped, sharing little of themselves with others. She was greatly relieved when he opened the door and allowed her to escape. While she held no ill will toward Eldridge, she nevertheless looked forward to the day when he and his damned agency were no longer a part of her life.

  Marcus entered the offices of Lord Eldridge just before ten in the evening. The summons had arrived just as he prepared to depart for the Dunsmore musicale. While he was impatient to see Elizabeth, he had some thoughts to share about the investigation and this unexpected audience was highly opportune.

  Marcus adjusted his tails and dropped into the nearest chair.

  “Lady Hawthorne came to see me this afternoon.”

  “Did she?” Settled, Marcus took a pinch of snuff.

  Eldridge continued to work without looking up, the papers before him lit by the candelabra on his desk and the shifting glow from the nearby fireplace. “She offered Viscount Hawthorne’s journal in exchange for removing you from your duties.”

  The enameled snuff box snapped shut decisively.

  With a sigh, Eldridge set aside his quill. “She was adamant about it, Westfield, even threatening to become uncooperative if I refused her.”

  “I’m certain she was most persuasive.” Shaking his head, he asked, “What do you intend to do?”

  “I told her I would look into it, and so I have. The question is—what do you intend to do?”

  “Leave her to me. I was on my way to her when I received your summons.”

  “If I discover you are using your position with the agency to further your own personal agenda, I will deal with you harshly.” Eldridge’s expression was grim.

  “I would expect nothing less,” Marcus assured him.

  “How is the journal coming along?”

  “I’m making headway, but the going is slow.”

  Eldridge nodded. “Soothe her concerns then. If she comes to me again, I will have no choice but to honor her request. That would be lamentable since you are making progress. I would prefer you to continue.”

  Marcus pursed his lips and said what was on his mind. “Avery related today’s events to you, yes?”

  “Of course. But you have something to add, I see.”

  “I’ve thought of this situation ceaselessly. Something is amiss. The assailant was too aware of our preparations, as if he’d gained the knowledge beforehand. Certainly he would have expected her to contact the agency considering her husband’s involvement and the relevance of the book, but the way he’d hidden himself, the escape route he had planned . . . Damn it, we were not incompetent! Yet he evaded four men with little effort. He knew how the men were arranged. And Hawthorne’s journal. How did he learn of it?”

  “You suspect internal perfidy?”

  “How else?”

  “I trust my men implicitly, Westfield. The agency couldn’t exist otherwise.”

  “Consider the possibility. It’s all I ask.”

  Eldridge arched a gray brow. “Avery? The outriders? Who can you trust?”

  “Avery bears an obvious fondness for Lady Hawthorne. So you, Avery, myself—that is the extent of my trust at this moment.”

  “Well, that certainly negates Lady Hawthorne’s request, does it not?” Eldridge pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed wearily. “Let me reflect on who might have been told about Hawthorne’s journal. Return tomorrow and we’ll discuss this further.”

  Shaking his head in silent commiseration, Marcus departed, gazing about the empty outer offices before moving down the hall with its towering ceilings and dimly lit chandeliers. For a brief moment, he’d been furious with Elizabeth and then the feeling passed. She would never have involved Eldridge unless she felt the need was dire. She’d been affected this afternoon, shaken enough to set aside her formidable pride.

  A crack had appeared in her armor. He hoped it wouldn’t be long before the shell was removed and he could once again see the vulnerable woman who hid inside.

  “You look the fittest I’ve seen you in years,” Margaret said, her sweet smile revealing a charming dimple. “You are radiant this evening.”

  Elizabeth flushed and fluffed the pale blue silk of her over-skirts. She looked ravished. There was no other way to describe it. “It is you who is radiant. Every woman here pales in comparison. Pregnancy agrees with you.”

  Margaret’s hand moved to cover the slight protrusion of her lightly corseted stomach. “I’m pleased you are making the effort to socialize and be seen. Today’s ride in the park did wonders for your complexion. William is concerned about those formidable looking outriders you hired, but I explained how difficult it must be for you, reemerging alone after the death of your spouse.”

  Elizabeth bit her bottom lip. “Yes,” she agreed softly. “It has been difficult.”

  Just then, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck began to rise. It was not necessary to turn around to discern why.

  Marcus had arrived. She refused to face him. Her blood still thrummed with the pleasure he’d given her, and a man as perceptive as he was would know it.

  Margaret leaned closer. “Heavens. The way Lord Westfield looks at you could start a fire. Fortunate for you that William did not attend this evening. Can you imagine if he had? I’d wager they’d come to fisticuffs. You should have heard Westfield say you were worth the risk of death in a duel. Every woman in London is green with envy.”

