Sylvia Day - [Georgian 01]

by Ask For It

“No one knows what the future will bring,” she argued. “But Westfield and I are of like station and pedigree. He is wealthy and solicitous of my needs. When this affinity fades, we will still have that foundation. It is no less than any other marriage.”

  William’s gaze narrowed. “You are set in this course.”

  “Yes.” She was glad he’d come after her now. Secure in the knowledge that she was benefiting someone other than herself gave her a peace of mind she’d lacked upon waking. Whether William would admit it or not, this would be good for him, too.

  “No elopement,” he warned, his frown unabated but unable to diminish the beauty of his features.

  “No elopement,” she agreed.

  “Am I allowed no say in the matter?” Marcus asked, coming up behind them.

  “I think you’ve said quite enough,” William retorted. “And I’m famished. I spoke to His Grace when I arrived and he said to drag you both up to the manse. He hasn’t seen enough of you since you arrived.”

  “That was by design,” Marcus said dryly. He held out his hand to her, an affectionate gesture they’d never shared in front of others. Sans gloves it was undeniably intimate. The look in his eyes dared her to refuse.

  He was always daring her to refuse.

  And just as she’d always done, she met the dare and placed her hand in his.

  Chapter 14

  By any estimation, their betrothal ball was a smashing success. The ballroom of Chesterfield Hall was filled to overflowing, as were the card and billiards rooms. Overwhelmed and overheated, Elizabeth was grateful when Marcus led her out to the garden to enjoy the cool night air.

  Realizing the importance of the occasion, she had chosen a burgundy shot silk taffeta gown. Panniers widened the skirt, which was split in the front revealing an underskirt of white lace. Matching lace frothed from the elbows and surrounded the low square neckline. The gown had given her a surface shell of composure, but inside, her stomach was knotted.

  She was an expert at the common social pleasantries, but tonight had been so different from the interactions she was accustomed to. The men had been dealt with easily. It was the women and their often catty, spiteful natures that caught her by surprise. After an hour, she’d resorted to smiling while relying on Marcus to carry them through the prying questions and snide comments disguised as congratulations. His skilful handling of women set her on edge, making her jaw ache from the unnaturalness of her outward mien. Not for the first time, she lamented the loss of the quiet she’d enjoyed on the coast.

  After William departed Essex for London, Marcus had insisted they remain another three days in the guesthouse. They had lived those days in a state of deep intimacy. He had assisted her with her bath, and demanded she do the same for him. He had helped her to dress, and showed her how to undress him, patiently showing her where every button was and how best to free it until she was as skilled as any valet. He had reinforced those skills at every opportunity—on the beach, in the garden, in almost every room of the guesthouse. With every touch, every glance, every moment, Marcus had weakened her resolve until she had accepted without reservation that she no longer wanted to be free of him.

  Resigned to their joined future, she made the effort to learn more about the issues that were important to him. She asked questions about his views of the Townsend Act repeal, and was secretly relieved when he showed no hesitation in sharing them with her. Discussing weighty topics with women was heavily discouraged, but then Marcus was not a man to follow convention.

  Pleased with her interest, he debated a variety of topics with her, challenging and pushing her to explore all sides of a subject, then smiling with pride when she reached her own conclusions, even if they were in opposition to his own.

  Elizabeth sighed. The simple fact was, she enjoyed his company and the times when business or Parliament kept him away, she found she missed him.

  “That was a melancholy sigh if I ever heard one,” he murmured.

  Lifting her chin, she met his gaze, made more brilliant in contrast to the pure white of his wig. In a pale gold ensemble, Marcus outshone every other gentleman present.

  “You look beautiful,” she said.

  His mouth tilted upward on one side. “I believe I am supposed to say that to you.” The heat in his eyes left her no doubt as to what he was thinking.

  William had forbade any further meetings in the guesthouse. She suspected Marcus had so readily agreed to that demand to ensure her continued cooperation. Achey and restless, her body craved his and the constant reminder of her need negated changing her mind about their approaching nuptials.

