Guthrie rose. Anger filled the large man’s eyes when his gaze met hers.
“There is nothing wrong with your head, Guthrie, except for a rather unfortunate case of lice. Do you care to tell us who paid you to drug me and then abandon out in the middle of a storm?” She glanced toward Charlie, hoping to prompt Guthrie into loosening his tongue. “Was this the same man who paid you to put a burr underneath Lord Edgeware’s saddle, nearly killing him?”
“’E never said anyone would be killed, m’lady! I never killed anyone!” Guthrie shouted and then made a dash for the door.
“Just give us a name!” Elsbeth called after him.
Nigel, Charlie, and Lord Ames all dove for the footman. But he evaded their hands and the hands of the servants that charged into the room roused by the commotion. With a shout, Guthrie disappeared out the door. The men in the room, except for Lord Purbeck, ran after him.
Soon after, the sound of a gun’s shot ricocheted through the silent room. A man screamed. Another shouted “no.”
Lauretta covered her mouth with her hands and darted to the window. Lady Dashborough’s daughters, pale with shock, followed.
“Oh my,” Olivia whispered, “poor, Elly.”
No one else spoke.
Charlie ran back into the drawing room. “The footman’s been shot! He’s dead!”
Lady Dashborough fainted.
* * * *
Over an hour passed before the guests settled down. No one seemed interested in seeking out their beds. The drawing room remained crowded. Several guests sank into comfortable chairs, some meandered around the room, staring quietly at each other.
“There’s no sign of the man who fired the weapon,” Elsbeth overheard Nigel whisper to Charlie upon his return.
“You already know who did this,” Charlie replied.
Slowly, the talk returned to the subject of the smugglers. Elsbeth seemed to be the only one who believed them innocent of the killings. And since she didn’t want to talk about what had happened to her out in the storm, not until Mr. Waver had a chance to explain himself, she decided to keep her thoughts to herself.
“What do you need us to do?” Lord Ames asked. “I, like Charlie, find it difficult to believe that your army of footmen couldn’t catch even one person out of what had to have been more than two dozen men unloading a boatload of smuggled goods. Could it be possible that your smugglers are local town’s people? Possibly relations of your footmen?”
“That’s exactly what I think,” Nigel said. “Which makes the thought of them wanting me dead even more chilling.”
“The smugglers aren’t trying to kill you,” Elsbeth said before she could stop herself. She slammed her hand over her mouth and hoped no one had heard her.
“What did you say?” Nigel crouched down beside her and gently pried her hand from her mouth.
“See, Nige, I told you.” Charlie said. Like his father had done earlier, he wagged a sharp finger in Elsbeth’s direction. “Let me have twenty minutes alone with your wife. I know how to twist the truth from her.”
The room erupted with excited chatter. Elsbeth sat as dead as a statue awash in dread. In a fit of rage Lord Mercer had once handed her over to Charlie for an entire evening. Charlie, parroting her husband’s behavior, had slapped her across the face, knocking her to the floor. And when she’d tried to defend herself, he’d kicked her until she was huddled in a corner, fearing for her life. That’s when he’d grabbed the front of her gown and ripped it. He’d pressed his vile lips to hers and Mercer had allowed it. Her husband had actually laughed when she’d tried, and failed, to push Charlie away. That was the night Lord Ames had tried to defend her. The foolish man’s gallant attempt to rescue her had only made her husband’s rage that night turn all the more violent. She shuddered to remember more…She would kill herself before willingly let anything like that happen again.
“Silence!” Nigel shouted. He turned back to her. “Elsbeth, I’m sure you understand why I need to know what’s going on.” His voice was frighteningly steady, but his eyes were alive with a look of ruthless determination. “What do you know about these smugglers?”
The man responsible will not live much longer, he had vowed. And she was fairly certain from the way he had said it that he intended to personally see that the punishment for their crimes were carried out. As the highest ranking landholder in the area, he would of course have say over the proceedings.
