Wicked Promise (21 page)

She flashed him an overbright smile. "Why, yes, that would be lovely. I have heard, my lord, that you are an exquisite dancer."

His mouth curved in approval. "Actually, I believe I am rather adept. Shall we?"

She gave him a lighthearted laugh, turned, and felt a shot of satisfaction to see that Nicholas was standing there scowling.

The night wore on, endlessly it seemed to Elizabeth. Sir Robert was a pleasant surprise, a studious man with light brown hair and an attractive smile. It embarrassed her to flirt overly with such a man, even to make Nicholas jealous, so she opted instead for a brief walk in the garden.

When they returned to the house, Nicholas was waiting on the terrace beside the door, the grim set of his features worth every effort she had put forth that evening so far. Sir Robert's voice drew her eyes from his tall, imposing figure.

"Might I call on you, Miss Woolcot?" He was slighter of build and several inches shorter than the earl, but an attractive man just the same. "Perhaps we could go for a drive in the park on the morrow."

"I should like that." She smiled, hoping she looked more enthused by the notion than she felt. Of the four men Sydney had chosen as suitable husbands, only David Endicott and Robert Tinsley held the slightest appeal. Perhaps if she knew, them better she could come to care for one of them. Perhaps in time . . . for in truth she had no other choice.

Nicholas started forward, his long legs closing the distance between them, the hard planes of his face still etched into a scowl.

"Lord Ravenworth," Sir Robert said. "Your ward is enchanting." .

"Isn't she?" Nicholas said dryly, his eyes gray and glinting like storm clouds on the horizon.

"Why ... why, yes she is. She has graciously agreed to my escort on the morrow."

A sleek black brow arched up. "Has she, indeed? In that case, I'm certain you won't mind granting us a moment of privacy. There are a few things we need to discuss."

A flush rose into Sir Robert's cheeks. "No . . . I mean yes, yes, of course." He turned an uncertain smile on Elizabeth. "Until the morrow, Miss Woolcot."

Elizabeth nodded and forced her lips to curve up as he walked away. Then her furious gaze swung to Nicholas.

"What in the world is the matter with you? Must you be rude to every man I speak to?"

His features tightened. "Must you flaunt yourself like a trollop in front of every man you meet?"

"What! How dare you insult—"

His hard grip on her arm cut her off. Tugging her forward, he urged her down the steps of the porch, leading her deeper into the dense green foliage of the garden. In the shadows behind the gazebo, well beyond the house, he turned her to face him.

"What the devil are you playing at? You've been flirting outrageously ever since we arrived tonight. You've got half the men in the ton thinking of ways they might bed you." His mouth curved harshly. "Or perhaps that is your game. Watching you, one would certainly think so."

Her hand itched to slap him. She tossed her head instead. "I haven't done anything wrong. You wanted me to find a husband. You insisted, in fact. I am merely complying with your wishes. If you don't like the way I am going about it, that is simply too bad."

His jaw clenched, the muscles bunching, his eyes like shards of glass. "Don't push me, Elizabeth. I'm still your guardian, and I'm not about to stand by and let you make a spectacle of yourself."

Fury, swept through her, making it difficult to think, "A spectacle? You are the one who has been eyeing every woman in the place as if she were a juicy piece of meat."

A dark eyebrow went up. "Have I?"

"Well . . . they have certainly been eyeing you! On top of that, ever since the duke's party, you've been vile-tempered and mean-spirited. You've been boorish and rude, even to your friends." She clamped her hands on her hips and tilted her head back, looking him straight in the eye. "You know what I think,. Nicholas Warring? I think you are angry with me because you are jealous. That is what I think." It was a stupid thing to say and for an instant his furious expression made her wish she could call back the words.

A muscle twitched in his cheek. His eyes were so gray and flat they looked opaque. "Jealous?" he repeated.

"That is what I said."

Nicholas swore a savage oath. "Of course I am jealous! What the devil did you expect? Every time I see one of those dandies whispering in your ear I want to wring his damnable neck!"

Elizabeth just stared at him, unable to believe she had heard him correctly. "What... what about all of those women? Why would you be jealous of me, when you can have any one of them?"

His anger seemed to fade. "Sweet God, Bess. Don't you understand?" His hand came up to her cheek. "I am jealous because they are not you."