  “You’re flushed,” he said. “And not for the reason I’d prefer.”

  “I’m thirsty,” she admitted.

  “We must find a drink for you then.” With his hand over hers where it rested on his sleeve, he turned her back toward the manse.

  She resisted. “I would rather await you out here.” The thought of returning to the crush after so recently escaping was vastly unappealing.

  Marcus began to protest. Then he spotted William and Margaret descending the stairs and led her to them. “I shall leave you in capable hands,” he said with a kiss to the back of her hand. Moving away, he ascended the steps to the house with a grace she found hard to look away from.

  Margaret linked arms with her and said, “The ball is an unequivocal triumph, as we all expected. Much more entertaining to gossip about you than any other topic.”

  William looked over their heads. “Where is Westfield going?”

  Elizabeth hid a smile at his curt tone. “To the drink tables.”

  He frowned. “Wish he would have said something before he went in. I could use some libation myself. If you will excuse me, ladies, I believe I’ll join him.”

  As William moved away, Margaret gestured toward the garden and they set off at a sedate stroll.

  “You look well,” Elizabeth said.

  “Regardless, a clever modiste cannot hide this belly any longer, so this ball will be my last social event of the Season.” Margaret smiled. “Lord Westfield seems quite taken with you. With luck, you will be having children of your own soon.” Leaning closer, she asked, “Is he as skilled a lover as they say?”

  Elizabeth blushed.

  “Good for you.” Margaret laughed, and then winced. “My back aches.”

  “You have been on your feet all day,” Elizabeth scolded.

  “A respite in the retiring room is long overdue,” Margaret agreed.

  “Then we must hasten to get you there.”

  Turning around, they headed away from the garden.

  As they neared the house, they saw more guests filtering out into the cool night air. Elizabeth took a deep breath, and prayed for the patience she’d require to endure ’til morning.

  “Yours will not be an easy pairing, you are aware of that?”

  Marcus glanced at William as they descended the garden steps, drinks in hand. “Truly?” he drawled. “And here I’d been led to believe marriage was a tranquil institution.”

  William snorted. “Elizabeth is by nature quite feisty and downright argumentative, but around you, she is not herself. She’s almost withdrawn. Lord only knows how you convinced her to accept your addresses, but I’ve taken note of her marked reticence around you.”

  “How obliging of you.” Marcus clenched his jaw. He was a proud man. It did not sit well with him that Elizabeth appeared less than enthusiastic to wed him.

  Margaret approached, her arched brows drawn tight with discomfort.

  William rushed to her. “What pains you?” he asked gruffly.

  She waved his concern away with a lift of her hand. “My back and feet ache is all. Nothing to worry yourself over.”

  “Where is Lady Hawthorne?” Marcus asked, searching the winding path behind her.

  “Lady Grayton had an unfortunate mishap with an unruly climbing rose and needed more assistance than I.” She wrinkled her nose. “Frankly, I think Elizabeth simply
didn’t want to return to the house yet.”

  Marcus opened his mouth to reply, but was silenced by a distant female scream.

  William frowned. Marcus, however, was almost crippled with fear, his entire body tensing to the point of pain.

  “Elizabeth,” he whispered starkly, his well-trained senses telling him the danger that stalked her was right there in the garden. He dropped the glasses he held in his hands, paying no mind to the delicate flutes shattering on the stone pathway. With William fast on his heels, Marcus ran in the direction of the disturbing sound, his stomach clenched and frozen with dread.

  He’d left her with family when he should never have left her at all. He knew his job, knew the rules, knew she was not safe anywhere after the ransacking of her room and he’d ignored all of it simply because she asked him to. He’d been a fool and now he could only hope fright from an overactive imagination would be the extent of his punishment.

  Perhaps it was not Elizabeth. Perhaps it was a minor incident of a stolen kiss and a woman with a flair for dramatic outcries . . .

