Wicked Promise (5 page)

A slight flush rose in the huge Irishman's ruddy cheeks. "A whitethroat, is it now?" He grinned. "And a lass like you knowin' which bird is which. 'Twill be my pleasure to build ye a feeder, Miss Woolcot."

She turned just then, spotted Nick lounging nonchalantly against the wall. Soft color rose in her cheeks. "I hope you don't mind, my lord. I asked Mr. McCann if he might have time to build me a bird feeder to hang outside my bedchamber window. I shall have to figure a way, of course, but I do so enjoy to watch them."

He shoved away from the wall. "And I take it you know their names."

"Quite a number of them, yes. I have always been partial to birds."

He smiled at her, thinking that she had surprised him again. He liked that about her, that he hadn't quite figured her out. He wondered how long it would take him.

He turned to Silas McCann, the big beefy Irishman he had known in Jamaica, once a convicted man like Theophilus Swann and several others in his employ. "You might as well build three or four. She can hang them in the garden."

She smiled with such pleasure a dimple appeared in her left cheek. "Thank you, my lord."

"I was just going in," he found himself saying. "But I believe I might enjoy a lesson on birds, if you would care for a walk in the garden."

For an instant he thought she might refuse, almost hoped she would, but instead, she simply smiled and accepted the arm he offered. Several species flittered past as they strolled the gravel paths and she amazed him by knowing the names of each one.

"See that speckled brown bird over there?" She pointed toward a small bird perched on the branch of a beech tree.

He smiled. "Even I know that one, Miss Woolcot. That is a common wren."

Elizabeth laughed and shook her head. "That, my lord, is a spotted flycatcher. He merely looks like a wren. One mustn't be too hasty when it comes to identifying birds."

His gaze ran over her incredible burnished dark hair, fine- boned face, and elegant, womanly figure, and he thought of the first time he had seen her, hardly noticing she was there. "As I have learned on several occasions, first impressions can often be deceiving."

"My, yes," she continued brightly, "especially with birds. Take that little blackcap over there. Most people mistake him for a blackbird."

"But not you, Miss Woolcot."

She smiled, a warm, sweet, youthful smile, yet there was an underlying strength in Elizabeth Woolcot that always seemed to shine through. "My father loved birds. He taught me to love them as well. After he died, I spent a great deal of time in the garden and they never failed to lift my spirits."

Nick smiled. "I'll remember that, should my spirits ever need lifting."

She started to speak, paused to peer around his shoulder, and he realized they were no longer alone. Roger Fenton, Viscount Harding, approached, his eyes fixed on Elizabeth and shining with an unholy gleam. Nick cursed beneath his breath. Instead of encouraging his ward to walk with him, he should have insisted Elizabeth go in.

Harding appraised her from head to foot. It was obvious he approved. "So this is the lady you've been hiding away."

Unconsciously, Nick stepped a little in front of her. "Miss Woolcot was just going in." He flashed a look of warning she could not pretend to miss. "Isn't that right, Miss Woolcot?"

"Well, yes ... I suppose ..."

"Viscount Harding at your service, Miss Woolcot." He made an extravagant bow. "Nicholas mentioned his ward was in residence here at Ravenworth. Now I realize why he has been secreting you away."

"I was attempting to protect the lady's reputation—which is already tilted precariously simply by being my ward."

Elizabeth extended a white-gloved hand. "I watched you race. You were very good. You nearly beat his lordship."

Roger smiled. "Actually I usually do. Nick rarely puts his heart into the contest as he did the other day."

"Elizabeth," Nick said with warning. "I believe it is past time for you to go in." She looked up at him and a dark brow arched in surprise. He realized it was the first time he had ever used her Christian name.

"As you wish, my lord." She flashed Roger Fenton a remote, well-bred smile. "Good day, Lord Harding."

"A pleasure. Miss Woolcot." Harding watched her all the way back to the house, and with every second that passed, Nick's temper heightened.

"Whatever it is you are thinking, the girl is off limits. She is young and naive, and while she is here, she is under my protection."

The edge of a smile tilted the viscount's lips. "She is remarkably lovely. Perhaps you have an interest in her yourself."