  Elizabeth could feel the burning emerald gaze from across the crowded room. She shivered, her senses acutely attuned to the man who approached her.

  “Here he comes.” Margaret arched a copper brow. “The gossips will go mad over this, crazed as they’ve been over that row with William at the Morelands’. This will only add fuel to the fire.” Her voice tapered off.

  “Lady Barclay,” purre
d the velvet voice, as Marcus bowed low over Margaret’s proffered hand. His shoulder brushed deliberately against Elizabeth’s arm, leaving goose bumps in its wake.

  “Lord Westfield, a pleasure.”

  He turned and the intensity of his gaze robbed her of breath. Dear heaven. He looked as if he meant to toss up her skirts at any moment. Dressed in a dark blue coat and breeches, he made every other man fade to insignificance.

  “Lady Hawthorne.” He captured her hand, which hung limply at her side, and lifted it, meeting it halfway with the descent of his mouth. His kiss was anything but chaste, melting through her glove as his fingers caressed the center of her palm.

  Instantly she was aroused, on edge, wanting those fingers to caress her everywhere as they’d done mere hours ago. He watched her with a knowing smile, well aware of her reaction.

  “Lord Westfield.” She tugged her hand, but he would not release it. Her stomach fluttered as his fingertips continued their gentle stroking.

  Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Ravensend, announced the start of the musicale, and all the guests left the formal parlor to move into the ballroom where chairs had been assembled to face the musicians. Marcus tucked her hand around his arm and led her out to the foyer, deliberately falling behind.

  “The man escaped,” he said for her ears only.

  She nodded, unsurprised.

  He stopped, and turned to face her. “More must be done to protect you. And I will not be handing this assignment over to someone else, so your efforts this afternoon were for naught.”

  “This entanglement offers no benefit to either of us.”

  His hand reached up to touch her face, and she stepped back quickly.

  “You forget yourself,” she scolded. She shot a wary look around the foyer.

  With one warning glance, Marcus sent the attending footman fleeing with haste. Then he turned all of his attention upon her. “And you forget the rules.”

  “What rules?”

  His gaze narrowed and she took another step back. “I can still taste you, Elizabeth. I can still feel the silky clasp of your cunt on my cock and the pleasure you gave me still warms my blood. The rules haven’t changed since this afternoon. I can have you however and whenever I wish.”

  “To hell with you.” Her heart racing, her chest tight, she stumbled backward until the wall prevented further escape.

  He bridged the gap between them, enveloping her in his rich, warm scent. Music poured from the ballroom and she shot a startled glance toward the sound. When she looked back at Marcus, he stood directly before her.

  “Why do you insist on driving us both to madness?” he asked gruffly.

  Her hand went to her throat, nervously fingering the pearls that rested there. “What can I do to satisfy your interest?” she asked bluntly. “There must be something I can do or say, that will cool your ardor.”

  “You know what you can do.”

  She swallowed hard, and stared up at him. He was so tall, so broad of shoulder that he dwarfed her until she could see nothing around him. But her fear did not come from that. In fact, it was only when she was with Marcus that she felt truly safe. No, her fear came from inside, from a cold and lonely place she preferred to forget existed. And there he stood, so damn confident and predatory. He felt none of the uncertainty that she felt. Libertines never did, shielded as they were by the knowledge of their undeniable charm and appeal. If only she could boast such assured sexuality.

  A slow smile curved her lips as the solution to her dilemma presented itself in a flash of comprehension. How could she have missed the obvious? Here she’d been floundering and unsure how to respond in the face of such an overwhelming sensual onslaught when she’d grown up with the best examples of how to manage these situations in her own household. She would simply do what William or her father or Marcus himself would do.

  “Very well, then. You can meet me in the bachelor quarters of Chesterfield Hall for your fuck.” The crude word stumbled over her tongue and she lifted her chin to hide her discomfort.

  He blinked. “Beg your pardon?”

  She arched a brow. “That’s what I can do, correct? Spread my legs until you sate your lust? Then you’ll tire of me and leave me in peace.” Just speaking the words reignited the heat in her veins. Images from the afternoon filled her mind, and she bit her lower lip against the sudden rush of desire.

  The intense predatory look of his features softened. “Christ, when you present it in that manner—” His brows drew together in a rueful frown. “What an ogre I must seem to you at times. I cannot remember the last time I felt so chastened.”

  The faintest trace of a smile touched her lips. She took a step closer, her hand coming up to press against the elaborately embroidered silk of his waistcoat before drifting down, caressing the rippling expanse of his stomach beneath. Her hand tingled through her glove, reminding her of how delicate the balance of power was.