  Just as panic began to overwhelm him, he saw her up ahead, sprawled on the pathway next to a rose-covered arbor in a flood of displaced panniers and endless skirts.

  He dropped to his knees beside her, damning himself for lowering his guard. Lifting his head, he searched for her attacker, but the night was still and quiet except for her labored breathing.

  William crouched on her other side. “Christ.” His hands trembled as he reached for her.

  Because the darkness made sight difficult, Marcus felt along her torso, searching for injury. Elizabeth groaned as his fingers lightly skimmed across her ribs, finding an object protruding from her hip. Moving her arm aside carefully, he exposed a small dagger.

  “She’s been stabbed,” Marcus said gruffly, his throat tight.

  Elizabeth opened her eyes at the sound of his voice. Her skin was pale beneath her powder, the rouge she wore unnatural in comparison. “Marcus.” Her voice was a gasped whisper as her fingers curled weakly over the hand that touched the hilt. He gripped them tightly, willing some of his vitality into her, willing her to be strong.

  This was his fault. And Elizabeth had paid the price. The extent of his failure was crushing, a brutal fall from the heights of satisfaction he’d felt when the evening started.

  William stood, his body tense as he searched their surroundings much as Marcus had done a moment earlier. “We need to move her to the house.”

  Marcus lifted her, careful to avoid unduly jarring the knife. She cried out, then lost consciousness, her breathing slipping into a rapid but measured rhythm. “Where can I go?” he asked in near desperation. Through the ballroom was obviously not an option.

  “Follow me.”

  Moving like shadows through the garden, they entered through the bustling kitchen. Then they took the cramped servants’ staircase, which caused a laborious ascent hampered by Elizabeth’s panniers.

  Once safely in her room, Marcus shrugged out of his coat and reached into an inner pocket, withdrawing a small dagger not unlike the one lodged in Elizabeth’s side. “Send for a doctor,” Marcus ordered. “And ring for towels and heated water.”

  “I will instruct a servant on my departure. It will be faster if I collect the doctor myself.” William left with reassuring haste.

  With careful, tentative movements, Marcus used his knife to cut through the endless material that made up her dress, stays, and underskirts. The task was torturous, this sight of his blade next to precious ivory skin a nightmare, and he was drenched with sweat before she was free of the pile.

  A steady steam of blood leaked from around the dagger. She was still unconscious, but he whispered soothingly as he worked, trying to calm himself as well as her.

  The door opened behind him, and he cast a quick glance over his shoulder to see the entry of Lord Langston and Lady Barclay. A maid entered directly behind, carrying a tray weighted with hot water and cloths.

  The earl took one look at his daughter and shuddered violently. “Oh God,” he breathed. He swayed unsteadily, his face a stark mask. “I cannot go through this again.”

  Marcus felt his stomach knot. The pain he witnessed on her father’s face was what tormented Elizabeth so. That same pain had pushed Elizabeth away and every other woman who’d had the misfortune to care for the dashing, but endlessly grieving widower.

  “Come. Let’s get you settled somewhere quiet to wait, my lord,” Margaret said softly.

  Langston did not hesitate to agree, fleeing the room as if the hounds of hell were on his heels. Marcus cursed under his breath, fighting the urge to chase him and thrash some sense into him, to make the man care for his daughter.

  Lady Barclay returned a quarter hour later. “I must apologize for Lord Langston.”

  “No need, Lady Barclay. It’s long overdue that he answer for his own actions.” He released a deep breath and rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Tell me what to do,” she said softly.

  With silent efficiency, Margaret helped him clean the blood from Elizabeth’s skin. As they were finishing, William returned with the doctor who removed the blade, examined the puncture, and announced the fine boning of her stays had deflected the dagger away from any vital organs, and into the fleshy part of her hip. Stitches and bed rest would be all that was required.

  Nearly dizzy with relief, Marcus steadied himself against the post of the bed and tugged off his wig. Had Elizabeth been uncorseted, the wound might have been fatal, and his destruction assured.

