“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.
Obviously, she’d miscalculated the lengths Marcus would go to to achieve his ends.
He nodded curtly in greeting. “Mr. Stanton.”
“Lord Westfield.” George looked to Elizabeth with a frown.
“Lady Clara, may I present to you Mr. George Stanton?” Marcus asked. “Stanton, the lovely Lady Clara.”
George collected Clara’s hand and bowed. “A pleasure.”
Before Elizabeth could guess his intent, Marcus had reached for her. “An excellent pairing,” Marcus said. “Lady Hawthorne and I, being de trop, shall leave you two to finish the set.”
Tucking her hand firmly around his arm, he pulled her toward the open doors that led to the garden.
Elizabeth offered an apologetic smile over her shoulder, while inside, her heart leapt at the primitive display. “What are you about?”
“I thought that would be obvious. I’m causing a scene. You goaded me into this course of action by avoiding me the last sennight.”
“I have not been avoiding you,” she protested. “I’ve yet to receive another demand for the journal, therefore there was no reason to see you.”
Exiting to the balcony, they found several guests enjoying the cool night air. Held so closely to his side, the sheer force of Marcus’s presence once again surprised her.
“Your behavior is atrocious,” she muttered.
“You may insult me at your leisure when we are alone.”
Alone. A ripple of awareness brushed across her skin.
His gaze traveled over her face and searched her eyes. His own narrowed and though she tried to discern his thoughts his handsome features were set in stone. As they took the stairs into the garden, his pace quickened. She followed breathlessly, wondering what he meant to do, what he meant to say, startled to discover an unknown remnant of girlish romanticism thrilling at his determination.
Tucking her into a small alcove off the bottom of the staircase, Marcus eyed their surroundings carefully. Seeing they were alone, he moved swiftly. With gentle fingertips, he lifted her chin.
A kiss, she thought too late as his mouth covered hers. Then she couldn’t think at all.
His lips were unbelievably gentle as they melded with hers but the sensations they elicited were brutal in their intensity. Elizabeth could not move, arrested by the powerful response of her body to his. Only their lips touched. A simple step backward would have broken the contact but she could not manage even that. She stood frozen, her senses reeling from the taste and scent of him, every nerve firing to life at his bold advance.
“Kiss me back,” he growled, his fingers circling her wrists.
“No …” She tried to turn her head away.
Cursing, he took her mouth again. He did not kiss her sweetly as he had a moment before. This was an assault driven by bitterness so sharp she could taste it. His head tilted slightly, deepening the kiss, and then his tongue thrust forcefully between her parted lips. The depth of his ardor frightened her, and then fear flared into something far more powerful.
Hawthorne had never kissed her like this. This was more than just the joining of lips. It was a declaration of possession, of unquenchable need, a need Marcus built within her until she could no longer deny it. With a whimper, Elizabeth surrendered, tentatively touching her tongue to his, desperate for the intoxicating taste of him.
He growled his approval, the erotically charged sound causing her to sway unsteadily on her feet. Releasing her wrists, he supported her waist while a warm hand gripped the back of her neck, holding her still for his ravishment. His mouth moved skillfully over hers, rewarding her response with deeper flicks of his tongue. Her fists clutched his coat, pulling and tugging, trying to win some control but in the end unable to do more than just take what he gave her.