Silver Splendor (21 page)

“Elizabeth,” he whispered, gently wiping a tear from her cheek. “Please try to understand what you’re asking of me. We can’t tumble into bed like a pair of lusty peasants.”

“Why not?” she said, swallowing a telltale lump of pain. “You think
me
no better than a peasant.”

“That isn’t true,” he murmured. “You’re a fine woman; I admire your integrity, your pride… God help me, even your independence.”

The sincerity in his voice swirled around her heart. Yet could she believe him? “Then why don’t you want to make love to me?”

“Because you’re under my protection, Elizabeth. Don’t you see — ? When I first met you, I wasn’t constrained by any promise to protect you. But now everything’s changed. I can’t take advantage of your innocence.”

“Take advantage?” she scoffed. “I’d hardly call it that, considering you have my consent.”

“Your reputation would be destroyed.”

She rolled her gaze heavenward. “For goodness sake, Nicholas, you of all people should know I don’t care Boston beans about what other people think.”

“And what if you bore a child out of wedlock?” he said, his voice low. “Have you considered that?”

She stared uncertainly; he stood so close she could see each dark lash shading his silver eyes. Warmth melted her at the thought of holding his baby; cold nipped her at the knowledge that he’d never marry out of his class. The pain vanished under the force of a revelation. She wanted Nicholas for far more than the physical; she yearned to share tender moments, to make him smile, to understand all the perplexing and powerful feelings he aroused within her.

“I’m willing to take that risk,” she whispered. “Are you?”

His eyes blazed with emotion. He leaned forward, his mouth vulnerable, his expression soft… so soft that her heart pounded with hope and her lips parted in expectation.

Abruptly he jerked back; his first slammed into the soft clay. “God, why can’t you understand? Maybe you care nothing for honor, but I do.”

Disappointment clogged her throat. Swallowing hard, she said, “Honesty is a part of honor. At least I listen to my feelings instead of hiding them inside starched collars and stiff stays.”

He straightened, thrusting a clay smudged hand through his hair and mussing its natural perfection. “An affair with you is impossible,” he said through gritted teeth. “Do you hear me? Impossible! I wish to God it weren’t so —” Uttering a growl of frustration, he spun around and strode from the conservatory.

Her emotions careening between despair and delight, Elizabeth wilted into a chair. Nicholas did desire her… yet his principles overrode his passion. How was she to convince him to act on his feelings?

Determination firmed her spine. At tonight’s ball, she would begin chipping at the marble of his resistance. She would show him that an eccentric artist
could
fit into his world, if she so chose.

Whatever else might happen, Nicholas Ware would not ignore her.

Try as he might, he couldn’t ignore her. As he guided yet another demure debutante around the crowded dance floor, Nicholas had eyes only for Elizabeth. She was waltzing with that damned rake, Lord Buckstone, her head tilted at him in fascination, her face alight with flirtatious charm. She looked ravishingly attractive in a gown of wisteria satin, the decolletage daring yet fashionable. The bodice hugged the curve of her breasts; the color enhanced the unusual hue of her eyes. That opulent mass of black hair had been drawn into a chignon of curls secured by a jeweled comb. Circling her throat was a splendid necklace of Egyptian design, a filigree of silver around a single moonstone. He stared, bemused and proud. Who would have thought a bohemian artist could outshine every noblewoman at the ball?

Her graceful movements gave him the pleasure of viewing the swanlike curve of her neck and the purity of her profile. Leaning forward, Elizabeth spoke to her dance partner. Buckstone threw back his blond head and laughed, then bent closer to reply; she smiled brilliantly. Nicholas gritted his teeth. Widowed and wealthy, Buckstone was a renowned connoisseur of the ladies. He and Nicholas had often vied for the same woman, with Nicholas’s good looks giving him the edge. But he wouldn’t win this time. Because he had too damnably much respect for Elizabeth to engage in a discreet liaison.

“… if you please, my lord.”

The trilling voice pulled his eyes back to his dance partner. Lady Marianne gazed at him expectantly, and he realized she awaited an answer.

“I beg your pardon?” he said, years of discipline keeping the impatience from his voice. “I must have been distracted by the music.”

Marianne batted her lashes. “I said only that you might loosen your fingers a trifle. I promise I shan’t run away from you, Nicholas.”