  He glanced at William and his wife. “I will remain with her, you both should return to the guests below. It’s bad enough Elizabeth and I will be absent from our own betrothal celebration. Your absence will only worsen the situation.”

  “You should go below, Lord Westfield,” Margaret said gently. “It would be less awkward if at least one of you were in attendance.”

  “No. Let them think what they like, I won’t leave her.”

  Margaret nodded though her eyes were still troubled. “What tale should I relate to your family?”

  Rubbing the back of his neck, he said, “Anything aside from the truth.”

  William turned to the maid. “Say nothing of this to anyone if you wish to remain employed.”

  “And ready the other bedroom in this suite for Lord Westfield,” Margaret added, ignoring the glare from her husband. The maid left swiftly.

  Margaret gestured William toward the door. “Come, dear. Lord Westfield has everything well in hand. I’m certain he will call for us if needed.”

  Still pale and clearly stricken, William nodded and followed Margaret out.

  Elizabeth woke only a moment later, thrashing as the doctor began the first stitch. Marcus lay across the bed and held her down.

  “Marcus!” she gasped, her eyes flying open. “It hurts.”

  She began to cry.

  His throat aching with her pain, he bent low to kiss her forehead. “I know, love. But if you can find the strength to be still, it will be over all the sooner.”

  Marcus watched with much pride and admiration as Elizabeth did her best to remain unmoving while her wound was closed. She writhed slightly, but she did not cry out again. Fine beads of sweat dotted her brow and mingled with the steady flow of tears as she clung to his torso with bruising fingers. He was grateful when she lost consciousness again.

  When the doctor finished, he cleaned his instruments carefully and returned them to his bag. “Keep an eye on that, my lord. If it festers, send for me again.” He left as quickly as he’d come.

  Marcus paced restlessly, his gaze never straying far from Elizabeth. An overwhelming well of protectiveness rose up within him. Someone had tried to take her away from him. And he had made that task too easy.

  Far more than affinity was involved here. That relatively simple state could not account for the madness that threatened his sanity. To see her so pale and wounded, to think of what might have happened . . . He clutched his h
ead in his hands.

  For the rest of the night, he watched over her. When she stirred, he went to her, murmuring softly until she settled. He tended the fire in the hearth and checked her bandages regularly. He could not be still, could not sleep, feeling so helpless he wanted to howl and tear something apart.

  Dawn lit the sky when the Earl of Langston returned to the room. Looking briefly at Elizabeth, his reddened eyes drifted to Marcus. Reeking of stiff drink and flowery perfume, the earl was disheveled, his wig askew as he stumbled in on his heels.

  “Why don’t you retire, Lord Langston?” Marcus asked with a disgusted shake of his head. “You look nigh as bad as she does.”

  Langston leaned heavily against a side table. “And you look far too collected for a man who nearly lost a bride.”

  “I prefer to be of sound mind,” Marcus said dryly. “Rather than drowning in my cups.”

  “Were you aware that Elizabeth is the reflection of her mother? Rare beauties, the both of them.”

  Marcus released a weary breath and prayed for patience. “Yes, I am aware, my lord, and there are many things I wish to say to you, but now is not the time. If you don’t mind, I have much to consider and would prefer to do it in silence.”

  Turning bleary eyes toward the bed, the earl winced at the sight of Elizabeth, the paleness of her skin making the heart-shaped patch on her cheek stand out in stark relief.

  “Lady Langston gave you a family,” Marcus felt compelled to say. “You do no honor to her memory by neglecting them as you have.”

  “You don’t care for me, Westfield, I’ve known this. But then you fail to understand my situation. You cannot, since you don’t love my daughter as I did my wife.”

  “Do not presume to say that Elizabeth is not important to me.” The steel of Marcus’s voice snapped through the tension like a whip crack.

  “Why not? You think the same of me.”

  With that, the earl left Marcus to the silence he’d wanted, a silence he found deafening with its unyielding accusations.

  Why had he not been there for her?

  How could he have been so careless?