Damn Marcus for coming tonight! Her first social event after three years of mourning and he unerringly sought her out within hours of her reemergence, as if he’d been impatiently waiting these last years for exactly this moment. She was well aware that that had not been the case at all. While she had been crepe-clad and sequestered in mourning, Marcus had been firmly establishing his scandalous reputation in many a lady’s bedroom.
After the callous way he’d broken her heart, Elizabeth would have discounted him regardless of the circumstances but tonight especially. Enjoyment of the festivities was not her aim. She had a man she was waiting for, a man she had arranged covertly to meet. Tonight she would dedicate herself to the memory of her husband. She would find justice for Hawthorne and see it served.
The crowd parted reluctantly before Marcus and then regrouped in his wake, the movements heralding his progress toward her. And then Westfield was there, directly before her. He smiled and her pulse raced. The temptation to retreat, to flee, was great, but the moment when she could reasonably have done so passed far too swiftly.
Squaring her shoulders, Elizabeth took a deep breath. The glass in her hand began to tremble and she quickly swallowed the whole of its contents to avoid spilling on her dress. She passed the empty vessel to George without looking. Marcus caught her hand before she could retrieve it.
Bowing low with a charming smile, his gaze never broke contact with hers. “Lady Hawthorne. Ravishing, as ever.” His voice was rich and warm, reminding her of crushed velvet. “Would it be folly to hope you still have a dance available, and that you would be willing to dance it with me?”
Elizabeth’s mind scrambled, attempting to discover a way to refuse. His wickedly virile energy, potent even across the room, was overwhelming in close proximity.
“I am not in attendance to dance, Lord Westfield. Ask any of the gentlemen around us.”
“I’ve no wish to dance with them,” he said dryly, “so their thoughts on the matter are of no consequence to me.”
She began to object when she perceived the challenge in his eyes. He smiled with devilish amusement, visibly daring her to proceed, and Elizabeth paused. She would not give him the satisfaction of thinking she was afraid to dance with him. “You may claim this next set, Lord Westfield, if you insist.”
He bowed gracefully, his gaze approving. He offered his arm and led her toward the dance floor. As the musicians began to play and music rose in joyous swell through the room, the beautiful strains of the minuet began.
Turning, Marcus extended his arm toward her. She placed her hand atop the back of his, grateful for the gloves that separated their skin. The ballroom was ablaze with candles, which cast him in golden light and brought to her attention the strength of his shoulder as it flexed. Lashes lowered, she appraised him for signs of change.
Marcus had always been an intensely physical man, engaging in a variety of sports and activities. Impossibly, it appeared he had grown stronger, more formidable. He was power personified and Elizabeth marveled at her past naiveté in believing she could tame him. Thank God, she was no longer so foolish.
His one softness was his luxuriously rich brown hair. It shone like sable and was tied at the nape with a simple black ribbon. Even his emerald gaze was sharp, piercing with a fierce intelligence. He had a clever mind to which deceit was naught but a simple game, as she had learned at great cost to her heart and pride.
She had half expected to find the signs of dissipation so common to the indulgent life and yet his handsome face bore no such witness. Instead he wore the sun-kissed appearance of a man who spent much of his time outdoors. His nose was straight and aquiline over lips that were full and sensuous. At the moment those lips were turned up on one side in a half smile that was at once boyish and alluring. He remained perfectly gorgeous from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. He was watching her studying him, fully aware that she could not help but admire his handsomeness. She lowered her eyes and stared resolutely at his jabot.
The scent that clung to him enveloped her senses. It was a wonderfully manly scent of sandalwood, citrus, and Marcus’s own unique essence. The flush of her skin seeped into her insides, mingling with her apprehension.
Reading her thoughts, Marcus tilted his head toward her. His voice, when it came, was low and husky. “Elizabeth. It is a long-awaited pleasure to be in your company again.”
“The pleasure, Lord Westfield, is entirely yours.”
“You once called me Marcus.”
“It would no longer be appropriate for me to address you so informally, my lord.”
His mouth tilted into a sinful grin. “I give you leave to be inappropriate with me at any time you choose. In fact, I have always relished your moments of inappropriateness.”
“You have had a number of willing women who suited you just as well.”
“Never, my love. You have always been separate and apart from every other female.”
Elizabeth had met her share of scoundrels and rogues but always their slick confidence and overtly intimate manners left her unmoved. Marcus was so skilled at seducing women, he managed the appearance of utter sincerity. She’d once believed every declaration of adoration and devotion that had fallen from his lips. Even now, the way he looked at her with such fierce longing seemed so genuine she almost believed it.
He made her want to forget what kind of man he was—a heartless seducer. But her body would not let her forget. She felt feverish and faintly dizzy.
“Three years of mourning,” he said, with a faint note of bitterness. “I am relieved to see grief has not unduly ravaged your beauty. In fact, you are even more exquisite than when we were last together. You do recall that occasion, do you not?”
“Vaguely,” she lied. “I have not thought of it in many years.”
Wondering if he suspected her deception, she studied him as they changed partners. Marcus radiated an aura of sexual magnetism that was innate to him. The way he moved, the way he talked, the way he smelled—it all boasted of powerful energies and appetites. She sensed the barely leashed power he hid below the polished surface and she recollected how dangerous he was.
His voice poured over her with liquid heat as the steps of the minuet returned her to him. “I am wounded you are not more pleased to see me, especially when I braved this miserable event solely to be with you.”
“Ridiculous,” she scoffed. “You had no notion I would be here this evening. Whatever your purpose, please go about it and leave me in peace.”
His voice was alarmingly soft. “My purpose is you, Elizabeth.”
She stared a moment, her stomach churning with heightened unease. “If my brother sees us together he will be furious.”
The flare of Marcus’s nostrils made her wince. Once he and William had been the best of friends, but the end of her engagement had also brought about the demise of their friendship. Of all the things she regretted, that was paramount.
“What do you want?” she asked when he said nothing more.
“The fulfillment of your promise.”
“What promise?”
“Your skin against mine with nothing in between.”
“You’re mad.” She breathed heavily, shivering. Then her eyes narrowed. “Don’t toy with me. Consider all the women who have graced your sheets since we parted. I did you a good turn by releasing you to—”
Elizabeth gasped as his gloved hand spun about beneath hers and his fingers squeezed with crushing force.
With darkened gaze, he bit out, “You did a great many things to me when you broke your word. A good turn is not one of them.”
Shocked at his vehemence, she fought back. “You knew how I felt about fidelity, how strongly I desired it. You could never have been the type of husband I wanted.”
“I was exactly what you wanted, Elizabeth. You wanted me so badly it scared you away.”