What to do? What to do? She couldn’t tell him what she little knew, for she knew only one name. And Nigel was liable to kill Mr. Waver if she told what little she knew about his involvement with the smuggling operation. Circumstances did make him appear horribly guilty. And although she felt fairly certain he wasn’t a murderer, she had no proof. But she needed to say something to Nigel. He might never trust her again otherwise, and she needed him to trust her as she was beginning to trust him. She pinched her eyes closed and wished herself invisible.
“Elsbeth,” Nigel said. She flinched when his hand cupped her chin. “Elsbeth, look at me.”
She refused, knowing what her refusal meant. His trust. Her happiness. Their marriage.
“Let me have time alone with her, Nige.” Charlie said again, sounding hungry for the opportunity. “I know how to deal with her.”
“No, I can handle this.” Nigel took her hand and pressed it against his cheek. “Elsbeth, it is important that you tell me everything you know. It may mean my life, my dove.”
To tell Nigel might bring about an innocent man’s death. But to hold back the truth, she was likely going to destroy her future and her chance at finding happiness with a man she was beginning to love. She fiddled with her locket. She knew so little of love, so little of life. But she did know about honor. She wouldn’t let Nigel kill an innocent man.
“I gave the man my word,” she said with frightful ease. “I cannot give you his name.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Damn, he was a fool. Apparently all his efforts to win Elsbeth’s heart had completely failed. She seemed more willing to protect a murderer’s identity than to preserve her own husband’s life.
Nigel let her hand slip from his fingers. He spoke not a word. He simply rose and walked out of the room. He needed to get away from this hell and just paint. It had been too damn long.
“Nige,” Charlie called from down the hall.
“Don’t you dare touch her,” he said without breaking his stride.
He needed to find some canvas to paint on. Hell, even a roughly cut board would do.
“Nige! Someone is trying to kill you. What should we do?”
What should he do? He wasn’t sure anymore. He’d hosted this blasted house party and put up with having all these blasted guests in his home in order to restore Elsbeth’s reputation. Then, after his hasty marriage, which had caused most to rush back to London, he’d let the few remaining guests stay. He’d known Elsbeth would be uncomfortable dealing with him on an intimate level. And had hoped the guests would serve as a buffer, giving her time to learn to trust him.
His plan had failed miserably. He now feared he’d never find a way to win her trust, or her heart.
Which meant the guests were no longer needed or wanted. He’d personally arrange for Elsbeth’s cousin’s to be safely escorted back to their father. Everyone else, though, could do whatever the hell they wanted…as long as they did it outside the walls of Purbeck Manor.
As for him, he needed to get away. There hadn’t been either paint or brushes at Purbeck since his uncle had tossed all of his art supplies into the fireplace’s flames all those years ago. Dioynsus’s domain was restricted to the dark, dank cellar in his town house. And that’s where he needed to be. He’d hire a Bow Street Runner from London to investigate his butler’s murder and tract down the smugglers. It was something he should have done days ago.
“Well, Nige? What do you want me to do?” Charlie asked.
“Send everyone home. I’m returning to London.”
&
nbsp; * * * *
For two silent days Nigel rode in the carriage with his wife. He sat on the bench opposite her—a stranger to him—a woman who’d turned his heart inside out. She kept her lips so tightly pressed together that they had long lost their rosy hue.
He had no idea how to please her, or how to win back even one of her glowing smiles. Where was that giddy young imp who’d so firmly captured Dionysus’s heart when she’d darted across that dewy field so many years ago? She certainly wasn’t sitting across from him, wiling away endless hours watching the countryside. This woman was a mystery, a damned sullen mystery he feared he alone had created.
Love hadn’t been enough to keep her safe, at least not his love. But, then again, when had it ever been? His love hadn’t kept his parents from leaving him. And it sure as hell had fallen short of winning his uncle’s respect and affection. He wasn’t good enough. He’d never been good enough. That was why he had to keep that dark corner of his heart—the sensitive part of him that was Dionysus—hidden away.
He wanted to love her the way she needed to be loved. He needed to love her. He longed to make her giggle and blush and do all the things with her young lovers should be doing. But, with Elsbeth, he didn’t know where to start.
