Ask For It (Georgian #1)

Ask For It (Georgian #1) Page 29

She located him near the refreshment tables, a glass in each hand and surrounded by women. He shrugged innocently when he saw her, his lips curving wickedly beneath the edge of his half mask. Pushing through the small crowd, Elizabeth claimed one of the glasses, and then linked her arm with his. Her spine stiff, she led Marcus back to the ballroom, all enjoyment in the evening gone.

The duchess took one look at her face, and excused herself with a smile.

Marcus chuckled. “Thank you, Lady Westfield. To my recollection that is the first time I have ever been rescued.”

“You have never wanted to be rescued,” she snapped, hating that he could be so nonchalant in the face of her upset.

He lifted a hand to caress a powdered curl. “You’re jealous!” he crowed.

She turned away, wondering, as she often did, how many women in the room knew him carnally as she did.

Marcus stepped around until he faced her. “What is it, love?”

“None of your affair.”

Uncaring of their audience, Marcus traced the bottom curve of her lip with his gloved thumb. “Tell me what’s wrong, or I cannot fix it.”

“I detest every woman who knew you before.” Blushing, she lowered her head and waited for his laughter.

Instead, his deep, velvety voice swirled around her, encasing her in warmth. “Do you remember when I said intimacy and sex can be mutually exclusive?” His head lowered to hers, his mouth brushing her ear as he whispered, “You are the only woman I have ever been intimate with.”

A tear escaped. Marcus brushed it away.

“I want to take you home,” he murmured, his emerald gaze hot behind the mask. “And be intimate with you.”

She left with him, desperate to have him all to herself. That night he was so tender in his lovemaking, adoring her with his body, giving her everything she asked. His gentle ardor brought tears to her eyes and afterward he held her in his arms as if she were the most precious thing in the world.

Every day brought her closer to him. She was beginning to need him, not just with sensual craving but for so much more. It was a passion that would take a lifetime to sate.

She could only pray fate would give her that chance.

Chapter 19

“You should not have come to my home.”

Christopher St. John vaulted into the unmarked Westfield town coach. The pirate’s overwhelming presence dominated the interior and added a palpable energy to the air, forcing Elizabeth to retreat into the squabs. Glancing out the window, she remained surprised at the elegance of the small townhouse he resided in. It was conspicuous in the unfashionable part of town where it was located. However the two burly henchmen at the door betrayed the seediness of the goings-on within.

He took the seat opposite her. “It’s not a fit place for a lady and this ostentatious equipage is attracting the kind of dangerous attention you don’t want.”

“You know I had no choice. As soon as I learned your direction, I had to come. I have no other way of reaching you.” She arched a brow. “You, Mr. St. John, have questions to answer.”

His full mouth curved wryly, as he leaned back and adjusted his coat. “No need to be so formal. We are related, after all.”

“As if I could forget.”

“So you believe me then.”

“I had your claim investigated.”

St. John glanced around, taking in the opulence of the dark leather interior with one sweeping glance. “Such a shame you married Westfield. Looks as if the man could use a lightening of his purse.”

“I strongly suggest you find other sport, if you don’t wish to anger me. I am not pleasant when I’m cross.”

St. John blinked, then threw his head back and laughed. “By God, I do like you. Rest assured, I am loyal to members of my family and Westfield is something of a family member, is he not?”

Rubbing between her brows in a vain effort to ward off a headache, she muttered, “Westfield knows nothing of this and I prefer to keep it that way.”

St. John reached over and opened the small compartment door by his seat. Withdrawing a glass, he poured two fingers of brandy, which he then offered to her. When she refused, he put the decanter away. “I realized you hadn’t told him about us when he came to see me. However, I did think you would have told him since then.”

Studying him more closely, she noted the faint yellow of a healing bruise around his left eye and the small scab on his lip. “Are your injuries from Westfield?”

“No other man would dare.”