Her fury drained away like water seeping through sand. She was in his arms in a heartbeat, clinging to his neck, her cheek pressed hard against his. "Oh, Nicholas, I've missed you. I've missed you so much."

He groaned as she rose on her toes and kissed him, then pressed soft, feathery kisses at the corners of his mouth.

"Elizabeth," he whispered, his voice deep and rough, a plea or a sound of surrender.

She only kissed him again, parting her lips, encouraging the invasion of his tongue. Nicholas complied, dragging her against him, tasting her deeply, wrapping her tightly in his arms. She could feel the hardness of his arousal and a tremor of heat ran through her.

"God, I want you," he whispered against her ear. "It's all I can think about. At night, it's all I can dream."

Elizabeth kissed him again, pressed her breasts against his chest, felt her nipples tighten into firm, throbbing peaks.

"We shouldn't," he said. "Ah, God, we shouldn't." But already he was easing down the top of her gown, taking her breast into his mouth and suckling deeply. Her legs felt weak and she clutched him tighter. Heat roared into her stomach, began to pulse through her limbs.

"I need you, Nicholas. I need you so badly."

He took her mouth again and his tongue delved deeply, stroking along the walls, tasting her even as his hands reached down to hike up her skirts. His kiss was hot and hungry, and wildly, fiercely possessive. She kissed him back with the same hot need and heard him groan. She could feel his long fingers moving up her thigh, little tongues of fire licking wherever he touched. His hands slid under the hem of her chemise and she sucked in a breath at the feel of them skimming over her bottom, then urging her legs apart and deftly probing her sex.

She was wet and ready, on fire for him, desperate to feel him inside her. "Please..." she whispered as his finger slipped in and he gently began to stroke her. All the while his mouth moved over hers, kissing her deeply, taking what he wanted, making her want it, too.

Rational thought disappeared. She couldn't think, could only feel, burned with heat and need and uncontrollable desire for him. She writhed against his hand, arched into each of his touches, and softly moaned.

Nicholas kissed her fiercely, his mouth claiming hers, his tongue sweeping in. He moved down to the swell of her breasts and began a hot manipulation of her nipple.

"Dear God ..." Elizabeth clutched his shoulders, felt the bands of muscle bunch, felt the scorching heat of passion burning over her skin. Then he was working the buttons on his breeches, popping them free one by one, his shaft springing forward, demanding to be inside her.

Lifting her up, he ravaged her mouth as he lowered her down his body, sinking himself deep inside, filling her with his hardness.

"Wrap your legs around my waist," he commanded, and Elizabeth complied, her body shaking, tongues of fire swirling around her.

He pressed her back against a wall of the gazebo, his hands gripping her bottom, lifted her and thrust deep inside her again. He was thick and hard and each of his thrusts sent a spasm of heat roaring through her. Again and again, he drove into her, as if he couldn't get enough, as if each stroke claimed another part of her.

"Nicholas . . ." Moaning softly, she clung to his shoulders, feeling powerless and powerful at the very same time. The heat at her core began to expand, yet with each of his hard- driving thrusts, her body coiled tighter. Just when she thought she couldn't stand a moment more, Nicholas drove into her again, and the coil of heat broke free inside her. She cried out his name and dug her nails into his flesh, holding on for dear life, afraid if she let go, she would fly apart. The heady sweetness of release washed over her, the pleasure so intense for a moment she forgot to breathe.

Then she was drifting down, floating back to awareness, clinging to Nicholas and feeling his lips against her cheek, the lobe of an ear, the side of her neck. He pressed a soft kiss on her lips.

"Are you all right?" he asked gently, easing her the length of his body until her gold satin slippers came to rest once more on the ground.

Elizabeth smiled, but inside she still trembled. Nicholas was holding her. He had made love to her. "I am fine." But she wasn't really fine. She wasn't sure at all what she was feeling. Strains of the music began to filter in, the sound of distant voices. She turned her head toward the house, but all she saw was the glimmer of candlelit windows through the trees, and the dense green darkness of the garden. She smoothed down her skirts, tucked in loose strands of her hair. "What . . . what do we do now?"

Nicholas did not falter. Instead he took her hand and brought it to his lips. "We're going home." He started toward the gate at the side of the garden, tugging Elizabeth along behind him, but she drew back, forcing him to stop and turn.

"Nicholas?"

"Yes, love?"