  Marcus caught her wandering fingertips and tugged her closer. Staring down into her face, he shook his head. “I presume you’ve conceived of some mischief.”

  “Not at all,” she murmured, stroking his palm with her fingers and watching his gaze darken. “I intend to give you what you want. Surely you won’t complain about that?”

  “Hmmm. Tonight then?”

  Her eyes widened. “Good heavens. Again today?”

  Laughing, he relented, his mouth curving in a smile that made her breathless. The change in him was startling. Gone was the brutish arrogance, replaced by a boyish allure she found hard to resist. “Very well then.” He stepped back, and offered his arm. “And you are correct, I surely won’t complain.”

  Chapter 8

  Marcus paced before the fire in the Chesterfield guesthouse and tried to recollect his first sexual encounter. It had happened a long time ago and the rushed tumble in the Westfield stables had passed in a blur of sweaty skin, prickly hay, and gasping relief. Still, despite the less than clear remembrance of that afternoon, he was certain he’d never been as anxious as he was at the present moment.

  Having escorted Elizabeth home from the Dempsey Ball over an hour ago, he’d rushed home and changed, only to return on horseback. He’d been waiting ever since.

  Doubt twisted his stomach into knots, a sensation wholly unfamiliar to him. Would Elizabeth come to him, as she’d promised? Or would he wait here all night, desperate to taste her and feel her beneath his hands?

  Standing, Marcus tossed more coals into the grate before glancing around the beautifully appointed bachelor quarters. While he would have preferred to have Elizabeth once again in his own bed, he would take what he could get and gladly.

  The Aubusson rug was soft under his bare feet as he moved back to the chair facing the fire. He’d removed every garment but his breeches, astonished and not a little disconcerted by his haste to press his bare skin to Elizabeth’s.

  The outer door opened, and then shut quietly. Marcus stood, and moved to the hallway, lounging against the jamb in an effort to appear nonchalant and less needy than he felt. Then Elizabeth turned the corner and his breath caught. Against his will, his feet moved, one in front of the other. She paused, her luscious bottom lip caught between her teeth. Dressed in simple muslin, her hair free of its previous evening elaborateness, her face scrubbed clean of both powder and patch, she was a vision of casual youthful beauty.

  “Where have you been?” he growled as he reached her, his hands gripping her waist and lifting her against him.

  “I—”

  He crushed her response with a kiss. She stiffened at first, and then suddenly she opened for him. A groan escaped, as the heady taste of her flooded his mouth. Fierce but sweet, her kisses had always driven him to madness.

  A loud thump momentarily distracted him, and he pulled back to discern the source of the sound. Lying at their feet was a small volume covered in red leather.

  “Your returning Hawthorne’s journal?”

  “Yes,” she said, in the breathy voice tha
t betrayed her arousal.

  As he gazed at the book on the floor, Marcus was surprised at the jealousy that rose up within him. Elizabeth carried another man’s name. She had once been physically joined to someone else. He still stung from the pain of it, much to his chagrin. He was not some foolishly besotted lad, selfish in his desire for the affection of a fair maid.

  But he felt like one.

  Marcus linked his fingers with hers, and tugged her into the bedroom.

  “I came as quickly as I could,” she said softly.

  “Liar. You debated internally for a moment, at least.”

  She smiled, and his entire body hardened. “Maybe a moment,” she conceded.

  “But you came, regardless.” He wrapped his arms around her, and fell back into the bed.

  She laughed, the cold wariness of her features instantly transformed. “Only because I knew if I didn’t, you would probably come up and collect me yourself.”

  Burying his face in her neck, he chuckled and groaned at the same time. Under other circumstances, as painfully aroused as he was, he would have rolled his lover over and mounted her. In this instance, however, he was determined to find a way past Elizabeth’s defenses. Sexual satisfaction was not his only aim.

  Not any longer.

  “You are correct.” He stared up at her. “I would have fetched you.”

  Her hand touched the side of his face, one of the rare tender gestures she bestowed on him. Any touch of hers, any melting look, stunned him and moved him.

  “You are far too arrogant. You do realize that, don’t you?”

  “Of course.” He sat up and settled her against the pillows. Then he reached for the bottle of wine he’d set on the nightstand, and poured her a full glass.

  Elizabeth licked her bottom lip and her lashes lowered, hiding her gaze as she accepted the libation. “You are half naked. It’s . . . disconcerting.”

  “Perhaps if you disrobed it would be less so,” he suggested.

  “Marcus . . .”

  “Or drink. That should relax you.” It was why he’d brought two bottles with him. He remembered her giddy on champagne during their courtship, laughing and mischievous. He was eager to see her that way again.