Wicked Promise (20 page)

"Nick has always been handsome and sought after. He is a dangerous, capable man when he has to be, and that holds some special appeal to women. Since Stephen's death, they have pursued him perhaps more than ever. But the fact is, Nick is lonely. You may not see it, but I do."

Elizabeth said nothing. She had thought that same thing on more than one occasion. She wondered now, as she hadn't before, if perhaps the distance he put between them was not an effort to rid himself of her, but an attempt to protect them both.

Lounging against the wall below the spiral staircase, Nick glanced up to see Elizabeth approaching the top of the stairs. In the gold and emerald silk gown he had insisted she purchase, she looked so lovely his breath caught, began a slow burn in his chest. He pushed away from the wall with careful nonchalance as Maggie joined her, and the women descended the stairs.

"You both look lovely," he said to them, but his eyes remained on Elizabeth. "Every man in the place will be falling at your feet."

Maggie smiled. "I hope you are right." She looked more nervous than he had expected, her shoulders rigid with tension. "I shall deem the evening a success if we receive the cut direct from less than half the people in the room."

Nick reached out and cupped her cheek. "It won't be so bad. Rand will be with us, and his mother, the dowager duchess. Together, we'll be quite a formidable force."

A slight shiver moved over Elizabeth's slender frame. Nick saw it and his chest went tight. This was his fault, all of it. And yet there was nothing he could do.

"I'm sorry, Elizabeth, that it has come to this. If there were any way to make this easier for you, I would. Your father would never have allied himself with my family if he had known the trouble it would cause. But that, I'm afraid, is spilt milk, and it is all in the past. Just remember, whatever happens tonight, keep your chin up and your emotions in check. If God is with us, when we return home, my sister will be one step closer to putting the past behind her, and Elizabeth Woolcot will be on her way to a new life."

Elizabeth simply nodded. He could feel her nervousness, though she did her best to disguise it. He wanted to hold her, comfort her, tell her everything would be all right. Instead, he remained where he was, wearing a look of cool indifference, afraid the least amount of sympathy would only make things worse.

Her aunt appeared a few minutes later, smiling and cheerful as always, and he urged his little party toward the door. Descending the front-porch steps, he helped the ladies climb into the carriage, then climbed in himself, settling back against the plush velvet squabs. Up on the driver's seat, Jackson Fremantle slapped the reins, the carriage lurched forward, and in seconds they were bowling along the crowded streets toward the Duke of Beldon's town mansion on Grosvenor Square.

As they had planned, the ball was well under way by the time they arrived. Stylish phaetons and curricles, elegant calèches, and gilded black coaches formed a long line out in front. Instead, Nick ordered the driver to head for the side door, as Rand had arranged. Inside the house, they were ushered into an elegant drawing room where the duke and dowager duchess joined them a few moments later.

"Maggie, you're looking splendid," Rand said, striding forward, then bowing with great formality over her hand. He turned a warm smile on the slender, auburn-haired woman who stood beside her. "Elizabeth, you are a vision. Your beaux will be lining up for places on your dance card." He flashed a second smile, "And you, Nick, as usual, will have the women fighting like cats to garner a moment of your attention."

"I daresay, Nicholas," the duchess put in, "all that hard work didn't seem to hurt you a lick. If anything, you are even more handsome than you were nine years ago." She smiled. "It's good to see you, my boy."

"Thank you, Your Grace." She was a small woman, slightly stooped at the shoulder, silver haired, with deep-set blue eyes and the same formidable nature as her son. She had always been outspoken, and even the subject of Nick's imprisonment was not taboo.

He watched as she turned her attention to his sister, granting her the same warm welcome that he had received. "It's been too long, dear child. It is delightful to see you again."

Some of Maggie's nervousness eased at the duchess's warm welcome. He had forgotten how gracious the Clayton family could be. More than ever, he regretted the years he had missed seeing his friend.

Then Rand presented Elizabeth to his mother, whose discerning eyes studied her from head to foot. Elizabeth made a deep, graceful curtsy. "I am delighted to meet you, Your Grace. I shall never be able to repay your kindness."

"Nonsense. Helping Lord Ravenworth has been good for my son. He grows jaded and bored. He hasn't been challenged by anything in years."

