“Certainly she will,” Elizabeth whispered. “Men.”
Marcus took her by the hand, snatched up his hat, and didn’t give her time to complain further about the nefarious ways of the male of the species. He led her away from the spectators, moving quickly along the edge of the house.
Elizabeth hurried to keep up with his long strides. “Where are we… going?” She pressed one hand to her side. “Slow down. I can’t… walk so… fast.”
Marcus bent and swept her into his arms. “The guests have gathered at the west side of the estate to watch the fireworks,” he explained as he carried her into the darkness. “We’re going the opposite way, to escape the crowds. And discuss our next move.”
~ ~ ~
“You’re assuming we have a next move,” Elizabeth replied. “I’m still not convinced this partnership idea of yours is going to work.”
Despite her doubts, she allowed him to carry her without further protest. To her surprise, she found it… not unpleasant, this feeling of being held snug against Lord Darkridge’s broad chest, safe and protected in his strong arms.
He strode across the lawn and into the gardens until they spotted a little gazebo, surrounded by shrubbery, similar to the one at the Rowlands’ party. “If you’re intent on having another debate,” he said, “that at least looks like a comfortable place to have it.”
When they reached the gazebo, he climbed a trio of stone steps that led inside and lowered her to her feet. Then he dusted off an oriental-style cane bench that had been placed along the rail. Tossing his hat down beside it, he took a seat. She remained standing.
“Elizabeth, are you going to sit down?”
“I can’t.”
That made him look rather pleased with himself, in a thoroughly male way. “So I do make you nervous after all.”
“It’s not that.” She removed her mask. “Nell made this costume from some of her finest Macclesfield silk. She’ll have my head if I get it soiled.”
“Oh Lawks.” Darkridge chuckled. “We can’t have that.” He removed his cloak and spread it over the bench for her.
Elizabeth frowned at his teasing, but felt surprised again by the gallantry that seemed to be so much a part of him. “Thank you.”
“I was raised a gentleman, you know. I haven’t forgotten all of it.”
“No, of course not.” She turned her mask in her fingertips, studying him for a moment, finding his words oddly touching.
What had his boyhood been like? How could he have started life as a member of the wealthy, privileged aristocracy, only to become a criminal with a price on his head? She understood so little about his past.
All she knew was that Marcus Worthington didn’t match his fearsome reputation at all. True, he could be overbearing and tyrannical at times, very much the lord of the manor. Or rather, six manors, she corrected herself.
But he had also shown that he could be gentle and kind. Concerned for her. Chivalrous, in the most old-fashioned sense. Even funny, the quality that appealed to her most of all. It had been a very long time since she had laughed the way she had with him tonight.
From the moment they first met on Hounslow Heath, she had felt wary of this man. Cautious. But that was slowly giving way to a feeling that was entirely different. And most unexpected.
Another small explosion echoed through the night and Elizabeth turned to watch the sparkling bits of red and blue fire drifting down through the darkness. Entranced, she sat on the bench and leaned out over the gazebo railing to get a better view. A shell sizzled up through the air, then burst, cascading out into the shape of a bird with wings of silver sparks. She couldn’t suppress a soft cry of wonder.
“Have you never seen fireworks before?” he asked quietly.
“Only once,” she said, her attention still on the brilliant display. “Just after I arrived in London. On St. Michael’s Eve, with Geoffrey.”
“Geoffrey,” he echoed. “And when was that? Before the two of you left for the Continent?”
Elizabeth suddenly realized what she had said. She turned—and also realized that she had sat down very close to Lord Darkridge.
“Yes,” she said quickly. “My husband, Lord Barnes-Finchley, and I… spent a few days in London before our ship sailed.”
“A honeymoon at sea. Sounds as if you and Geoffrey were happy together.”
Elizabeth heard a note of tension in his voice. He removed his mask and gloves, turning to toss them down beside his discarded tricorne.