She winced. “I apologize. I had no intention of telling him about our meeting, but I neglected to tell my mother-in-law to keep quiet about it.”

St. John waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “No lasting harm done. Quite stimulating, actually. After years of doing nothing more strenuous than exchanging barbs, it was time for us to get to business. I was glad he found me. I was curious to see how he felt about you. The man has never had a weakness in his life. I regret you are one I cannot exploit.”

“What is your grievance with Westfield?”

“The man is too arrogant, too titled, too wealthy, too pretty—too everything. He’s as rich as Croesus and yet he cries foul when I take a tiny bit of his blunt.”

She snorted. “As if you would have a party should someone steal from you.”

He choked on his brandy.

“I must know about Hawthorne,” she asked, leaning forward. “It’s driving me mad not knowing who he was.”

St. John removed his hat and ruffled his wavy blond locks with a large hand. “Nigel was your spouse. I prefer you to remember the man you spent a year of your life with.”

“But I don’t understand. If you were close to one another, how could he work with Eldridge without harming you or … or …”

“Acting as traitor?” he finished softly. “Elizabeth, I pray you leave such concerns outside the scope of your recollections. He was a good husband to you, was he not?”

“So I should only cling to the facets I knew and discard the others?”

He sighed and set his hat on the seat next to him. “Did your investigation reveal information about our father?”

Elizabeth sat back and bit her lip.

“Ah, I see it did. Touched, they call it. A bit off, half mad—”

“I understand.”

“Do you?” He looked down and examined his jeweled heels with unnecessary focus. “Did you hear of the violence? The ravings? No? That’s for the best. Suffice it to say that no steward would work for him and he was too daft to manage his finances properly. When he passed, Nigel discovered the title was bankrupt.”

“How? We never wanted for anything.”

“We met when I was ten. My mother had been raised in the village and when her condition became obvious, she was released from her position as scullery maid and returned to her family in shame. Nigel was two years younger than I, but even as children we knew. We looked too much alike, had certain mannerisms that were the same. Nigel would find ways to see me. I’m certain it must have been difficult living with our pater. He needed the escape of friendship and brotherhood.

“So when I learned of his financial difficulties, I came to London and learned what I needed to. I became friends with the people I had to, I did the things they asked me to do, I went to the places they told me to go. Whatever it took to make money, I did it.”

There was no pride in his voice. In fact, his tone held no inflection at all.

“Nigel asked me how I was able to pay off his debts, which, I assure you, were exorbitant. When he learned of my activities, he was furious. He said he could not stand by and enjoy his newfound wealth and stability while I placed myself in danger. Later, when I realized I was being investigated, Nigel went to Lord Eldridge and—”

“—became an agent,” she finished, her heart sinking as her worst fears were realized. “My brother was assigned to track you. Hawthorne used me to ingratiate himself with Barclay.”

St. John leaned forward, but when she shrank away, he withdrew. “It’s true that information learned through the agency allowed me to elude Westfield, but Nigel cared for you, don’t doubt that. He would have offered for you regardless of your brother. He admired and respected you. He spoke of you often and was adamant that I continue to look after you if something should happen to him.”

“The irony,” she muttered. “Westfield prefers I not use my widow’s pension and yet some of that settlement rightfully belongs to him, does it not?”

“In a way,” he conceded. “Proceeds from the sale of Ashford cargos were used to pay off the Hawthorne debt.”

Elizabeth felt the color drain from her face. This was worse than she could have ever possibly imagined. “There is so much I don’t understand. How did you come to have my brooch?”

“I was nearby when Barclay and Hawthorne were attacked,” he said sadly. “It was I who sent men to find help for your brother. I took the brooch because I was not certain I could trust anyone else to care for it and see it returned to you.”

“Why were you there? Was his death because of you?”

He flinched. “Perhaps. In the end we must all pay for our sins.”

“What is in the journal that makes it so important? Who wants it?”

