Wicked Promise (12 page)

The thought settled like a weight on her chest.

Moving away from the window, she sat down in a chair in front of the hearth and picked up the book of bird sketches she had discovered in the library. Her aunt would be awakening from her afternoon nap and soon would be joining her. They would take supper together in their suite and retire to bed early.

Elizabeth didn't intend to mention the carriage load of women who had just arrived at Ravenworth Hall.

Joining his friends in the Pink Drawing Room, a large high- ceilinged, ornately gilded salon that he rarely used, Nick took another long drink from the glass of gin he carried. Across the room, Richard Turner-Wilcox sat at a table with Baron St. George, dealing a hand of whist. One of the women, a short, big-breasted blonde, sat on Richard's lap, while another hung around the thick, flabby neck of St. George.

Across the table, Lord Percy sat between the other two women: a tall, blowsy brunette with a set of massive breasts; and a well-built, passably pretty redhead. One of Percy's hands strayed inside the brunette's bodice, stroking over a red-rouged nipple that occasionally peeked from the top.

It was a scene Sydney Birdsall would have expected to find in what he called Nick's "fresh-air den of iniquity." Nick had seen such displays often enough, but he rarely joined in. He preferred his own mistresses to the painted women his friends often brought. Tonight, however, he was already half drunk and badly in need of a woman.

Any woman, he told himself. Even one of Richard Turner- Wilcox's pretty whores.

Baron St. George looked up just then and saw him walk through the door. "Nicky, my boy! We've been waiting for you." S¡t. George waved him over. Nick pasted on a smile and joined the merry little group clustered around the green baize table.

"We've been hoping you would join us," Percy said, a diminutive little man with thinning hair. He was five years older than Nick, looked at least ten, and had an appetite for women that in no way matched his bland demeanor. "Miss Jubil has been wondering where you'd got off to."

The redhead, a woman who called herself Cherry Jubil, rose out of the chair at Percy's side. "Good evening, my lord." She was by far the most attractive, at least to him, with her pale skin and slender figure, her speech more refined than the rest. Perhaps his friends had known she would be.

He took a drink of his gin, felt the welcome burn of it down his throat, and studied the woman, trying not to think how her hair was a little too red, her mouth a little too wide, her eyes dark brown instead of a bright leafy green.

Still, he bowed with great formality over her hand. "I apologize, Miss Jubil, if I have kept you waiting. But I am here now and so are you. I suppose the evening may officially begin."

She laughed as if he had actually said something funny, sidled closer and pressed herself against his long length. She kissed him full on the mouth and he tasted the gin she had also been drinking.

At least they had one thing in common.

A long-nailed hand ran up his thigh and his body began to respond. He would take her and soon. He had made up his mind the moment he had seen the women walk into the house. He would have her this night, cleanse his body of this haunting desire for Elizabeth Woolcot that had been eating away at his sanity.

Once his desire was sated, memories of the kiss they had shared would fade. Things would go back to normal and he could return Elizabeth to her position as his ward and nothing more. He would soothe his desire with the redhead, pound into her until he couldn't remember Elizabeth's name.

Bending his head, he kissed her, wishing her lips were half as sweet as the last pair he had tasted.

Aunt Sophie heaved herself up from the silver brocade sofa in front of the hearth in the well-appointed sitting room of their suite. It was an elegant room, done in dove-gray and blue with silver accents throughout, warmed by a gray marble hearth near the corner.

"Well, dear, I believe I am off to bed. These old bones just aren't as young and spry as they used to be." Aunt Sophie yawned behind a pudgy hand. "Sleep well, my dear, and I shall see you in the morning."

"Good night, Aunt Sophie." The door to the older woman's bedchamber closed, leaving Elizabeth alone. She stared at the fire, watched the low-burning orange and red flames lick over the grate, and wished that she were sleepy. Wished her curiosity hadn't been nagging her all evening, goading her, telling her to creep down the back stairs and see what Ravenworth and his guests were doing.

