by Ask For It
“You say that so smugly.” Glancing briefly into fire, her fingers picked restlessly at the eyelet work bordering the sheets. “No doubt you are pleased with your easy conquest of me.”
“Easy?” he scoffed, flopping backward into the pillows and tossing his arms wide. “Was bloody damn difficult.” Turning his head to look at her, he frowned and his voice lost its teasing edge. Rolling to his side, Marcus propped his head in his hand. “Tell me about your marriage.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
She shrugged, wishing she could find the control she’d felt earlier. “There’s nothing of note to relay. Hawthorne was an exemplary spouse.”
Pursing his lips, Marcus stared pensively into the fire. Before she could resist the impulse, she reached over and brushed a tumbled lock from his forehead.
He turned to press a kiss into her palm. “You had an accord then?”
“We enjoyed similar activities and he was content to allow me my freedom. He was so preoccupied with his agency work, I rarely saw him, but the distance suited us both.”
He nodded, appearing deep in thought. “You didn’t mind the agency so much then?”
“No. I hated it even then, but I was naïve and had no notion that anyone would be killed.”
When he said nothing, Elizabeth looked at him under her lashes, wondering what he was thinking and why she was staying. She should go.
Then he said, “I believe some of what is written in that journal is about Christopher St. John, but until I have an opportunity to peruse the volume at leisure, I won’t be certain.”
“Oh.” She twisted the edge of the sheet around her finger. Here was her opportunity to depart without awkwardness. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.” Sliding her legs to the edge of the mattress, she attempted to leave the bed and was stopped by his hand at her elbow. She glanced over her shoulder.
Emerald eyes filled with banked fire met hers. “You are a distraction I welcome,” he murmured in the deeply sexual voice she’d come to anticipate.
Marcus pulled her back, crawling over her, pressing her down, his mouth nuzzling her stomach through the bedclothes. “You have no notion of how it affects me to be in your company like this, to work in the moments when you are otherwise occupied.”
Gasping as his mouth surrounded her nipple through the sheet, Elizabeth’s hand drifted to the warm skin of his shoulders and arms, feeling the power within them as they held his weight from her. With rhythmic laps of his tongue, he abraded the stiff peak, intuitively knowing how to make her mad for him.
“Marcus . . .” She struggled, knowing it was wrong to give in, fighting to regain control.
With a low growl, he released her breast and yanked the sheet out of the way. He covered her body with his, his mouth claiming hers, the heat and hardness of his frame causing her to melt into him helplessly. His hands moved with tender skill, knowing her so well, ravishing her senses, coaxing away her tension.
Until she dissolved in pleasure, falling from grace with a cry of surrender, knowing even as she did so that the climb back up grew longer by the moment . . .
Chapter 9
Elizabeth entered the main house through the study’s garden doors. Although not yet dawn, the kitchen staff would already be preparing for the day’s meals and she didn’t want to chance crossing paths with one of them. Not with her hair a fright and her skin so flushed.
“Elizabeth.”
Startled, she jumped. Finding William in the open doorway, her stomach tightened.
“Yes, William?”
“A moment, if you please.”
Sighing, she waited as he stepped into the room and closed them inside. She braced herself.
“What in hell are you doing with Westfield? In our guesthouse? Have you lost your wits?”
“Yes.” There was no point in denying it.
“Why?” he asked, clearly confused and hurt.
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll kill him,” he growled. “To treat you like this, to use you so callously. I told you to stay away from him, that his intentions were dishonorable.”
“I tried, truly I did.” Turning away, Elizabeth sank into a nearby chair.
Muttering an oath, William began to pace in front of her. “You could have had anyone. If you were so set against marriage, you could have chosen a more suitable companion.”
“William, I love you for your concern, but I am a grown woman and I can make my own decisions, especially about something as personal as taking a lover.”
“Good God,” he bit out. “To have to speak of such matters with you—”
“You don’t, you know,” she said dryly.
“Oh yes, I do.” He rounded on her. “After suffering through your endless lectures about my licentious behavior—”
“Yes, you see, I learned from the best.”
William stilled. “You’ve no notion. You are in over your head.”
Elizabeth took a deep breath. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it is Westfield who is out of his depth.” If not, he soon would be.
He snorted. “Elizabeth—”
“Enough, William, I’m tired.” She stood and moved toward the hallway. “Westfield will call this evening to escort me to the Fairchilds’ dinner.” She’d tried to argue, but Marcus insisted her safety was in question. It was either with his escort or she couldn’t attend. He’d been adamant, in his charming, drawling way.
