The Nude (full-length historical romance) (27 page)

“I beg your pardon, Lady Lauretta. I need to have a word in private with my wife.”

Careful of her wound, Elsbeth twisted toward the door until her gaze met Edgeware’s. Shadows haunted his onyx eyes.

She was surprised to see him. It was late. The sun had set hours ago. He was still dressed for dinner and entertaining guests, in a fine black coat and contrasting snowy-white cravat. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of him, giving her cause to curse that tender organ for being so easily won over.

He lingered at the door, waiting for her permission to enter even though this was his home, not hers.

Lauretta stood. “Please, do excuse me,” she said sharply and made a quick retreat, passing by Edgeware without even a nod of recognition.

With a look of amusement, Lord Edgeware watched Lauretta flounce down the hall with a bouncing, angry stride. He shrugged and stepped into the room. “May I join you?”

Elsbeth stared at him, standing so straight and noble just a step inside the door. He seemed colder, more distant. More like she expected a husband to act. But not at all how she wished
him
to act.

“Of course, my lord. This is your home,” she said with a sigh. “However, I pray you have not come expecting to claim your marital rights,” she added, feeling her irritation surge.

A brow rose at that. “Ah . . . is that what you believe?” He tilted his head slightly as he studied her. His intense gaze lapped at her body like flames from a fire. “And how are your injuries faring today, my lady wife?”

Did he care, or had he come to her truly expecting to consummate the marriage tonight?

She couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to lie with Edgeware in his bed. Surely, the enjoyment she felt from their passionate encounter in his study was nothing more than an aberration, a fantastic deviation from reality. She still couldn’t convince herself that what she’d felt at his hands was nothing more than a heated dream. She knew she shouldn’t hope that she would ever forget herself so completely again. She wasn’t comfortable with her body. According to Lord Mercer, her hips were too thin and her breasts too small. And she was impossibly cold. Hers wasn’t a body that could give pleasure to a man.

“I believe I will live, my lord,” she said sharply. “However, I do not believe I am up to any strenuous exertions to my person.”

“I see.”

She closed her eyes and tried to slow her erratic breathing. Prickly nerves were leading her into dangerous territory. She needed to calm down. But she was finding it nearly impossible to do so while a war was waging within her heart. She wanted him to touch her, to caress her, to
love
her. She wanted everything he could possibly give her. She wanted to feel him move over her and press her deep into his thick mattress.

But no . . .

She didn’t think she was strong enough to endure the look of disappointment she’d find in his eyes after bedding her. Her frigid body would inevitably disappoint him. And that disappointment would eventually lead to loathing and resentment.

The situation was impossible! Why had he married her? He barely even knew her.

“Lauretta told me about your butler. I am truly sorry,” she said carefully, hoping to turn the subject to a more pressing—and safer—topic.

Edgeware ground his jaw, clearly upset. “His death will be avenged.” She felt the danger in his voice. It made the hair on the back of her neck rise. Her husband would make a formidable enemy.

“She also told me that you were attacked today. I pray you are well.”

“Well enough.” He rubbed the back of his neck as he took a half step toward her. They were still yards apart, not quite having to yell across a great expanse, but close. When he spoke, his voice was icy. “There is no reason for you to worry. I have the situation well in hand. In fact, I will be posting a footman at your chamber door.”

“To keep me in or others out, my lord?”

Her sharp tone seemed to break through his icy demeanor. He heaved a long, audible sigh and took another step toward her chair by the fire. “Could you perhaps use my given name when you wish to curse me to the devil?”

“I cannot possibly know what you mean,
my lord
.”

He took another step toward her. Her heart rate quickened.

“I mean: the tone you use with me would be more palatable if you softened the blow by using my given name. It is Nigel, need I remind you? Not a terrible chore to trip up the tongue.” He took yet another step toward her. He was standing nearly on top of her now. “I will not insist, though.”

“Thank you—” she hesitated, unsure “—Lord Edgeware.”

Fire flashed behind his eyes. “Elsbeth—” he bit off and stopped to heave another deep sigh. “I had come to apprise you of the situation and to assure you that you are in no danger. However, I see Lady Lauretta has already done so. Apparently, there is no other purpose for this meeting, so I will wish you a good night.”

He turned. She’d thought he’d at least brush her cheek with a kiss. But he had not. Instead, he’d left her cold and more alone than before.

“My lord,” she called out before he reached the door.

He stopped. Her heart counted the number of beats it took before he turned to face her again. “Yes?”

How could this sham of a marriage have any hope of working? The promise of long, miserable days appeared before her. This was not the future she had dreamed of when praying for her first husband’s death, God forgive her.

But
this was
the future she was being offered.

Lord Edgeware was watching her. His dark expressive eyes mirrored her distress, her confusion. But there was also something else in that look he was giving her, something she wasn’t yet ready to recognize. Deep in her heart she longed to believe that illusive
something
she was seeing might mean that there could be a safe, comfortable future waiting for her. A future where she could be happy. But to try and reach for it would mean she’d have to risk a heart she’d long protected. And yet, she had to try.

She wanted him to kiss her.
To love her.
But she didn’t know how to ask for those things.