She found herself noticing every detail of how he looked in that moment—the way the wind ruffled his dark hair as he moved, the strong angles of his face, the old scar that curved along his jaw, the marks that his mask had left on his tanned cheek.
And the questions in his eyes when his gaze met hers again.
Suddenly, she wanted to confess everything. To admit that she wasn’t a wife, but a widow. That Geoffrey had never been “Lord” anybody and she wasn’t “Lady” anybody. That her husband was dead—and when he’d been alive, he’d caused her nothing but sadness and hurt.
What a relief it would be to let go of all the lies and secrets that protected her, to instead allow the strong man beside her to hold her, to keep her safe…
No. She looked away, fighting the reckless impulse. She didn’t want to be that kind of woman—dependent on a man. Ruled by a man. Never again.
She wasn’t some silly miss with no more backbone than a daffodil.
Not anymore.
So she kept to the mixture of truth and falsehood that she had told him all along. “Geoffrey and I were… we were never happy, not really. He drank too much. When he started spending most of his time away on business affairs, I-I didn’t mind.”
“Do you love him?”
He asked it matter-of-factly, as if it were a perfectly ordinary question.
Caught off-guard, she blurted the truth as her gaze snapped back to his. “No.” She chastised herself for saying that when it would have been eminently more sensible to say yes. “He… he wouldn’t have been my choice for a husband,” she added. “But I didn’t decide such things when I was younger.”
Darkridge glanced at her hand, and she realized she was gripping the railing of the gazebo.
“But you decide such things now?” He rested his hand over hers, his fingers gentle as he eased the tension from her grip.
His touch made her breath catch, and sent a tingle of awareness through her. It bloomed into a heat that warmed her entire body.
“Yes. With my husband… away… I-I make my own decisions now.” Her heart was beating so hard, she felt certain he must be able to hear it. She changed the subject before he could pose another question. “What was that box on Faircroft’s desk?”
At first, he didn’t reply, still looking at her hand beneath his on the railing.
“It belonged to my father,” he said quietly. “A tobacco box, in our family for more than a century. But we didn’t take many of my father’s things when we… left home.” His voice became cold. “Montaigne cast it off to one of his underlings as if it were nothing.”
“But what happened to—”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Elizabeth.”
His words were more a request than a command. He lifted his gaze to hers, and she could see the dark emotions clashing in his eyes—sorrow, anger, loss.
“Some memories,” he said, “are better left in the past. I don’t… know if you can understand that.”
Her throat suddenly felt dry and tight, dark memories of her own crowding in on her.
“Yes,” she whispered, “I understand.”
For a moment, the wind in the evergreens made the only sound, the fireworks now finished, the scent of smoke lingering in the air, the moon and stars the only light in the darkness. The two of them remained still, only their hands touching.
Then she leaned toward him, reaching out with her other hand to brush her fingertips along his cheek, not knowing why, only that she wanted to eas
e the pain from his expression. “Marcus…”
Before she could say more, he laced his fingers through hers, tightening his hold on her.
And then his mouth captured hers in a slow, deep kiss that sent a riot of sensations through her, scattering all her thoughts and intentions.
She should be trying to convince him that she was a faithful wife. Should be clinging to that shield for all it was worth.
Instead she melted against him, responding to his kiss with a hunger that matched his. She pulled her hand from his grasp, needing to touch him. Her fingers discovered the breadth of his shoulders, the flat planes of his muscles. She felt the pounding of his heart beneath her palm. He made a sound, low in his chest, like torment and pleasure mixed together—then suddenly his arms circled her, drawing her into his embrace.
A quick, frightening image of Geoffrey flashed through her mind, how he had treated her when he came to their bed at night, tasting of gin, rough in his eagerness to claim what he called his “husbandly rights.” She had always endured his advances because she had believed it her duty.
This feeling, though, was entirely different. This man was different. This wasn’t something to be feared or endured. This was… this was hot and sparkling and wondrous, like fireworks exploding in the darkness of the night sky.
