His lips, though thin, were curved in a way that could only be described as carnal, but his gaze … his gaze was coldly intent. She sensed he was the type of man who trusted no one and nothing. But that observation was not what caused her shiver of apprehension. Her misgiving was due entirely to the way he approached her. The subtle cant of his body toward hers was decidedly proprietary.
The raspy voice came again. “I regret I must be importunate, Lady Hawthorne, but we have an urgent matter to discuss.”
Elizabeth shielded herself in her iciest social deportment. “It is the rare occasion, sir, when I find myself discussing urgent matters with complete strangers.”
He showed a leg in a courtly bow. “Forgive me,” he replied, his voice deliberately low and soothing. “Christopher St. John, my lady.”
Elizabeth’s breath halted in her throat. Her pulse racing, she took a preservative step backward. “What is it you wish to discuss with me, Mr. St. John?”
He took the position next to her, resting his hands on the wrought iron railing as he looked out over the maze. His casual stance was deceptive. Much like Marcus, he used an overtly friendly demeanor to reassure those around him, subtly urging others to lower their guard. The tactic had the opposite effect on Elizabeth. She tried not to tense visibly as her insides twisted.
“You received a journal that belonged to your late husband, did you not?” he asked smoothly.
The color drained from her face.
“How do you know of it?” Her eyes widened as her gaze swept over him. “Are you the man who attacked me in the park?” He did not appear to be suffering from any injury.
“You are in grave danger, Lady Hawthorne, as long as that book remains in your possession. Turn it over to me, and I will see to it you are not disturbed again.”
Fear and anger blended inside her. “Are you threatening me?” Her chin lifted. “I take leave to tell you, sir, I am not without protection.”
“I am well aware of your prowess with a pistol, but that skill is no proof against the type of danger you find yourself facing now. The fact that you have involved Lord Eldridge only complicates matters further.” He looked at her and the barrenness in the depths of his eyes chilled her to the bone. “It is in your best interests to give me that book.”
St. John’s voice was laced with soft menace, his eyes piercing from behind the mask. His casual pose was unable to hide the vibrant energy that distinguished him as a dangerous man.
Elizabeth couldn’t stop her shudder of fear and revulsion. He cursed under his breath.
“Here,” he murmured gruffly, reaching into a small pocket that graced his white satin waistcoat. He withdrew a small object, and held it out to her. “This belongs to you, I believe.”
Refusing to take her eyes from his face, she closed her hand around it.
“You must—” He stopped and swiveled quickly. She followed his gaze and relief flooded her to find Marcus standing in the doorway.
Pure ferocious rage radiated from him in waves. The lines of his face were harsh, reflecting murderous intent. “Back away from her,” he ordered. His tension was palpable, coiled like a tight spring, ready to lash out at the slightest provocation.
St. John faced her unperturbed, and bowed again. His casual deportment fooled no one. A profusion of ill will and resentment poisoned the air around the two men. “We will continue our conversation some other time, Lady Hawthorne. In the meantime, I urge you to consider my request. For your own safety.” He walked past Marcus with a taunting smile. “Westfield. Always a pleasure.”
Marcus sidestepped, halting St. John’s escape to the ballroom. “Approach her again, and I’ll kill you.”
St. John grinned. “You’ve been threatening me with death for years, Westfield.”
Marcus bared his teeth in a feral smile. “I was merely biding my time until the proper excuse presented itself. I have it now. Soon I shall have what I need to see you hanged. You cannot evade justice forever.”
“No? Ah, well … I await your convenience.” St. John glanced at Elizabeth one more time before circumventing Marcus and melting into the crowded ballroom beyond.
She looked down at the object in her hand and the shock of recognition forced her to grip the railing for support. Marcus was beside her instantly.
“What is it?”
She held out her open palm. “It’s my cameo brooch, given to me by Hawthorne as a wedding gift. I broke the clasp. See? It is still broken. He offered to return it to the jeweler’s for repair the morning of his death.”
Marcus plucked the pin from her hand, and examined it. “St. John returned it? What did he say? Tell me everything.”
