Wicked Promise (28 page)

A dinner prepared for two, served upstairs in her room. She knew the household had begun to guess she was involved in an intimate affair. There were whispers from the servants of the "sinful goings-on" in their domain, but out of loyalty to their employer, so far none of them had quit.

Mercy, Elias, and Theo had guessed the man she was seeing was Nicholas Warring, but instead of receiving looks of condemnation for succumbing to the wages of sin, Elizabeth merely garnered looks of pity. Everyone knew what little regard the Wicked Earl held for women. That Elizabeth had fallen among the endless number who had gone before only told them how foolish she was.

She didn't try to argue. Only Nick himself could convince them she meant more to him than that and so far he had kept silent. Elizabeth prayed they were wrong, that Nicholas cared for her above all others, perhaps even loved her. He rarely spoke of the future, but when he did, she sensed that she was included.

She paced back toward the hearth, then turned and walked over to the window. The evening air was cool and the scent of blossoms rose up from the garden. She smoothed an unseen wrinkle from her gown, a high-waisted green silk trimmed in black Belgian lace she had chosen especially for the evening. Now the ruffle at her breast was beginning to chafe and the ends of her slippers pinched her toes.

Nicholas, where are you?
He had never been late before, and as the minutes ticked past, her annoyance turned to worry. Had Bascomb done something terrible to Nick, hurt him in some way, as he had done Lord Tricklewood and Sir Robert Tinsley? But Nicholas wasn't David or Sir Robert. He was tough and he was strong, and he would be on guard.

Other thoughts crept in, darker, more disturbing. What if the others were right and she was wrong? Certainly they had known Nick Warring far longer than she had. Perhaps he had done tonight as they had believed in time he assuredly would. Perhaps he'd grown bored and gone off with another woman.

The thought sent a soul-deep chill down her spine and worry throbbed behind her breastbone. She believed in Nicholas Warring, believed that what they shared was special, more than just another liaison, yet a wall of icy fear began to collect around her heart. The minutes ticked past, setting her nerves on edge, making her angry and worried and fearful all at once.

Then the sound of familiar footsteps bounding up the back stairs reached her ears, a key sounded in the lock, and relief swept through her. Uncertainty followed in its wake as she hurried toward the door. What had he been doing? Why hadn't he sent word that he would be late?

She opened the door before his hand reached the latch, stepping back with a sweep of her skirts to allow him in. He was smiling, she saw, holding a huge bouquet of red roses. Her anger withered and began to fade, as he must have known it would.

"They're beautiful." Accepting the roses, she buried her nose in the petals of a dozen perfect blossoms, gaining time to recover her composure.

"I had the devil of a time finding them. It made me later than I was already."

The reminder pricked like a thorn. "You might have sent word," she said, but there wasn't much sting in her voice. How could she be angry when he had obviously gone to so much trouble? She watched him cross the room, pluck up a silver vase and remove the day-old flowers inside, bringing the container over for the roses.

He seemed different tonight, his mood hard to read, and there was an underlying tension that made her own tension build. He was dressed elegantly, not in the simple white shirt and dark breeches he usually wore, but in a navy blue tailcoat that fit perfectly over his broad shoulders, a crisp white ruffled shirt and lacy cravat. Snug gray breeches outlined the muscles in his legs, flexing with each of his purposeful moves.

"I'm sorry. I should have sent a note, I suppose, once I got home. I had an errand to run out of town. On the way back, the carriage broke down,"

Curiosity smothered the last of her pique. "What sort of errand?" For the first time she noticed the expensive bottle of champagne he had placed on the table in front of the sofa.

"Why don't we have a glass of champagne and I'll tell you about it?" He reached for her, pulled her into his arms. "But first I'm in need of a kiss."

It wasn't the kiss she expected, a hungry kiss full of impatient desire, a ravenous kiss that spoke of the night ahead. This kiss was different, special. It was hot and seductive, all of the things it should have been and infinitely more. It was fiercely possessive, wildly passionate, and unspeakably tender. She was breathless by the time he released her, clinging to him, her heart drumming wildly in her chest.