“I cannot say, Elizabeth, for reasons I cannot explain.”

“Why?” she cried. “I deserve to know.”

“I’m sorry. For your protection, you must not know.”

“He tried to kill me.”

“Give the book to me,” he urged. “It’s the only way to spare you.”

She shook her head. “Westfield has it locked away. I don’t have access to it. It contains maps of various waterways in addition to the coded writings. He thinks the book may have detailed information about Nigel’s missions. If I were to give the book to you, a known pirate, it would be considered treasonous. He would question me, discover our kinship, Eldridge would learn of it—”

“Westfield would protect you. I would manage Eldridge.”

She swallowed hard. She couldn’t lose Marcus. Not now. “After what transpired four years ago, my husband does not trust me. If I were to betray him this way he would never forgive me.”

St. John cursed under his breath. “The book is worthless without Nigel. No one will be able to decipher it. If I take it off your hands, you can go away, have a honeymoon. Then I can draw the man out with it and end this.”

“You know more about the journal than you are telling me,” she accused. “If it were worthless, my life wouldn’t be in danger.”

“The man is mad,” he growled. “Mad, I tell you. Think of the attack on your person at your betrothal ball. Were those the actions of a rational person?”

Her lips pursed. “How did you learn of the stabbing?”

“I’ve had men watching out for you. One of them was there at your betrothal ball.”

“I knew it!” There had been someone else in the garden, someone who chased away her assailant.

“I am doing my best to assist you—”

“You’ve been absent for weeks,” she scoffed.

“On your behalf,” he corrected. “I have been searching.”

“Find him! Leave me out of this mess.”

He dropped his glass carelessly inside the door panel. “I have been scouring England, and during those times you have been assaulted on two occasions. He knows me too well. He plans his attacks when I am out of Town.” St. John grabbed her hands and held them tightly within his own. “Find a way to give me the book and this can all be over.”

Shaking her head, Elizabeth pulled her hands away. “Tell me truthfully: Does the book have anything to do with Nigel’s murder?”

St. John remained bent over, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at her with clear eyes. “In a way.”

“What does that mean?”

“Elizabeth, you already know too much.”

Frustrated tears filled her eyes. There was no way to know if St. John was sincere or simply very cunning. She strongly suspected the information in the journal had something to do with him. If she were correct, her husband would want to use the information to bring the pirate to trial. For Marcus, it could be the chance for justice he’d waited years for.

“I must think about this. It is too much to absorb at once.” She sighed wearily. “I have had little enough happiness in my life. My husband has been my one true joy. You and your brother’s machinations could be the end of that.”

“I am truly sorry, Elizabeth,” he said, his sapphire gaze dark with regret. “I have hurt a great many people in my life, but to have hurt you is a sincere lament of mine.”

St. John opened the carriage door and began to descend. Suddenly he turned about. Hunching in the doorway, he kissed her on the cheek, his lips warm and gentle. Then he leapt from the carriage and reached for her hand. “You now know my direction. Come to me if you need anything. Anything at all. And trust no one but Westfield. Promise me that.”

She gave a jerky nod and he backed away.

The footman waited patiently, too well trained to show any emotion.

“Return to the house,” she ordered, her head throbbing painfully and her stomach twisting with dread.

She couldn’t help feeling that St. John would be the end of her happiness.

Marcus studied Elizabeth from the doorway of his bedroom. She slept, her beautiful face innocent in slumber. Despite her betrayal, his heart swelled at the sight of her cuddled peacefully in bed. Next to her, on the small table, sat two open packets of headache powder and a glass of water, half full.

Slowly she stirred, the force of his presence and the heat of his gaze penetrating her sleep. She opened her eyes and focused on him, the instant tenderness of her gaze quickly shielded by guilt-heavy lids. He knew in that instant the reports were true. He held himself upright by will alone, when all he wanted to do was crawl to her and bury his pain in her arms.