She shouldn't, she knew. It was hardly appropriate for a well-bred young lady to think of spying on the earl and his odd assortment of friends. But as the next few minutes slipped past, the notion continued to grow, and Elizabeth found herself rising to her feet, crossing the room to the door.

She would simply go down for a glass of milk to help her sleep, making, of course, a quick trip through the halls while she was about it. She would discover where the group was ensconced and take a brief peek inside. She wouldn't stay but a moment—she certainly didn't want to get caught.

What could it possibly hurt?

The question went unanswered as she silently slipped down the back stairs, a trip she had made at least a dozen times. One of the footmen stood at a post near the door leading out to the garden, his head tipping onto his chest, snoring lightly as he dozed against the wall. She tiptoed past and headed down the passage. No one was in the usual array of downstairs drawing rooms. Elizabeth paused and went into the kitchen to fill a crockery mug with milk, then started down a hall leading to another, less-used wing of the house.

Muffled voices carried from the distance, along with the high-pitched squeal of feminine laughter. Elizabeth's breathing quickened and her heart kicked up its tempo. It appeared they were in the Pink Room, a large, ornate, little-used drawing room at the end of a marble-floored portrait gallery. Elizabeth made her way there on silent feet.

She paused outside the tall gilded doors, pressed her ear against the thick slab of wood. Low murmurs interspersed with bouts of silence. She wondered if the earl were inside and battled down the queasy feeling that suddenly rolled in her stomach. Her fingers itched to encircle the big silver doorknob. She reached for it, turned it to the left, heard the soft click of the latch being opened, let the door slide open a crack.

Oh, dear God. Her breath snagged at the sight before her, a sight she was certain never to forget. It was a scene from the pages of Dante's Inferno—painted, half-naked women draped over drunken, half-naked men. Breasts were exposed. Richard Turner-Wilcox groped between one woman's legs. The fat Baron St. George sat with a bare-breasted woman on his lap who was kissing the side of his neck, running her tongue around a puffy, red-veined earlobe.

Elizabeth swallowed hard. Her hands had begun to tremble and drops of milk spilled over the edge of the mug she held, onto the marble floor. She found herself praying, silently beseeching God that she wouldn't find Nicholas in there.

Staring through the crack, repelled yet unable to look away, her eyes searched the room. Her chest squeezed when she saw him, and a raw, burning pain spiraled through her. He was sprawled on a velvet sofa on the far side of the drawing room, pinned beneath the curvaceous body of the slender redhead she had seen getting out of the carriage. The woman lay half on top of him, her gown unfastened, the earl's dark hand massaging one of her breasts. She was kissing him, Elizabeth saw, running her fingers over his bare chest, which was exposed where his white frilled shirt had been unbuttoned and pulled apart.

Elizabeth swayed on her feet, her face going pale, her body suddenly numb. Her fingers fell away from the door and it swung farther open. A soft whimper tore from her throat and the mug of milk slipped from her hand to land with a splintery crash on the floor.

Several heads swung in her direction, but only one pair of eyes remained locked with hers. For a moment Nicholas just stared at her, as if he couldn't believe she was actually there. Tears blurred Elizabeth's vision, but she remained frozen, unable to move, her shocked eyes moving from Nicholas to the redhead. With a savage curse, he came up off the sofa so quickly the woman went sprawling on the floor.

"Bloody hell," the redhead grumbled, but Nicholas ignored her, his long legs striding across the drawing room toward the door.

Elizabeth whirled away from him and started to run, her slippered feet flying along the slick marble floor. She rounded a corner and kept running, turned again and ran some more.

"Elizabeth, wait!" Nicholas's voice echoed down the passageway, his footsteps pounding behind her. From the corner of her eye, she saw him round the corner, his shirt hanging open, his black hair mussed and falling into his eyes. The sight made a hard lump swell in her throat and a shaft of pain slice into her chest.

"Leave me alone!" She turned down the final corridor toward the door leading out to the garden, slammed through it without looking back and kept on running. She didn't stop until she reached a tall, leafy beech tree near the rear wall of the garden and paused to ease the painful stitch in her side. Her face was wet with tears, her chest heaving, her stomach rolling with nausea.