"I missed you," she said softly. "I'd begun to worry that something might have happened."

"Something has happened, my love. Something quite unbelievable." He smiled at her, kissed her again, then drew her over to the sofa against the wall and urged her to take a seat. Walking to a small marble-topped table, he snatched two crystal glasses off a silver tray, returned and opened the bottle of champagne, pouring two frothy glasses of the sparkling liquid and handing one to her.

Her nervousness increased, though she couldn't say why. Something was happening, something important, but she couldn't imagine what it was.

Nicholas lifted his glass and Elizabeth followed his lead. "To us," he said, his eyes soft on her face, glinting with a silvery light that seemed to reach inside her.

She sipped the bubbly liquid, felt it stealing softly through her limbs, but still couldn't seem to relax. Her pulse was pounding, her hands faintly trembling. What was different? What was happening? Then Nicholas took her glass and set it down beside his on the table.

"There are two very special nights between a man and a woman. The night a man makes a woman his mistress—and the night he ends the affair."

"Ends the affair?" she echoed hollowly. Surely she hadn't heard him correctly. Surely what he said wasn't what he meant. But her stomach started churning and she couldn't seem to think.

He smiled. ''That's right, my love. If you agree to what I'm about to say, this will be the last night you will ever be my mistress."

Dear, sweet God! Tears burned the backs of her eyes. Elizabeth fought to blink them away. They had all tried to warn her. Her knees felt suddenly weak and she was grateful to be sitting down. "Is that. . . is that the reason you were so late tonight?"

"Yes, my love, it is."

"Is there ... is there someone else?"

"Someone else?" For the first time he noticed the glitter of tears in her eyes. "Dear God, Elizabeth—sweeting, please don't cry. Of course there is no one else." He set his glass down on the table and raked a hand through his hair, disturbing the wavy black strands. "For God's sake, I knew I would make a muddle of this. I am asking you to marry me. From this night forward, you would no longer be my mistress—we would be engaged to be married and you would soon be my wife."

A flood of tears rushed into her eyes. With it came a tide of relief so fierce she felt light-headed. In an instant she was wrapped in his arms, her head against his shoulder.

 Nicholas stroked her hair. "I'm sorry, sweeting. I wanted this to be perfect, but I was just so nervous. I should have known I would say the wrong thing."

"Oh, Nicholas." She sniffed as he handed her his handkerchief. "I don't understand. How could we possibly wed?"

Nicholas clasped her hand. Briefly summarizing, he explained his trip to see Rachael and the bargain he had made. "I should have thought of the rubies before, since she has always wanted them so badly. The divorce won't happen quickly, but as soon as Sydney can arrange things—if you will have me—we can be wed." He kissed the top of her head, eased away from her, went down on one knee.

"It would be my greatest honor, Elizabeth Woolcot, if you would consent to be my wife."

Her heart expanded with love for him. She knuckled away a tear. "You gave her the rubies? But surely the rubies—"

"Elizabeth, I am asking, begging on my hands and knees, for you to marry me."

She mustered a teary smile, her heart nearly bursting. "I would be honored to marry you, my lord."

He came to his feet and drew her into his arms. "Elizabeth . . . love . . ." He kissed her again, gently this time, then he was lifting her up, carrying her off toward the bed.

"I love you," she whispered, clinging to his neck, bubbling with happiness more heady than any champagne. Nicholas kissed her briefly and she waited, silently praying he would tell her that he loved her, too. She told herself that perhaps he had whispered the words, but if he did, she did not hear them.

Elizabeth awakened beside him, cocooned in his warmth. He was turned away from her, lying on his side, his long, hard frame stretched out naked beneath the covers. She studied the faint white marks on his shoulder, a contrast to his smooth dark skin. Bending her head, she pressed her lips against one of the narrow lines, inhaling the scent of him, tasting the warmth of his flesh on her tongue.

Beside her, Nicholas stirred and rolled onto his back, his thick black lashes coming open. "You were kissing me. I could feel your mouth on my skin. I believe you have the most voracious appetite of any woman I have ever met." He was smiling, his hand reaching out to tangle in her hair, but Elizabeth didn't smile in return.