A jolt of heat rose at the back of Nick's neck. "The girl is my ward. Her father entrusted her into my father's care. Whether I like it or not, that means she is now under my care. That is the only interest I have in Elizabeth Woolcot."

Harding said nothing more and neither did he. But he didn't like the glint in the viscount's eyes as they followed Elizabeth's retreating figure back inside the house. Harding was handsome and eligible, but he was also an obsessive gambler with a penchant for losing. He had lost his family fortune, driven his first wife to an early grave, and was still unable to stay away from the tables. He drank overmuch and felt no qualms in seducing the naivest young virgin.

God's blood, men like Harding were the reason he had warned Sydney Birdsall against bringing Elizabeth Woolcot to Ravenworth in the first place. Thank God Harding and several of the others would be leaving on the morrow. Suddenly, he found himself wishing the rest of his guests were departing as well.

Dressed in a simple navy blue day dress, Elizabeth descended the sweeping marble staircase and headed down the hall toward the door at the rear of the house. She was on her way to the stables in search of the earl, familiar now with his habit of rising early just as she did. She had seen him ride out on several occasions and, this morning, spotted him through her bedchamber window dressed in his riding clothes and heading off toward the barn.

She found him there, working next to his groom, Freddy Higgins, both of them bent over, examining the hoof of one of his brood mares. Elizabeth watched them from the shadows, the barn smelling of hay and horses, of well-oiled harness, and the liniment they were using on the horse's leg. She studied them in silence for a while, surprised by the concern in Nicholas Warring's voice, drawn to its smooth, deep cadence as he carefully delivered his instructions.

"I'll take care o' it meself," Higgins said. "She's a strong 'un. She'll be right as rain in a fortnight."

"Thank you, Freddy." Ravenworth turned to leave then stopped when she stepped out of the shadows. "Miss Woolcot. Up early as usual, I see."

"As are you, my lord."

"I was worried about the mare. She's been sickly of late and with the foal coming soon I wanted to be sure she was on the mend." Dressed in tight black riding breeches and a full-sleeved white lawn shirt, he assessed her with those cool, silvery eyes. "Was there something you wanted?"

Her gaze fixed on the length of rope coiled in his long dark hands and she realized how close he stood. Her heart picked up its tempo, began an uncomfortable rhythm, and her mouth felt suddenly dry. Turning away, she walked over to look at the mare.

"You have some very fine horses, my lord."

Ravenworth joined her, propping a boot on the bottom slat of the stall. "You like horses, Miss Woolcot?"

"Oh, yes, I like them very much. Actually, that is the reason I came out here this morning. I was hoping you would allow me to ride."

Amusement lifted a corner of his mouth. "Horses as well as birds, Miss Woolcot?"

"I love to ride, my lord. There is nothing more enjoyable than an early spring morning with the sun beating down and the wind in your face."

He pondered that, seemed to agree. "Do you ride well, then?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "Better than average, I suspect. I have ridden for a number of years."

"I suspect you are better than average at a lot of things. As to the riding, I see no reason why not. One of the grooms can accompany you, show you around the estate. There is a pretty little dappled gray mare, an Arabian named Sasha, who ought to suit. Just let Mr. Higgins know when you are ready."

He was standing so close she could feel the heat of his hard, long-limbed body, and the beating of her heart increased. "Thank you, my lord." He nodded and she watched him walk away. His shoulders were so wide they nearly filled the door frame, and muscles flexed in his legs with each of his long, graceful strides.

He was so very handsome. Mr. Birdsall had told her that his wife had abandoned him nine years ago when he had been convicted of Stephen Hampton's murder, yet Elizabeth couldn't help thinking that perhaps if Lady Ravenworth had stayed by her husband's side, if she been awaiting his return from prison, his life might have turned out far differently.

She sighed to think of it. The Earl of Ravenworth and his decadent life were hardly her concern. Besides, he wasn't as bad as she had first imagined. He was kind to his servants and conscientious about his duties as earl. Perhaps there was hope for him yet.

At least she thought so until Lady Dandridge arrived.