“Fine,” William snapped. “I’ll have a word with him when he arrives.”
She waved her hand nonchalantly over her shoulder. “Be my guest. Send for me when you’re done.”
“This is odious.”
“I gathered you think so.”
“An abomination.”
“Yes, yes.” She moved out into the hallway.
“I will thrash him if he hurts you,” William called after her.
Elizabeth stopped and turned to face him. As meddling as he was, he was acting out of love, and she adored him for it. With a tender smile, she returned to him and hugged his waist. He crushed her close.
“You are the most vexing sibling,” he said into her hair. “Why could you not be more pliable and even-tempered?”
“Because I would bore you to tears and drive you insane.”
He sighed. “Yes, I supposed you would at that.” He pulled back. “Be careful, please. I couldn’t bear to see you hurt again.”
The sadness evident on his handsome features tugged at her heart, and reminded her of the precariousness of her situation. Playing with Marcus was playing with fire.
“Don’t worry so much, William.” Linking her arm with his, Elizabeth tugged him toward the staircase. “Trust me to take care of myself.”
“I’m trying, but it’s damned difficult when you engage in stupidity.”
Laughing, Elizabeth released his arm and ran up the stairs. “First one to the vase at the end of the gallery wins.”
Easily reaching the vase first, William escorted Elizabeth to her bed chamber. Then he returned to his own room and wasted no time changing. He left a bewildered Margaret still abed and traveled into town to the Westfield townhouse. Taking the steps two at a time, he pounded the brass knocker that graced the door.
The portal opened, revealing a butler dripping in chilly hauteur as he gazed down the length of his nose.
Handing over his card, William barreled his way through the doorway and entered the foyer. “You may announce me to Lord Westfield,” he said curtly.
The butler glanced at the card. “Lord Westfield is from home, Lord Barclay.”
“Lord Westfield is abed,” William snapped. “And you will rouse him and bring him to me or I will seek him out myself.”
With a disdainful arch of his brow, the servant led him to the study, and then retreated.
When the door opened again, Marcus entered. William lunged at his old friend without a word.
“Bloody hell,” Marcus cursed as he was tackled to the rug. He cursed ag
ain when William’s fist connected with his ribcage.
William continued to rain blows as they rolled across the study floor, bumping into the chaise and knocking over a chair. Marcus made every effort to deflect the attack, but not once did he fight back.
“Son of a bitch,” William growled, made more furious by being denied the fight he’d come for. “I’ll kill you!”
“Damned if you’re not doing an admirable job of it,” Marcus grunted.
Suddenly, there were more arms in the fray, intervening and pulling them apart. Yanked to their feet, William fought off the unyielding grip that held his arms behind him. “Damn you, Ashford. Release me.”
But Paul Ashford held tight. “In a moment, my lord. No offense intended. But Mother is home, and she does not care much for brawls in the house. Always made us go outside, you see.”
Marcus stood opposite him and a few feet away, shrugging off the helping hand of Robert Ashford, the youngest of the three brothers. The resemblance between the two was uncanny. Only Robert’s gold-rimmed spectacles and slighter frame distinguished the two. Unlike the brother behind William, who was raven-haired and dark-eyed.
William ceased his struggles, and Paul released him.
“Truly, gentlemen,” Paul said, straightening his waistcoat and wig. “Much as I love a good fracas in the morning, you should at least be dressed for the occasion.”
Holding a hand to his side, Marcus ignored his brother and said, “I trust your spirits have improved, Barclay?”
“Slightly.” William glared. “It would have been more sporting if you’d participated.”
“And risk angering Elizabeth? Don’t be daft.”
William snorted. “As if you have a care for her feelings.”
“No doubt of that.”
“Then why this? Why use her in this manner?”
Robert pushed up his spectacles, and cleared his throat. “I think we’re done here, Paul.”
“I hope so,” Paul muttered. “Not the type of conversation I prefer to have at this time of morning. Now be good, gentlemen. Next time, it may be Mother who intercedes. I would pity you both then.”
The brothers shut the door behind them as they retreated.
Marcus ran a hand through his hair. “Remember that chit you dallied with when we were at Oxford? The baker’s daughter?”
“Yes.” William remembered her well. A young, nubile thing. Beautiful and worldly, she was free with her favors. Celia loved a good hard fuck more than most and he’d been hot to give it to her. In fact, they’d once spent three days in bed, taking time only to bathe and eat. She’d been enjoyable with no strings.
Suddenly he caught the implication.
“Do you want to die?” William growled. “You are talking about my sister for God’s sake!”
“And a woman grown,” Marcus pointed out. “A widow, no innocent maid.”