"When we get back, don't you dare say you are sorry."

His mouth curved up. His smile was warm and tender, filled with feelings she could not begin to guess. "I am tired of being sorry. When I think of you and the way we are together, it is impossible for me to be sorry."

Elizabeth threw herself into his arms, and he kissed her, swift and hard. "We have to go," he said gently. "It wouldn't do for someone to see us."

"No ... it surely would not do." For the first time it occurred to her the bold step she had just taken. She wondered if Nicholas had realized it, too, for all the way back to the town house he grew more and more silent.

Fear began to gnaw at her. Perhaps she had misread his feelings, made more of his desire for her than what it truly was. Perhaps she had simply been a convenience of the moment. He was, after all, the Wicked Earl and he was still a married man. There was no future for them.

She didn't know what to believe, and as long as Nicholas said nothing to reassure her, there was no way to be certain. She felt as if she had come full circle from the first time they had made love.

And she was even more confused than she was before.

"I'm sorry, my darling, but it's time for you to go." She glanced at the hands of the ormolu clock on the black marble mantel. "It's a quarter to twelve." She gave him a feline smile. "My beloved husband is due to arrive in less than an hour and I am hardly ready to make an appearance." She trailed a finger along her lover's spine. "Unless you wish me to entertain him naked."

Greville Townsend, Viscount Kendall, came up on an elbow. With his light brown hair and hazel eyes, he was a handsome, virile man, taller than average, well built, and two years younger than Rachael.

"That is the last thing I want and you know it. The less you have to do with your damnable husband, the better I like it." He pulled her down beside him and began to kiss the side of her neck, taking little nibbling bites out of her flesh. Rachael laughed and struggled to push him away.

"Be a good boy, Grey, and let me get dressed. Nicholas may no longer play the role of husband, but I doubt he would appreciate a blatant reminder that other men share his wife's bed."

Greville frowned. "Other men? Perhaps in the past, my love, but from now on there had better only be me."

She patted him on the cheek. "Of course, my darling. You know that isn't what I meant."

But Grey did not look appeased as he climbed up off the mattress, the youthful muscles rippling across his strong back. She would have to do something special for him tonight when they made love—punish him a little, perhaps—he always liked that.

"Be a dear now, will you, and stay out of the way for a while. As I said, I shouldn't want Nicholas to see you."

Grey frowned. "I don't give a damn if he does. The man is a villain. He should have been hanged nine years ago when he murdered Stephen Bascomb. If he had, you would be free to do as you please."

Rachael didn't tell him that as far as she was concerned, she was free. Free to spend Nick Warning's money. Free to live on his lavish estate. Free to take a younger man as her lover for as long as he pleased her.

Drawing on a mauve satin wrapper, she leaned over and tugged on the bellpull, summoning her maid. "I'll join you as soon as we're finished," she said to Grey. "The sun is out. Perhaps we shall go riding."

But Grey continued to frown. "I wonder what he wants."

"I'm sure I haven't the slightest idea." But the thought made her a little uneasy. As Rachael knew—and Stephen Bascomb had learned—Nick Warring could be a dangerous man when there was something he wanted.

Nick sat forward in his seat, waiting impatiently as his driver pulled the carriage to a halt at the entrance to Castle Colomb. It was only a half day's ride north of London, yet he hadn't been there in over nine years. His last meeting with Rachael on his return home from prison had been on neutral ground— Sydney Birdsall's office in London near the Stock Exchange on Threadneedle Street.

Through the open carriage window, he stared up at the tall ivy-covered towers, the tops crenellated for firing arrows, the rounded walls repelling intruders since the late medieval days. Inside, of course, the vast stone fortress had been modernized, its salons—at Rachael's insistence and Nick's expense—decorated in the height of fashion.

As the carriage rolled through the gates and into the bailey, Nick studied the timeless gray stone, the carpet of daffodils planted where the moat had once been. In the years he had been gone, he had forgotten how lovely the old place was, a family inheritance on his mother's side dating back to the days of Edward III.

The hand he rested on the windowsill began to tighten, his long fingers balling into a fist. His mother would hardly be pleased to know the home she had loved as a girl had fallen into the hands of his recalcitrant wife, a woman who had abandoned him, denying him even his right to an heir. A woman who now stood between him and the chance to make a life with Elizabeth Woolcot.

