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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.”