Elizabeth smiled and he thought she seemed to relax. It was imperative she make a good impression if she were to find a suitable husband. Nick watched her and reminded himself it was the only choice she had, that it was the best thing for Elizabeth, the best thing for both of them. But an ache crept into his chest and his insides felt leaden. The small group talked a few minutes longer, but guests were still arriving and the duke's and the dowager's presence would soon be missed.

The moment was at hand—time to face the dragon.

"Chin up, all of you," Rand said, ushering the small group toward the door. "Never show them mercy, nor the slightest trace of fear—they'll go for blood if you do."

He was grinning when he said it, but Nick inwardly shuddered, certain the statement was true.

Elizabeth pasted on a bright, carefree smile as they shouldered their way through the mob and entered the huge gilded ballroom. It shimmered with tall beeswax candles and glittered with silver urns filled to overflowing with dozens of alabaster roses, their soft scent mingling with the heavier perfume worn by the women.

Walking toward the orchestra at the far end of the ballroom, Elizabeth clutched the duke's thick-muscled arm and continued to smile. So far, things had gone smoothly. She had liked the duchess immediately and she liked Rand Clayton more and more. His hand covered hers, sure and strong, and she thought how lucky they were to have him stand as friend.

Several heads turned, a dozen eyes found them, then fifty, then a hundred. The hubbub in the room lowered to a low boiling simmer. Seconds passed. Watching their progress, the room fell silent, then the whispering began. They were staring at Nicholas, scandalized at his appearance at such a gathering, and Elizabeth's heart went out to him. Her spine prickled as if each person's gaze held a razor-sharp edge, and pity welled inside her. He had done this for her and for Maggie. He had done it because he cared.

"Good Lord—that isn't Ravenworth," someone muttered from a few feet away. "Why, the man is a criminal. Surely he wouldn't have the gall."

"I daresay it is," confirmed a rotund matron in an out-of- fashion powdered wig. "And that little blond tart is his sister."

Beneath her hand, the duke's arm tensed, but he kept on walking. The voices continued as they passed through the crowd and Elizabeth felt sick to her stomach.

"Who's the red-haired gel?" a nattily dressed young man asked. "She is certainly a prime bit of baggage."

"That, old chap, is Sir Henry Woolcot's daughter. Raven- worth is her guardian." He chuckled softly. "Rather like a wolf guarding the sheep, wouldn't you say?" Both men laughed—until Beldon stopped and turned. One look from those cool brown eyes and all merriment immediately ceased.

They continued across the ballroom, Elizabeth's knees quaking beneath her skirt, until they reached the edge of the dance floor. The duke made a slight inclination of his head and the orchestra began to play. As custom demanded, he began the dancing, partnering his mother first, the highest- ranking woman in the room. The second dance he saved for her.

"Smile, my dear, you look positively ravishing. You haven't a thing to worry about." He east a quick glance at Ravenworth, who stood beside the dowager duchess just a few feet away. Nicholas's expression was intense, but Elizabeth couldn't read his thoughts.

The music swelled. Beldon took his position across from her on the black and white marble floor. "He is worried about you," Rand said as the line of dancers came forward. "You are fortunate to have made such a friend."

There was little she could say to that. Friendship with Nicholas Warring was the last thing she wanted. She wanted him to love her and that he would not do.

The duke smiled and Elizabeth did the same. As Beldon had said, it was imperative the ton believe that nothing was amiss, that they were exactly where they belonged, that their presence should be readily accepted.

He danced with Maggie next, wrapping them both in the protective cloak of his authority, and from that moment on, the tone of the evening began to change. Men appeared at her side as if they had stepped through the mirrored walls, and several women, she noticed, had the courage to seek Nicholas out.

She steeled herself from the shaft of jealousy that speared through her. She knew what the earl was like. He was a rake and a rogue, no matter what sacrifices he might be making in her behalf.

She forced her eyes away, brightened her pasted-on smile, and accepted an offer to dance with a young lord introduced by the dowager duchess. He was handsome and charming, but not one of the four potential suitors Sydney Birdsall had in mind.

Besides Lord Tricklewood, the list included Lord Addington Leech, second son of the Earl of Dryden; Sir Robert Tinsley; and William Rutherford, Baron Talmadge. All of their reputations were impeccable, as Sydney demanded, and their need for a wife well known. Each of them had been invited to the ball, but aside from Lord Tricklewood, only Lord Talmadge had come.