The coach rolled to a stop in front of the massive wooden doors to what was once the great hall. Nick took a steadying breath, knowing how important this was, knowing how carefully he must tread if he were to succeed.

"The kitchen is round back," he called up to Jackson Fremantle, the driver, a friend of Theo Swann's, a convict who had come to him a little over a year ago searching for work. "Have one of the stable lads water the horses and find yourself something to eat. I don't know how long this will take." However long it was, he wouldn't be staying the night. Spending a moment longer than necessary under Rachael's roof was a notion he couldn't conceive.

The butler ushered him into the drawing room, which, he noticed, had been redecorated in the years that he had been gone. Minutes ticked past, but instead of taking a seat on the brocade sofa, he found himself pacing in front of the empty hearth.

The drawing room doors slid soundlessly open. "Nicholas, my love, it's good to see you." Rachael floated into the room looking like a black-haired goddess, her hands extended, a warm smile of welcome on her lips.

Nick accepted her greeting, bent and kissed her cheek. "Rachael. You're looking as lovely as ever." Better even than he remembered, her thick black hair clustered in glossy curls at the side of her neck, her skin perfect shades of rose petals and cream.

Her heart as cold as the high stone towers she lived in.

"And you, my love, are looking extremely handsome." Her eyes ran over his face, taking in the tight lines of worry, the signs of frustration and fatigue he tried to disguise. "Though I must say you seem a bit tense. I hope whatever has brought you here is not the cause."

Nick sighed. "Actually, it is." He pointed toward the sofa. "Why don't we have a seat?"

Rachael complied, her composure perfectly in place. A servant arrived with tea and cakes, then the doors were closed and he was left to explain his mission. He did so briefly and to the point, telling her he had met someone, though he didn't say who it was. He told her he wished to remarry, carefully laid out all of the advantages of giving him his freedom- being rid of his scandal-laden name, the thousands of pounds he offered, the properties he would concede, the pension he would bestow on her for the balance of her life.

"I would be more than fair, Rachael. You could have everything you've ever wanted. And of course, you would be free to marry again."

Through it all, Rachael had been strangely silent. Now she leaned forward and a slow smile lifted her ruby lips. "And for all of this bounty I would simply have to grant you a divorce—is that right, Nicholas?"

"Yes. Sydney could arrange it. With your acquiescence, it would not be difficult to achieve."

An unexpected peal of laughter erupted. She shook her head as if he had said something outrageously funny. "My dear Nicholas, for a man as worldly as you undoubtedly are, sometimes I am amazed at your naïveté."

He stiffened. "Meaning?"

"A divorce—good God, how rich." She laughed again. "I think this girl—your latest mistress, I presume—must have somehow addled your brain."

Anger slipped through him. He fought to control it. "There is nothing wrong with my brain. I am tired of living alone and I want an heir. You know how much having a son would mean to me. Until now, it never occurred to me that there might yet be a way to accomplish it. I need a divorce, Rachael. I have offered you a veritable fortune to grant me one."

She pondered that, looked up at him from beneath a black sweep of lashes. "An heir, is it? Well, in that regard I suppose you do have a point." She moved from her end of the sofa, sliding closer, until their feet touched and her hand reached out to caress his thigh.

"Perhaps . . . for some of the concessions you have mentioned, I might be persuaded to return to Ravenworth for a while . . . long enough to bear you a son. After that, of course, I would expect a return of my freedom. I would want to move back in here."

Nick bit down hard on his temper, trying to control the rage that bubbled inside him. His mouth thinned harshly. "And of course you would be willing to leave the child in my care."

"Of course."

He wanted to strangle her. He wanted to wrap his hands around her pretty neck and squeeze some of the selfishness out of her. "There was a time, Rachael, when I might actually have agreed to such a proposal. Now I can think of nothing worse than siring a child with a woman like you for its mother, a woman who could walk away from her own flesh and blood with the same amount of effort it takes to leave the table after a particularly filling meal."

Her hand snaked out, slapped him hard across the cheek. The sharp sting only helped to focus his attention and calm his raging nerves.