“Marcus…” she sighed, caressing the nape of his neck, threading her hands into his hair, opening her lips to deepen the kiss.
“God, Elizabeth,” he groaned against her mouth. All at once he was standing up, lifting her onto the railing, kicking the bench out of the way. Holding her tight, he arched her backward over his arm, his mouth tracing a scorching path along her jaw, down her throat. His lips and teeth nipped at her skin, marking her, igniting a fire that whirled to the very core of her body. She gasped a wordless sound of astonishment, of wanting.
His fingers slipped inside the silk and lace of her bodice, tugging at the fabric until he bared her to the cool touch of the night wind—and the hotter touch of his mouth. She tangled her fingers in his hair, moaning as he brushed kisses over the curve of her breast, his tongue darting out to lick and taste.
Then without warning he drew her deep into the velvet heat of his mouth, suckling hard at the sensitive peak, drawing a shocked cry of intense pleasure from her throat.
He shifted his attention to her other breast, his fingertips whisking over the taut crest he had just tasted, teasing it while he sampled the other with lips and teeth. Her head tipped back as she gasped for breath, the fiery sensations at her core whirling tight, his boldness playing havoc with her heartbeat. She grasped at the hard muscles of his arms. “Marcus.”
Suddenly his head came up and he claimed her mouth again, his tongue dueling with hers, then thrusting deep. Her breasts felt impossibly sensitive, the soft material of his shirt rough against her tight, wet nipples. An unfamiliar fluttering began in her belly, a melting dampness between her thighs.
He touched her leg in a slow caress, his hand sliding the silky material of her skirt up, over her knee. He made a strained sound, husky with need, and arched his hips—and she felt the hard shape of his arousal pressing against her soft mound.
Elizabeth’s eyes flew open as the risk she was taking suddenly struck her, chilling the sensual heat that had swept her away. She tore her mouth from his. “Wait—”
“Elizabeth,” he groaned, his voice thick with passion. “I won’t hurt you. You said your husband was a drunkard. I’m not.” He rested his cheek against the curve of her throat. “I’d never hurt you. My sweet lady, the two of us would be—”
“No!” She pushed at his chest. “Let me go!”
He released her at once. She scrambled off the railing, rearranging her disarrayed clothing, panic turning her blood from fire to ice.
“I-I can’t… I don’t…” Her voice was shaking. She was shaking. “I have no desire for that sort of intimacy. Not with any man!”
“That’s not true.” His breathing was rough, his voice hot. “And we both know it.”
She had to fight an instinct to turn and run from him. “I-I am a married woman, my lord! I will not… I will not break my vows.” She fastened a cool look on him. “And what sort of man tries to seduce another man’s wife?”
“Tries to…” Anger chased the desire from his eyes. “This wasn’t any kind of damned seduction! You want me, Elizabeth. As much as I want you. Don’t even try to—”
“You are mistaken, my lord.” She turned and left the gazebo, managing to walk briskly rather than run.
“What sort of wife leaves her husband so she can go gallivanting around the countryside as a highwayman?” he called after her. “And you forgot this.”
She turned to see him holding up her swan mask. She stalked back up the gazebo steps. “I am not gallivanting.” She snatched the mask from his hand. “I chose to become an outlaw because—”
“Because you love danger more than anything.”
“Because I wanted to help women and children who’ve been condemned to prison!”
He blinked at her, clearly stunned. “You wanted… what?”
“My friends and I have established a charitable trust.” She clenched her fists. “We pay the debts of poor women and children who are faced with prison and have nowhere else to turn.”
He stared at her as if she had just claimed to be Queen Caroline herself. “You mean to tell me you’re some sort of… Robin Hood in a skirt, robbing Montaigne to help the poor?”
“It’s not quite all that poetic, but yes, essentially. That’s what I’ve been doing with Montaigne’s money.”