“
Nigel
,” she whispered.

She struggled to wrench the words she needed to say from deep within her heart, but they refused to come. She shook her head and waved him away. Her voice tightened again. “I am glad you came to talk with me. Good evening, my lord.”

He stared at her, his brows furrowed. He just stood there, refusing to leave.

Her heart beat wildly in her chest, and she couldn’t seem to catch her breath. She didn’t know him, didn’t understand his silent moods. Was he angry? Was he plotting to punish her? Or was his silence a kind of punishment?

Without a word of warning he stalked back over to where she was reclining. And before she could protest or pull away, he leaned down and brushed his lips across hers. His mouth tasted of brandy and spice. She sighed and leaned forward, seeking more, silently pleading for everything she couldn’t find the courage to ask of him. His was a flavor she craved.

He cupped his hand at the nape of her neck and deepened the kiss. When she parted her lips, their tongues touched. He made love to her mouth with such exquisite care tears sprang to her eyes. She reached around his neck, pulling him closer, wanting everything he was willing to offer. And still, she was unsure how to ask—no,
demand
—that he give up his heart to her.

She barely kept herself from crying out when he slowly peeled his lips away. His jaw tightened and he looked so serious as he reached under her and carefully scooped her up into his arms, lifting her from her comfortable spot on the chaise lounge.

“What are you doing?” she gasped.

“Taking you to bed, my lady wife.”

Wind whipped up from the shore. Another storm was approaching, and this one promised to be worse than the one that had battered the coast only a few days earlier. Nigel stood for a moment at the edge of the cliff, watching the interplay of the billowy black clouds against the early morning sky.

“No smuggler will be foolish enough to brave the waters tonight. You can give your men a rest, Edgeware. All will be quiet,” George said, as he approached the cliff’s edge.

George, George
. A sharp pain ripped into Nigel’s chest.

Late last night he’d personally delivered Elsbeth to her bed, the narrow bed she’d been using all week. He’d been tempted to carry her away to his own chamber. But he doubted she would have allowed it. By the time he’d finished settling her beneath her bed’s quilted counterpane, his whole body had ached to stay with her, to make love to her. But she was injured and weak. She needed her rest. She needed time to grow accustomed to the thought of being married to him.

Even so, he’d lingered just inside the door, wanting to crawl into her bed and sleep at her side. To rest, knowing she was in the same room as him, knowing that she was safe and well. He’d waited longer than he knew he should, hoping she’d invite him to stay. She didn’t. Instead, she had called for her maid. With a heavy heart, he’d left.

And that was where Charlie had found him, just outside Elsbeth’s chamber. His cousin had taken one look at him and pushed a bottle of French wine into his hands.
Smuggled
French wine.

“What the hell are you doing with this?” Nigel had demanded right before he’d herded his cousin into his study before anyone could see them. “Do you know what this looks like?” he demanded once they were alone.

“Nige, the bottle doesn’t belong to me.” A black look had darkened Charlie’s normally jovial blue eyes. “I did a little poking around after Jenkins’s body was discovered. I found this bottle, along with several more crates of illegal goods on George’s estate.”

Not willing to take his cousin at his word—not for this—Nigel went skulking through George’s property. And like Charlie had said, he’d found crate after crate of smuggled goods in one of George’s storerooms. The discovery struck him more sharply than a mortal blow to the chest.

Could it be true? Could George, one of the few men he trusted with his life, be behind the smuggling operation . . . and the attempts on his life . . . and the attempt on Elsbeth’s life . . . and his butler’s murder? He’d sat up all night trying to figure out what he should do, how he should approach George. And still, he had no answers. Friend or not, the men responsible for those crimes would hang.

“This wind is ruining my cravat,” Charlie said as he joined them. He seemed to have no interest in the sky, the cliff, or the conversation. He found a stump and, after cleaning away the dirt and debris with a handkerchief, plopped down onto it and began poking at the soft ground with a twig.

Nigel wished Charlie and George would both just vanish for a while. Neither man was looking much like a hero this morning. Last night, after presenting Nigel with George’s smuggled bottle of wine, Charlie had once again resumed his begging for money. He’d claimed he needed close to thirty thousand pounds for a solid investment. An investment whose details he had refused to disclose.

Nigel dug his fingers into his palm. The last time he’d declined to pay Charlie a large sum to pay for some supposedly
solid
investment, the money had disappeared from his accounts all the same.

That Charlie, his harmless cousin, would stoop low enough to rob him to pay off what was more likely a reckless gambling debt than some thought-out investment—and was no doubt plotting to do so again—only pricked his already ravaged nerves.

I’m overrun by betrayals!

Tonight.

Tonight, according to Charlie, the villagers were saying that the smugglers were planning to land again with their booty. “You will see then, Nige, who your true friends are,” he’d said.

Nigel flexed his hand, his need for the relief only a paintbrush could provide him, growing urgent. Images of George being led to the gallows for murder—for brutally killing his butler, an innocent man who’d deserved better, he’d lead the bastard up the roughhewn stairs himself—and images of Charlie flirting shamelessly with Elsbeth while frittering away the Edgeware fortune joined the storm-whipped wind, echoing accusations in his ear.