Sydney, who had arrived less than an hour ago, introduced Talmadge with a smile of approval.

"You should be flattered, my dear. His lordship came specifically to make your acquaintance."

She gave him the best smile she could muster. "How kind of you, my lord."

"Not at all. I was quite happy to come. Sydney has told me a good deal about you and I can already see that we shall get on admirably well." He was a man in his late thirties, graying at the temples, tall and spare, and well-spoken. He was a widower with two small children, a boy and a girl. The idea of mothering his offspring held an unexpected appeal, but aside from that she found the man a bit stiff and oddly forbidding.

As they partnered in a contra dance, she tried not to compare him to Ravenworth, tried not to see Nicholas's tender smile against the stern set of Talmadge's features. She tried not to think of the night she had spent in Nicholas's bed, in his arms, tried not to remember how it had felt when he was inside her.

That road was madness, yet she couldn't stop thinking about it. Or that marriage to Talmadge would surely be a joyless existence not far removed from an alliance with Oliver Hampton.

Nick strode to the sideboard in his study and poured a generous amount of gin into his glass. He took a long, comforting swallow, felt the fiery liquid burn its way into his stomach. He had drunk only a moderate amount all evening, had been on his very best behavior in an effort to counter his wicked reputation.

Now that his ladies were home and safe, there was nothing he wanted more than to get blindly, stupidly drunk and forget the whole bloody affair.

He raised the glass and took another deep draw on his drink. He had guessed the welcome he would receive and he hadn't been wrong. He had only prayed Maggie and Elizabeth would be able to overcome their association with him, and as it had turned out, Rand made the difficult task far easier than he had imagined.

By the end of the evening, the whispers had dulled to a few muttered words, and both his sister and Elizabeth, lovely as they were, had garnered a stream of male admirers. No, strangely enough, as difficult as he had perceived the task of returning to the ton, in the end that wasn't the problem.

Nick took another dulling drink of his gin. With a weary sigh, he sat down on the tufted leather sofa in front of the hearth and rested his head against the back, trying not to remember the smile on Elizabeth's face every time she had danced with another man. In truth, his distress came not from the tension of the evening, but from its success. In his wildest imaginings, he hadn't considered Elizabeth's triumph would hit him so damnably hard.

A soft curse slipped off his tongue. Every time he saw her dancing, it was all he could do not to storm across the room and drag her away from her partner. He couldn't stand to see another man's hand touching that lovely white skin, couldn't stand to watch another man's leering gaze drift down to the swell of her breast.

He didn't want them smiling at her. He didn't want them laughing with her. Bloody hell, he didn't want them anywhere near her.

Nick downed the rest of his drink, but it did little to deaden the sharp prongs of jealousy that pierced his insides. He had no right to feel them—no right at all, yet the hot shafts of anger would not abate.

"Good Christ," he muttered, rising to refill his glass, determined to take the edge off his turbulent emotions. What the devil was wrong with him? He had been with other women— dozens of them. What was it about the fiery little redhead that made him half crazy with lust? Lust and something more. A need to simply touch her. To hold her. To protect her. It was a feeling he had never experienced, not with his wife nor in any of his many affairs.

Seated once more on the sofa, Nick drained his glass, rose to pour another, and this time returned with the half-full decanter. He had promised to reform, but he was no saint. Besides, with her high full breasts, silky dark auburn hair, and sweetly enchanting smile, Elizabeth Woolcot was enough to make any sane man turn to drink.

Elizabeth perched on a seat in the small informal garden behind the town house. It wasn't nearly as elaborate as the gardens at Ravenworth Hall and few birds braved the smoky air of the city, but it was green and cool, a place of refuge that soothed her dismal mood.

A week had passed since the duke's lavish ball, deemed a resounding success, though not everyone in the ton welcomed their return with open arms. A start had been made, however, and several invitations arrived the following morning, several more the day after that. They attended each affair, and by the end of the week, Elizabeth was over her nerves and determined to make the best of her situation.

Maggie was struggling a bit, out of her element for certain after nine long years in a convent. But she was lovely and gracious and any number of men had made their interest clear.

On the opposite hand, Nicholas seemed more and more reticent each evening, his manner withdrawn, often brooding, at times even harsh.