Elizabeth stood at her bedchamber window that chilly, windblown afternoon, watching as the vis-countess stepped down from her stylish black caleche. Lady Dandridge was dressed modishly in a high-waisted ice-blue silk gown trimmed in small embroidered roses. Beneath the brim of, her hat, her hair was as glossy and dark as Ravenworth's, though her skin was pale instead of dark, and her mouth was full and the same rosy hue as the flowers in her dress.

The earl took her hands and bent to kiss her cheek. Lady Dandridge cupped his face between her palms, and her dark, sensuous gaze said exactly what she had in mind for the balance of the afternoon.

Watching them, Elizabeth felt her stomach suddenly tighten. Her chest felt heavy and she had to look away.

"I tell ye, she's worse than the rest." Standing at the opposite side of the window, Mercy Brown clucked her disapproval. "Always comin' round, chasin' after the earl, hoistin' 'er skirts like a trollop. And that poor ol' Lord Dandridge believin' she be the saint of motherhood."

Elizabeth's head snapped up. "Lady Dandridge has children?"

"What ye think? It's the way of them rich nabobs. She's done give 'er 'usband a bloody 'eir, now she can do what she pleases. It were 'er, not 'is lordship what started all this. She come round till 'e finally give in."

Elizabeth thought of the pair downstairs—or were they upstairs by now, ensconced in Ravenworth's suite of rooms, perhaps already naked in his big four-poster bed?

The thought made her overly warm, her skin tight and tingly. "Whatever sort she is, his lordship certainly doesn't seem to mind."

Mercy grunted. "No doubt of that," she agreed, and with the words Elizabeth felt a jolt of something that seemed very close to jealousy. She prayed that it was not.

"You goin' out?" Mercy asked. " 'Bout time you usually do."

Elizabeth absently shook her head. "Not today. I don't... I don't feel much like going out."

Mercy said nothing, but those keen black eyes stayed a little too long on her face. "If there's anythin' else ye need, just give a ring downstairs."

"Thank you, Mercy."

Elizabeth read for the balance of the afternoon, snuggled into a chair in the corner of her sitting room in front of a cozy fire. But it was hard to concentrate on the words. Her mind kept shifting, imagining Nicholas Warring, his long lean body lying naked beside that of Lady Dandridge. It made her cheeks go warm to think of it, yet she couldn't seem to stop.

Anger filtered in behind the image. It was in the very worst taste for a man to bring his mistress into the house. On the other hand, the viscountess was a married woman and a peer, the ruse of a neighborly visit perfectly acceptable.

And in truth, the earl had warned her. Ward or no ward, he didn't intend to change his sordid way of life one little bit.

The knowledge put a blight on an already dreary afternoon.

Ravenworth's guests came and went, though it seemed as though there was always someone in the house. On several occasions, Elizabeth had chanced upon the earl in the breakfast room, and though he rarely spoke of his friends and never of Lady Dandridge, she found herself more and more intrigued by him. She couldn't quite say what it was, yet she sensed there was a great deal more to Nicholas Warring than the image of decadence he wore like a bright purple cloak.

A good deal more, she continued to discover, as she had the night she had come upon him in the library. It was well past midnight, the house, for once, dark and silent, but Elizabeth still couldn't sleep. It was raining hard, a gale wind blowing in from the cold North Sea, lightning flashing its ragged tentacles just outside the window.

Dressed in a heavy quilted wrapper that covered her from neck to toes, Elizabeth lifted a branch of candles off the ornate rosewood dresser and quietly made her way downstairs. Thunder clapped, echoing eerily through the house, and a slight shiver ran through her.

Standing at the door to the library, she reached for the silver doorknob, intent on finding something new to read. The knob turned, the heavy door swung wide, and for a moment, she stood frozen in the opening. A lamp was lit and the room was far from empty.

"Good evening, Miss Woolcot." Nicholas Warring leaned back in a black leather chair, a glass of gin in one hand, a thin cigar in the other. The florid, foulmouthed Nigel Wicker, Baron St. George, sat like a puffed-up toad in the seat across from him.

"Good evening, my lord. I didn't mean to intrude. I didn't realize you were in here."

They appeared to be playing cards. Stacks of money rested in haphazard piles on the polished mahogany table, and a fresh hand had been dealt facedown in front of each of the men.