Her finger traced one of the thin white lines. "They beat you, didn't they? When you were in Jamaica—they beat you."

His hand fell away. Absently, he shrugged his shoulders. "I was there because I killed a man. I learned quickly what it took to survive, to avoid the guards' displeasure. It happened only a very few times."

"It bothers me to think of what you must have endured.''

Nicholas sighed, propped his arms behind his head on the pillow. "It was difficult, yes, but I survived. The hardest part was the loneliness: Sometimes it was nearly unbearable. I missed my home, my family. My mother had died before I left, but my father and I were close. I worried I would never see him or my sister again. In the end, my father was dead by the time I returned, my sister shut away in a convent. I'll never forgive myself for the pain I caused them, and yet if the same thing happened, I would do it all over again."

Elizabeth brushed a kiss against the side of his neck. "You deserve to be happy. You have been alone too long." She smiled at him softly. "I want to give you a son, Nicholas. I want to give you the family you've always wanted."

He came up over her, forcing her onto her back, his eyes glinting with a mixture of hunger and tenderness as he looked down into her face. "Then perhaps we should start right now, this very minute. It might not be as easy as one would think."

She studied his face, reached up and touched him. He had asked her to marry him. She wanted to ask him if he loved her. She prayed each day that he did. Instead she reached up and kissed him. She knew he should have gone before this, as he usually did, but Nicholas seemed reluctant to leave and she didn't really want him to. Parting her legs with his knee, he slid himself inside her. They had just begun, to make love when a knock sounded loudly at the door.

Nicholas groaned and Elizabeth's cheeks turned red. Easing herself away from him, she snatched her wrapper from behind the dressing screen, tossed back her tumbled hair, and headed for the door. A second knock sounded before she could reach it. When she lifted the latch, Mercy stood framed in the opening, a worried look on her face.

"Sorry to bother ye, miss, but there's a couple of men downstairs—constables, they say. They're lookin' for 'is lordship."

"Good Christ, what the devil could they want?" Nicholas came up behind Elizabeth. "And why would they look for me here?"

"Tell them I'll be down in a moment," Elizabeth said to Mercy, who nodded, turned, and bustled away toward the stairs.

Hurriedly, Elizabeth drew a brash through her hair, tied it back with a ribbon, then stepped into a simple beige morning dress. Her hands trembled slightly as Nicholas did up the buttons.

"I'll wait here. Tell them you have no idea where I might be—you presume that I am home."

"Why do you think they are here?"

"I haven't the slightest idea, but I don't like it."

Elizabeth said nothing else, but her stomach tightened with nerves. At the top of the stairs she paused, taking a deep breath to steady herself. The men were waiting in the drawing room, a robust man named Evans with thick brown hair and a curly mustache, and his dour-faced companion, a Mr. Whitehead, who stood glaring at her from a few feet away. Both of them were there in search of Nicholas Warring.

"Why are you looking for him?" Elizabeth asked carefully, trying to appear nonchalant.

The man named Evans slowly surveyed the drawing room, noting the elegance of the furnishings, taking inventory, it seemed. "I'm afraid, Miss Woolcot, there has been an unfortunate occurrence. A woman has been murdered."

Elizabeth sucked in a breath. "Murdered?" Dread moved through her, a sudden premonition of doom.

"That's right. Sometime yesterday afternoon. The woman who was killed was Rachael Warring. The servants said her husband was among the last few people to see her while she still lived."

Elizabeth took a couple of unsteady steps and sank down on the sofa. Rachael Warring was dead. And Nicholas had gone to see her."I'm afraid I—I don't know what to say. This is . . . this is very upsetting news."

"I'm certain it is." Constable Evans stood in front of her, his heavy dark eyebrows drawn together. "I realize, Miss Woolcot, what I am about to say is of a rather delicate nature, but the fact remains we have reason to believe Lord Ravenworth is here in your town house. If that is the case, it would be in both of your best interests if you would ask him to join us."

Elizabeth straightened on the sofa, each movement a struggle, as if her muscles refused to obey. She moistened her trembling lips. "What... what makes you think Lord Ravenworth is here?"