It didn't deter the women. In truth, they seemed drawn to the dark side of his nature, excited by the dangerous quality that surrounded him. He was, after all, the Wicked Earl, and they wanted to taste the deep, seething passions they sensed were inside him, to touch those flaring black brows, kiss the hard set of his mouth.

Jealousy burned away the last of the hurt Elizabeth had been feeling, turning it instead to anger, a slow simmering boil that made her want to lash out at him, made her want to hurt him as he had hurt her.

"I am sick unto death of your brother's foul disposition," she said to Maggie upon their return home late one night. "He was rude to Lord Tricklewood and barely civil even to the duke."

To say nothing of the fact that Miriam Beechcroft, Lady Dandridge, was there at the ball and flashing him seductive glances through the entire miserable evening. "I realize, as my guardian, he feels obligated to see this matter through, but I am beginning to think it would be better for us all if he simply returned to Raven worth Hall."

Maggie pulled her cashmere shawl off her shoulders and tossed it over a chair. "You know he can't do that. That could be precisely what Bascomb is waiting for." She sighed. "I realize Nicholas can be surly at times, at times a bit brooding, but it isn't like him to be purposely rude. I cannot imagine what is wrong with him,"

Neither could Elizabeth. Perhaps a woman was involved, someone he wished to pursue as his next mistress. Perhaps he was simply weary of the task of finding his ward a husband. Whatever it was, Elizabeth vowed to ignore him, vowed that from now on Nicholas Warring could go straight to Hades.

Unfortunately, ignoring him wasn't that easy. Wherever she went, whomever she spoke to, she could feel the silver glint of his eyes on her. They made her insides flutter and her mouth go dry, reminded her what it had felt like when he touched her, made love to her that night at the inn.

Her anger swelled. Jealousy warred with desire, burning like a hot coal in her belly. She wanted him to suffer as she did, wanted to make him jealous, too, wanted to make him burn for her as one glance from those hot silver eyes could make her burn for him.

Elizabeth left the garden infused with a new determination. She was tired of being ignored, tired of Ravenworth's constant disapproval. Choosing a seductively low-cut gown in shades of black and topaz, she pulled the pins from her hair and began to brush it with swift, firm strokes, her mind awhirl with plans for the evening.

A smile of purpose settled over her lips. Two could play games of seduction. She might not be as skillful as Nicholas, but she was a very quick study. Ravenworth had held the winning hand long enough. Tonight she meant to even the score.

Standing at the edge of the drawing room, a lavish salon done in pale pink and cream, Sydney Birdsall clasped Elizabeth's hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm.

"My dear, you look splendid. Every head in the room turned your way as you walked in."

Elizabeth smiled, unconsciously smoothing the bodice of her low-cut silk gown. "Thank you, Sydney." They were attending a soirée hosted by Lord and Lady Denby, the marquess and his wife she had met at the dinner party Sydney had arranged when they first arrived in London.

"Two more of your suitors are here. Lord Addington and Sir Robert Tinsley. Both are eager to meet you."

Elizabeth glanced at Nicholas, who stood just a few feet away. His mouth seemed to thin, but he made no remark. She flashed a wide, sunny smile. "As I am eager to meet them. The duchess has a particular fondness for Sir Robert, and Lord Addington is rumored to be handsome in the extreme."

"He is also quite wealthy." Sydney glanced toward the door, lifted the monocle he wore to one eye. "Ah, there he is now. I believe he is making his way in our direction." Most certainly he was, Elizabeth saw.

"If the two of you will excuse me . . ."' Nicholas turned and walked away. He hadn't gone far when a supple blond woman with an elegant figure stepped into his path and said something Elizabeth couldn't hear. She caught his low murmured response, then the rough sound of his laughter as the pair conversed.

Fury enveloped her. How dare he! He was cordial enough to the blond, but to Elizabeth he remained rude and surly.

When Lord Addington appeared, she turned all of the charm she could muster, every ounce of her feminine wiles in his direction, laughing at his inane banter, smiling at his efforts to impress her with his wit. He was handsome enough, in a dandified way, and she flattered him until his chest puffed out.

His eyes slid down to where her breasts swelled over the top of her bodice. "Would you care to dance, Miss Woolcot?"