“You’re risking your life to help the poor?” he repeated as if he still could not comprehend.
“You say that as if it were offensive.”
“Not offensive, just foolish. Do you actually think your efforts are going to make any difference? For every wretch you give a handout, there will be a hundred more standing in line.”
“They’re not wretches, they’re people. And trying to help them is not foolish!” She looked down at her clenched hands, realizing she had crumpled her delicate mask. “But I wouldn’t expect you to understand, your lordship, with your title dating to the Tudor kings and your half-dozen grand estates—”
“I understand that it’s not worth risking your life for. There are thousands of poor in London. You can’t save them all.”
“You’re right. I can’t save them all.” She lifted her head, meeting his gaze again. “But I can save a few women’s lives. And every one of those women is important—”
“One person can’t change the world, Elizabeth. Not even you can be that naïve.”
“Is it naïve to care about people who have nothing? Do you truly believe it’s better to spend the money on…” She gestured angrily at the sprawling estate surrounding them. “On old bricks and blades of grass?” She backed away from him a step, shaking her head. “I thought you were different, but you’re not. You’re no better than the rest of your cynical, self-important, noble peers—”
“Is that really what you think of me?”
“I think you’re very determined to have things your own way. Just like all the other London lords I’ve met. Men who believe the entire world belongs to them… and who think of women as just another amusement to relieve their boredom.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “Well, I am not interested in being any man’s amusement, my lord.”
“Elizabeth…” He reached for her.
“Don’t!” She turned her back, trembling, realizing only now just how close she had come to making a terrible mistake tonight.
Whatever she had started to feel for Marcus Worthington, she had to shut those emotions away. Stop being ruled by her heart. He was an earl. She was an innkeeper’s daughter. Any romantic liaison between them would not end well for her. She would only find herself alone, broken-hearted.
And very possibly pregnant.
He was a risk she couldn’t allow herself to take.
It t
ook only seconds to decide what she had to do.
“Lord Darkridge, you were right about ending my raids.” She turned around again, addressing him as calmly as possible. “I see the logic in not making Montaigne nervous. I’ll agree to stop my attacks on his coaches. And we can work together at St. Bartholomew’s Fair, as you suggested, and divide the money equally.”
His dark brows slashed downward and he looked stunned for the second time tonight. “You’re agreeing to all of it, just like that?”
“No. I have one condition.”
“Which is?”
“That you leave me alone until the Fair,” she said firmly. “Our partnership will be strictly a business arrangement, nothing more. Until the Fair, I want you to keep your distance. Stop watching over me, stop trying to help me, stay away from me.”
He flinched as if she had struck him, disbelief and some other emotion she couldn’t name in his expression.
Then his jaw hardened. “We’ll have to see each other before then. To gather information, plan our strategy—”
“The Fair is on the twenty-fourth of August. Seven weeks away. There’s no need for us to spend the entire summer together. We can agree to meet on… on the tenth of August. At Osgood’s.” She struggled to keep her tone cool. “Will that allow us adequate time to gather the information we need and plan our strategy?”
His voice became rough. “Elizabeth, staying away from you all summer would be the most sensible thing I could do.” His eyes burned into hers. “But it’s going to be a damned difficult agreement to keep.”
She dropped her gaze to the ruined mask in her hand, trying to stop her voice from wavering. “I would have your word, my lord.”
“Agreed,” he snapped.
Not sure why she was fighting tears when he had just agreed to her demands, Elizabeth lifted her mask and put it back on. “Then until the tenth of August, Lord Darkridge…” She walked down the gazebo steps, not allowing herself to look back at him. “I bid you farewell.”
Chapter 9
Jean-Pascal Rochambeau sat at a table in one of the Strand’s most fashionable coffeehouses, sipping at his fourth insipid cup. Gazing out the window into the bright July sunlight, he wondered how long he could survive on England’s dismally bland food and drink.
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