Taking away her maid had been a step in the wrong direction. He’d left Molly at the estate locked in an attic room with a footman to guard the door. Elsbeth hadn’t asked after her, but he could guess by the way her eyes sometimes grew misty that she might be thinking about her.
She, no doubt was thinking about a goodly number of things. She just had no desire to share any of them with him…her husband.
He cursed aloud. It was a long, colorful oath.
She didn’t even blink.
* * * *
Evening had blanketed the sky and the lamplighters had completed their tasks by the time the carriage pulled to a stop in front of Nigel’s town house near Regent’s Park. The area had been newly developed and the houses on the street reflected the neoclassical architecture so popular among the elite. Many of the homes resembled Greek temples. All contained highly imaginative elements such as large stone acanthus leaves topping Corinthian columns and imposing triangular eaves supporting the roofs.
The houses in the neighborhood were all very much alike, all except for the one Nigel’s carriage had stopped in front of. The façade was brick, not marble or stone, its roof constructed from plain slate. The house was impressive in its sheer bulk and in its bold contrast to its neighbors.
“Come, my lady.” Nigel hopped down from the carriage. He stuck his hand back into the door, offering to help her down. “We are home.”
Home. Unlike the other homes in the neighborhood, no welcoming whimsy graced this building. The sight of it left Elsbeth very cold, in fact.
She accepted Nigel’s hand. Her side pulled and burned with every little movement. The long journey had sorely irritated her injury.
“Should I call a doctor?” he asked when she leaned heavily on his arm as they ascended the steps to the front door.
“No.” She straightened and made a grand effort to walk without assistance. “I am tired. Will you please have a maid show me to my room?”
He frowned and studied her for several long moments. Elsbeth expected him to insist on immediately sending for a doctor, but he didn’t. After giving her a tense nod, he accompanied a grinning Gainsford, the house’s butler, down a shadowy corridor.
“She is an uncommon beauty, my lord,” she heard Gainsford say to his lordship. “My felicitations.”
Nigel grunted.
A maid arrived a few moments later and led Elsbeth to her room, staying to help her get settled. “Milord will hire a proper lady’s maid in the morning,” the young maid said, sending Elsbeth’s mood to a new low. Being reminded of how she’d lost Molly made her feel even more alone than before.
She didn’t feel she had the right to turn to Nigel for company or for anything else. She certainly didn’t feel she had the right to plead for Molly’s freedom. Molly had threatened to kill him, and she’d…well…After she’d so soundly refused to tell him what she knew about the smugglers, she doubted he wanted anything to do with her.
She knew she needed to tell Nigel the truth about Mr. Waver. But what if Nigel, in a fit of rage, killed his long-time friend? He’d promised to do just that. And she had no reason to doubt him. So she kept silent. And stayed miserable.
That night she laid on her back on the rather large bed in what she supposed was now her room and stared at the adjoining door to Nigel’s chamber. She listened to the creaking of the floorboards and the regular footfalls coming from his room. Her forefinger rubbed the cool gold cover on her locket as her ears strained in the darkness.
Nigel was pacing.
She had turned the key in the lock, but she still couldn’t stop herself from keeping a fixed glare on the curved brass handle. Candlelight from his room leaked out under the door.
He never tested the handle.
Some time late into the night the light was snuffed.
Tears pooled in her eyes, blurring the darkness. She wanted him in her bed. Despite the chilling tension keeping them apart, her body still burned for him. She ached to learn more about the carnal pleasures of marriage. But Nigel hadn’t even tested the handle to see if she’d locked the door against him.
Her tears spilled over her cheek, which only irritated her more.
If he’d tried to come to her, would she have opened the door?
Oh botheration! She roughly wiped her tears away. How could she expect Nigel to know how to act around her when she didn’t even know what she wanted from him herself? And why had she spent her life waiting for some knight-in-shining-armor to come rescue her when she was more than capable of rescuing herself?
She slipped from the bed and padded her way to the adjoining door between hers and Nigel’s bedroom. It was time she rescued herself.