“Elizabeth is nothing like Celia. She hasn’t the experience to engage in fleeting liaisons. She could be hurt.”
“Oh? She seemed able to jilt me well enough and she shows no remorse for her actions.”
“Why would she? You were an absolute cad.”
“We are both to blame.” Marcus moved to one of the wingbacks that flanked the dark fireplace and lowered himself into a weary sprawl. “However, things appear to have worked out for the best. She was not unhappy with Hawthorne.”
“Then leave well enough alone.”
“I cannot. There is something remaining between us. We’ve both agreed, as consenting adults, to allow it to run its course.”
William moved to take the seat opposite. “I still cannot understand that Elizabeth could be so . . .”
“Nonchalant? Laissez faire?”
“Yes, exactly.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “She was devastated at what you’d done, you know.”
“Ah yes. So devastated she married another man posthaste.”
“What better way to run?”
Marcus blinked.
“You think I don’t know her?” William asked, shaking his head. “Have a care with her affections,” he warned as he stood and moved toward the door. He paused on the threshold and looked back. “If you hurt her, Westfield, I’ll see you on a field at dawn.”
Marcus tilted his head in acknowledgment.
“In the meantime, come early this evening. We can await the women together. Father still has a fine collection of brandy.”
“An irresistible invitation. I will be there.”
Somewhat mollified, William made his egress. He also made a mental reminder to clean his pistols.
Just in case.
The ball was a massive success, as witnessed by the overflowing ballroom and the beaming face of the hostess, Lady Marks-Darby. Elizabeth wove her way through the crush, escaping onto a deserted balcony. From her vantage point, she could see couples wandering through the intricate maze of hedges in the garden below. She closed her eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath.
The last week had been both heaven and hell. She went to Marcus every night in the guesthouse and while he’d never promised anything in return, she’d had her own expectations.
When she suggested the affair, she assumed he would pounce on her immediately upon her arrival, carry her off to bed, and when finished with her body take his leave. Instead, he drew her into conversation or fed her sumptuous cold suppers he brought with him. He encouraged discourse on a variety of topics and appeared genuinely interested in her opinions. He asked her about her favorite books and purchased the ones she mentioned that he had not yet read. It was all so very strange. She was completely unaccustomed to such intimacy, which seemed much more pervasive than their physical connection. Not that Marcus ever allowed her to forget that.
He held her in a constant state of physical turmoil. An erotic master, Marcus used the entirety of his formidable skill to make certain he never left her mind for even a moment. He found ways to surreptitiously brush against her shoulder or slip his hand down the curve of her spine. He bent far too close when speaking, breathing in her ear in a way that made her quiver with longing.
Laughter from the maze below brought a thankful respite from her thoughts. Two women came to a halt directly beneath the balcony, their melodious voices floating up to be heard clearly.
“The marriageable men are slim in number this Season,” said one to the other.
“That is unfortunately true. And it’s hideous luck that Lord Westfield should be so determined to win that wager. He practically hovers over Hawthorne’s widow.”
“She seems not to care much for him.”
“Fool is unaware of what she is missing. He is glorious. His entire body is a work of art. I must confess, I am completely besotted.”
Elizabeth gripped the railing with white-knuckled force as one of the women giggled.
“Lure him back, if you miss him so keenly.”
“Oh, I shall,” came the smug reply. “Lady Hawthorne may be beautiful, but she’s a cold one. He’s merely in it for the sport. Once he has redeemed himself, he’ll want a little more fire in his bed. And I’ll be waiting.”
Suddenly, the women gasped in surprise.
“Excuse me, ladies,” interrupted a masculine voice. The two women continued further into the maze, leaving Elizabeth to fume on the balcony.
The unmitigated gall! She grit her teeth until her jaw ached. The damned wager. How could she have forgotten?
“Lady Hawthorne?”
She turned at the sound of her name murmured in a deep, pleasantly raspy voice behind her. She eyed the gentleman who approached, taking in his appearance in an effort to identify him. “Yes?”
The man was tall and elegantly dressed. She could not know his hair color, covered as it was by a wig that was long in the back and tied at his nape. He wore a mask that wrapped around his eyes, but the brilliant blue color of his irises refused to be contained by it. Something about him arrested her gaze, tugging at her memory in a vaguely familiar way, and yet she
was certain she had never met him before.
“Are we acquainted?” she asked.
He shook his head and she straightened, studying him closely as he emerged from the shadows of the overhang. What she could see of his face was well deserving of such beautiful eyes. He was, quite frankly, beyond handsome.
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.”