Rachael sprang off the sofa to her feet. "Whatever your reasons, I haven't the least intention of granting you a divorce. I happen to like the life I lead. I enjoy being the Countess of Ravenworth. I like living at Castle Colomb. I like the money and the freedom. I am not about to endure the censure of divorce, nor the stigma that accompanies it—not for you or anyone else." Her smile looked tight and thin. "You may have your little whore, Nicky dear. You may get her with a dozen bastard children. But you will never marry her—I will personally see to that."

His control went right out the window. Rage made it hard to think. A fog of anger seemed to envelop him. "You'll pay for this, Rachael. I swear by all that is holy, someday—God help you—you will pay!"

Turning, he strode from the room, his body shaking with barely suppressed fury, his hands balled tightly into fists. He should have known better than to come here. He should have known she would never agree.

Thoughts of Elizabeth had driven him to it. He wanted her. He had ruthlessly stolen her innocence and marriage was the proper course. Divorce would have solved the problem. It would have made him an outcast again, but he thought that perhaps it would not matter. Not if he could have Elizabeth and the son he had always wanted.

He'd been a fool, and because he had started to believe he might actually have some sort of future, he had hurt Elizabeth again. Sweet God, what could he say to her?

Worse than that, what could he do?

There was only one solution. The answer. he had fought since the moment he had met her. Marry her to somebody else.

The thought made him sick to his stomach.

A tall grandfather clock chimed the hour. Greville Townsend shoved open the doors between the grand salon and the petit salon that adjoined it at the rear of the room. Rachael rose in surprise as he strode in, her hand unconsciously rising to the slim white column of her throat.

Good, he thought. She deserved to be afraid. After the way she had behaved, she deserved far more than that.

He didn't stop until he reached her. When he did, he gripped her shoulders, dragged her up on her toes, and shook her— hard.

"I can't believe what I just heard. What did you think you were doing? Were you actually contemplating a return to that bastard's bed?"

She broke away from him, cast him a slightly disapproving smile. Already she had regained her composure. It was difficult if not impossible to unnerve Rachael Waning.

"You were eavesdropping, you naughty boy. That is a very bad thing to do. I shall have to punish you. Yes, I believe I will do so tonight."

His loins tightened; the coppery taste of desire washed over his tongue, but his anger did not fade. "We are talking about your husband, Rachael. He came here asking you for a divorce. It was perfect—the solution to all of our problems— and you turned him down."

Rachael shook her head. In the light streaming in through the mullioned windows, her hair was as shiny as onyx. He knew what it felt like skimming over his flesh, knew the seductive way she used it when they made love, and lust made his shaft grow hard.

"Poor Grey," she said, walking over to the sideboard, pouring herself a glass of sherry. "Haven't you realized yet, I don't want a divorce? You heard what I told my husband. I like being the Countess of Ravenworth. I like the freedom I have."

His chest tightened. He was in love with Rachael Warring. He thought that she loved him. "And returning to his bed? Were you willing to do that in order to keep your freedom—or was it simply a matter of money?" He took a step toward her, fighting the jealousy that curled into his bones. "Or was it because part of you still lusts for Nicholas Waning?"

Her ripe red lips went thin, then curved unpleasantly. "I was baiting him, that is all. I simply wished to understand his intentions."

"You wanted him. I could see it in your eyes." She shrugged indifferently. "Nicholas was always a skillful lover. A little variety—"

In two long strides he reached her, his hands snaking out to wrap around her throat. "You don't need variety—not any longer. You belong to me now, Countess, and I do not share."

She pried his fingers loose from her throat, gasping for air and massaging the bruises. "Have you gone mad?"

"I don't think so. I think, where you are concerned, my senses are finally returning. You and I, Rachael, we are a pair. I understand you, perhaps as no other man ever has. I love you, Rachael. I want you for my wife. If you refuse to divorce your husband, I will have to live with that, but if I can't have you, neither will he—and neither will anyone else."

He smiled bitterly and with warning. "There'll be no other men, Rachael. Not now, not ever again."

Rachael said nothing. Still rubbing the bruises on her throat, she turned and left the room.

He wished he knew what she was thinking.

For three of the longest days of her life, Elizabeth thought of Nicholas, worried where he could have gone, and tried to act normal.

She had entertained Sir Robert Tinsely, though their ride in the park had been quelled by Elias Moody, who, along with Theophilus Swann, had been set to the task of protecting her while Nicholas was away. David Endicott had practically taken up residence in the departed earl's absence. As much as Elizabeth liked him, she wished he would simply go home.