* * * *
Someone was in the room with him, moving quietly as if not wanting to disturb his sleep. Only Nigel hadn’t been asleep. He hadn’t found a sound night’s sleep since his hasty marriage. And the string of long, frustrating nights had put him in one tiger of a mood. He tightened his hand on the revolver he’d taken with him into his bed. And waited, listening as the intruder moved closer. Well, he wasn’t going to let the bastard win so easily. One more step and Nigel would roll over and pull the trigger.
The light scent of lilacs and orange blossoms caressed his senses, filling him with images of fields of wildflowers and a certain lovely woman who’d stolen his heart.
Elsbeth?
He kept his hand on his revolver. There was no reason to believe she would come to him. Not in the dark of night. Not to his bedroom. Not like this.
The brush of fabric—soft womanly fabric—whispered in his ear. Slowly, carefully, with the revolver still held at the ready, he rolled over. Her nightrail, a pale creamy white with just a touch of lavender shadows, almost appeared to glow in the dim light as she took another step toward the bed. Her creamy smooth hands were clasped beneath her chin. The pale texture of her skin with a touch of peach highlights begged to be touched…stroked…loved. Even in the faint moonlight seeping through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the rose in her cheeks appeared nearly luminescent. She was an artistic vision. A glorious, beautiful phantasm.
Perfection.
He slid the revolver under his pillow when she lifted the heavy, quilted counterpane. As silently as a dream, she slipped into the bed with him. She hesitated when her hand inadvertently brushed his naked hip. He slept in the nude, but of course she had no way of knowing that. Though they were married, they hadn’t spent a proper night together as husband and wife. He held his breath, wondering if she was about to lose whatever courage had carried her into his room.
With a breathless sigh, she settled in next to him. Her delicate fingers lightly touched his cheeks. And with trembling lips, she kissed him.
He kissed her back. Of cours
e he did. He moved slowly, tentatively. At first she pulled away, as if she didn’t expect to find him so awake or so pleased to find his wife in his bed. Or perhaps her courage was faltering. The reason didn’t matter. He kept a tight reign on his desires, not wanting to frighten her. Pleading with his lips, he let her know how much he wanted her kisses. He wanted Elsbeth and her love almost more than he wanted life itself. He wanted to celebrate her presence in his room as a victory for their marriage. But he couldn’t shake the wariness that was drumming slowly against his chest.
She’d spurned him. She’d told him more than once that she could never love him. And now, she’d willingly come to his bed. She was making his head spin…and throb.
He grabbed hold of her wrists and pulled her questing fingers from his naked chest, though doing so was the worst kind of torture.
“Wh-what is this?” he had just enough wits to grumble.
He hated to be twisted about. And that was just what she seemed to be doing.
He searched her eyes, eyes that appeared nearly a deep purple in the darkness. “Why are you here? What do you mean to do with me?”
A nervous smile turned up one corner of her orange-scented lips. “If a husband needs to ask, I must be doing something horribly wrong.” She wriggled against his hips. He groaned, his control slipping.
“Do not tease me,” he said through a painfully clenched jaw. His grip tightened on her wrists. “I know what you’re doing. What I don’t know is why.”
The smile faded. Her eyes turned up to the ceiling. And her teasing body suddenly became still as marble. “I want you, Nigel. I-I want to be in your bed. Tonight and every night.”
Ignited by her words, he kissed her deeply…passionately…thoroughly. And when he pulled away, breathless and near mad with desire, he placed her hand on his throbbing arousal. “I want you here in my bed, too.”
With her lips forming a small moue, she stroked the full length of him. Her eyes widened. She ran her petal pink tongue over her full lips.
Though he didn’t understand why she’d come to him, it was clear that she truly wanted to be with him…that she wanted him to act like a husband should with a wife. With exquisite care, he undressed her. His hands trembled slightly as he did. Removing her nightrail was like peeling away the protective paper from a newly purchased masterpiece, revealing a delicate beauty hidden beneath.
The Sweet and Spicy Regency Collection Page 76