Slumping down on the wrought-iron bench beneath one of Silas McMann's bird feeders, she turned and began to weep against the cold ornate metal.

"Elizabeth?" It was Nicholas Warring. His voice sounded oddly rough. Though she couldn't see him, she knew he stood on the path just a few feet in back of her. She could hear his labored breathing, but she couldn't bear to look at him.

"Go away," she whispered. "Please . . .just go away."

He made no reply but neither did he leave. Long seconds passed. A minute, two, then three. Elizabeth finally turned, saw that he still stood there.

 "I'm sorry," he said. "God, I'm so damned sorry."

She simply shook her head, but her heart ached unbearably, felt as if he had crushed it beneath his tall black boots. She didn't want him to know—dear Lord, she couldn't let him guess how badly he had hurt her. Lifting her chin, she forced a hint of steel into her spine.

"You told me to stay in my room. I should ... should have listened." She dragged in a shaky breath, hoping the darkness would hide the wetness on her cheeks. All the while she was thinking, How could you do it? How could you kiss me the way you did in the garden then make love to a woman you don't even know?

Nicholas took a step closer, his hand outstretched as if he might touch her. She recoiled at the movement and the hand fell away.

"Elizabeth, please. I know what you must be thinking and I don't blame you." His voice sounded raw, harsh, as if each spoken word gave him a sharp jab of pain. "Until I saw you standing in that doorway, I never realized the sort of man I had allowed myself to become."

Elizabeth didn't answer. She just wished he would go away. "You warned me," she persisted, hating herself for not listening, for allowing herself to believe he was something that he was not. "The fault is mine." To her horror, her voice broke. "I should not have gone downstairs."

Something flashed in Nicholas's eyes. His hands fisted, though he made no other move. "No, you should not have," he softly agreed. "And I should not have been consorting with whores in the house that was my family's home. I can only tell you they will all of them be gone by first light on the morrow. And I promise you, Elizabeth, nothing like that will ever take place in this house again."

Elizabeth just looked at him, trying not to think of the redhead's hand running over his beautiful chest, of the woman's breasts thrusting up between his fingers.

Nicholas looked away, staring off into the dark night sky, then back into Elizabeth's face. As hard as she tried to hide it, she knew he could see the pain she was feeling. It was etched into her features, a pain she had no right to feel.

"It makes me sick to think what you saw going on in that room..'' He shook his head, his jaw clamped hard, something very like anguish carved into his face. His next words were so soft she almost didn't hear them. "I didn't even want her."

Elizabeth wiped at the tears on her cheeks. "Then why did you...?"

"I thought it would help me forget." A deep, regret-filled sigh whispered out into the night. "I hoped it would take my mind off the woman I wanted but could not have."

Her heart squeezed. "Lady Dandridge," she said dully.

"No, Elizabeth." His eyes fixed on hers, silvery and intense as she had never seen them. "The woman I wanted was you."

Her heart stopped—she was sure of it. Her breath expanded in her chest until she couldn't draw in a whisper of air. "I'm the one you wanted? Is that the reason you kissed me in the garden?"

"I was angry, but yes ... in truth that is the reason I kissed you."

Elizabeth glanced away. "It is difficult to believe you were making love to her because you wanted me."

He followed her line of vision, off across the garden to the high stone wall, then returned to settle on her face. "I want you, Elizabeth. I have almost since the first time I saw you. I was making love to her because I was a fool."

Elizabeth said nothing, just stood looking at the tall, dark earl, trying to convince herself what she saw in his face could not possibly be pain.

"I know I have probably frightened you, but you needn't be afraid. I would never take advantage of my position. I don't want to hurt you, Elizabeth. I would do anything to prevent that from happening. Tonight... tonight was a terrible mistake."

Still she said nothing.

"I was a fool," he repeated. "I hope that in time you will be able to forgive me." He stood there for several long moments, then he scanned a length of the wall, saw that two of his guards were positioned not far away, turned and started walking back to the house.