“He wants the journal.” She stared up at his grim features. “And he knew of the attack in the park.”
“Bloody hell,” Marcus growled under his breath, pocketing the brooch. “I knew it.” Wrapping her hand around his arm, he led her from the balcony.
Within moments, Marcus had retrieved their cloaks and called for his carriage, assisting her inside as soon as it rolled to a halt. Ordering the outriders to guard her, he turned back toward the manse, his stride lengthening with purpose.
Leaning out the window, Elizabeth called after him. “Where are you going?”
“After St. John.”
“No, Marcus,” she begged, her fingers gripping the sill, her heart racing madly. “You said yourself he’s dangerous.”
“Don’t worry, love,” he called over his shoulder. “So am I.”
Elizabeth waited endlessly, devastated to her very soul. For the first time since starting the affair, she acknowledged how little control she had. Marcus cared nothing for her worry or her distress. Knowing how she must feel, he’d left anyway, deliberately courting danger. And now she waited. He’d been gone so long. Too long. What was happening? Had he found the pirate? Had they exchanged words? Or fought? Perhaps Marcus was hurt …
She gazed sightlessly out the window as her stomach roiled. Certain she was about to cast up her accounts, Elizabeth thrust open the door and stumbled down. The outriders moved to her side just as Marcus appeared.
“Sweet.” He pulled her close. The heavy silk of his coat was cold from the night air, but inside she was far more chilled. “Don’t be frightened. I will protect you.”
Elizabeth gave a choked, half-mad laugh. The most pressing peril came from Marcus himself. He was a man who thrived on reckless behavior and lived for the thrill of the chase. He would forever be placing himself in jeopardy, because taking risks was ingrained in his nature.
The agency … St. John … Marcus …
She had to get away from them all.
Far, far away.
Chapter 10
Marcus paused in his prowling of the guesthouse foyer to stare at the Persian rug beneath his feet. He searched for signs of wear caused by his relentless tread.
This damned affair was beyond frustrating. His desire for Elizabeth showed no signs of waning, his body constantly hard and aching for her touch. His physical reaction alone was irritating, but even more troubling was her ceaseless occupation of his every thought.
In all of his other affairs, he’d never spent the night with his paramours. He never brought women to his home, never shared his bed, never gave more than a brief use of his body. He’d never wanted to.
The situation with Elizabeth was entirely different. He had to tear himself away from her, waiting until the cursed rising of the sun forced him to leave. He returned to his home with her scent on his skin, to lie in the bed she had once occupied and relive the memories of her, naked and begging beneath him. It was torture of the most delicious kind.
And it was not just when he was alone that he was maddened by his need. When he’d stepped onto the balcony and recognized the man with whom she conversed, his heart had stopped beating altogether. Then it had raced with the primitive instinct to protect what was his.
He wanted to be closer, damn it all. Elizabeth wanted distance. She was perfectly happy to keep things simple and uncomplicated by feelings or emotions. In past entanglements, he would have been pleased. This time, this affair, he was not.
Elizabeth was not immune. Her gaze lingered when she thought he was not aware, and when he held her in his arms, he could feel the racing of her heart against his chest. She curled around him when she slept and sometimes murmured his name, telling him he invaded her dreams as surely as she invaded his.
As the door opened and Elizabeth entered, Marcus spun about quickly. She offered a half-hearted smile, and then glanced away.
Evasion, façades, shields—he despised all of the tools she used to keep him at bay. Anger quickened his blood.
“Hello, my love,” he muttered.
She frowned at his tone.
His eyes raked her from head to toe. When his gaze returned to hers, she was blushing.
Good. Better than indifferent.
“Come closer,” he ordered arrogantly. There were some barriers between them he could remove, her clothing being one of them.
“No.” Her voice was threaded with steel.
“No?” He arched a brow. There was something different about her, a stiffness to her demeanor that caused his stomach to tighten.
Her eyes softened. Wondering what she saw, Marcus glanced over her head to the mirror that hung on the wall behind her and was startled by the fierce longing that was reflected in his face. His hands clenched into fists.
“Marcus. I will not be staying tonight. I’ve come only to tell you that our affair is over.”
He felt as though all of the oxygen had been sucked from the room. To be so easily discarded … Again.
“Why?” was all he could manage to say.
“There is no need for us to continue seeing each other.”
“What about the passion between us?”
“It will fade,” she said with a careless shrug.
“Then remain my lover until it does,” he challenged.
Elizabeth shook her head.
He moved toward her, his heart thundering in a desperate rhythm, drawn to her scent and the need to feel her skin beneath his hands. “Convince me why we should end the affair.”
Violet eyes widened, melting, and she backed away from him. “I don’t want you anymore.”
Stepping closer, Marcus didn’t stop until he had her pressed against the wall, his thigh between hers, his hand curling around her nape. Burying his face in her neck, he breathed in her fragrance of warm, aroused woman.
She trembled in his arms. “Marcus …”
“You could have said anything else and I might have believed you. But to say you don’t want me is so blatant a lie, I cannot credit it.” He tilted his head and brought his lips to hers.
“No,” she said, turning her head. “A physical response means nothing, as you well know.”
Licking her lips, Marcus waged a battle of seduction, attempting to penetrate the defenses she’d erected against him. “Nothing?” he breathed.
She opened her mouth to retort and his tongue slipped inside, thrusting slow and deep, drinking in the taste of her. A moan escaped her. Then another.
His hand held her head still when she tried to pull away, his other wrapped around her hip, molding her into the heat of his erection. Marcus groaned, his body aching for her, his insides twisting as her hands remained at her sides, rejecting him silently even as her body responded helplessly to his touch. With a curse, he pulled away.
He didn’t want her like this, bent to his will against her own. He wanted her warm and willing, as eager for him as he was for her.
“As you wish, Elizabeth,” he said coldly, his gaze hard. He reached for his greatcoat, which hung on the rack beside the mirror. “You will crave me soon enough. When you do, come to me. Perhaps I’ll still be available for your pleasure.”
When she flinched and looked away, Marcus hardened his heart. He was hurting, a new and vastly unwelcome turn of events.
He left with a slam of the door, vaulting onto the back of his horse in his haste to leave. With a curt movement of his hand, he ordered the guards watching the guesthouse to remain behind.
As he rode away, his thoughts stayed with Elizabeth. Finding her on the balcony with St. John had nearly brought him to his knees. She had stood so bravely, with her spine straight and proud. She was no fool; he’d warned her of the danger, but she would not be cowed.
Damn her! Was there no way to rattle her? The still surface of her deportment was deceptive. The depths of her nature roiled with currents he longed to explore, yet he could never reach them.
She was tortured, he knew, and yet it was he who trolled the streets of London while she lay safe in Chesterfield Hall. It was he who suffered, and he had only himself to blame.
Why was it whenever she should be reaching for comfort, like tonight, she chose instead to turn away? Mere hours ago, she had been warm and passionate, her body arching beneath his, her thighs spread to welcome the thrusts of his cock. He could still hear the sound of his name on her lips and feel the bite of her nails in the flesh of his back. She’d been on fire, burning with passion. Over this last week together, he could have sworn the intimacy he felt with her went both ways. He refused to believe he was mistaken.
Feeling the chill of the late night air, he forced his mind away from thoughts of Elizabeth to catch his bearings. Dazed, he was startled to see the front of Chesterfield Hall. Unconsciously, he had returned, driven by a part of him that was screaming to be recognized.
He ignored it.
Drawing to a halt before the now darkened guesthouse, Marcus glancing around, spotting the mounts of the guards tied nearby. They were either patrolling on foot or had followed her to the manse. He faced the guesthouse and wondered if the door remained unlocked, if Elizabeth’s wonderful scent of vanilla and roses still lingered in the foyer. He dismounted and tested the knob, which turned easily. Entering, he closed his eyes to sharpen his sense of smell and inhaled deeply.