With effort he relaxed his grip on her hand, but the tension strangling the rest of his body refused to ease. At one time he would have found Marianne a pleasant diversion from the schemes of politics and the monotony of society. She was attractive enough, with that fair hair and pink complexion. But now he found her manner dull compared to the vivacity of Elizabeth Hastings. As the waltz came to a close, he felt a sense of relief at the fulfillment of duty.

Marianne fluttered a black satin fan at her flushed cheeks. “The breeze from the gardens feels wonderful. I vow I’m positively wilting from the heat in here.”

Her coyness irked Nicholas. If she wished him to
invite her out onto the darkened loggia, then why the
devil didn’t she say so? Elizabeth certainly would.

“I’ll fetch you some punch,” he snapped.

Ignoring Marianne’s startled expression, he strode off without her. He brought back the drink, then excused himself at the first possible instant.

Lifting a glass of brandy from the tray carried by a passing footman, Nicholas strolled through the crowd. Guests crammed the elegant town house. The tinkle of feminine laughter and the rumble of masculine voices vied with the sprightly tune played by the orchestra at the far end of the ballroom. With a brief nod he acknowledged the greetings of friends and acquaintances. Tonight he felt too keyed up for idle conversation, too restless for well bred blandishments.

Like a drowning man seeking air, he pursued but one goal. Near the opened French doors, he found her. Elizabeth stood surrounded by a bevy of swains, Cicely at her side. His heart clenched. Unlike him, Elizabeth hadn’t forgotten to keep an eye on his wayward sister. Drew Sterling was nowhere in sight, thank God; most likely he was engaged at one of the gaming tables in the drawing room.

The cool evening breeze fluttered wisps of black hair around Elizabeth’s face. A familiar hot longing squeezed his loins. With serious interest she listened to the fair haired man standing before her, his back to Nicholas. Only when the man turned slightly to speak to Cicely did Nicholas recognize his aesthetic profile.

That damned Buckstone again!

Scowling, Nicholas leaned a shoulder against the nearest pillar, half hidden by a huge fern on a pedestal. He took a burning gulp of brandy. Integrity and duty be damned! He had to be this century’s biggest fool to turn down the chance to share her bed. But for his misbegotten scruples he and Elizabeth might have slipped home early tonight. Right now he could be sliding his hands up the silken length of her legs, seeking the curve of her bare bottom, sinking himself into the snug velvet of her —

Stop it, for Christ’s sake!
His hand gripped the glass so hard his knuckles turned white. Was he so selfish he could steal her innocence, ruin her future, risk getting her with child? Elizabeth deserved the honor of his protection, not the infamy of his misuse.

Besides, if he entertained any doubt that her interest in him was purely superficial, tonight supplied the proof. His rejection hadn’t hurt her. On the contrary, she laughed and flirted as if she hadn’t a care in the world. He had awakened passion in her, nothing more. Or had he? Suddenly remembering her tears, her eyes as brilliant as the petals of a dew drenched pansy, he felt a rush of tenderness and an aching emptiness which he ruthlessly vanquished. Her pride had been bruised, he told himself, and even that seemed to have healed quickly enough.

“So she’s the reason you’ve been so tied in knots lately.”

Nicholas jumped, turning a jaundiced eye on his friend, Charles Garforth, the Marquess of Sedgemoor. For once Nicholas didn’t appreciate Charles’s keen brown eyes, nor his shrewd ability to see straight to the core of a problem.

“To whom are you referring?” Nicholas asked coolly.

“Your resident artist, who else? She must be the reason you’re hiding here, sulking.”

He drained his glass. “Just because I choose to spend a few moments alone hardly means I’m sulking.”

“Mmm,” said Charles, looking unconvinced. Brushing aside the leafy fronds of the fern, he leaned against the green papered wall, his copper hair gleaming in the gaslight. “She’s made quite the impression on everyone tonight. The belle of the ball, so to speak.”

“Really,” Nicholas drawled, his gaze pulled irresistibly to Elizabeth. She smiled dazzlingly as Buckstone whisked her off for another waltz. Glowering, Nicholas lifted the brandy glass to his lips.

Charles laughed. “That’s empty,” he observed, taking the glass and setting it on a footman’s tray. “You’re lovesick but good, old chap. Never thought I’d see the day when you’d fall for a decent woman.”

“Never thought I’d see the day when you’d pry into my private affairs,” Nicholas said.

A grin lit Charles’s boyishly freckled face. “Affairs, Nick? Come, you can tell all to your blood brother. Have you forgotten the pact we made at Eton? No secrets.”

“Back then I didn’t know about matters of the heart.”

“Ah, so you do admit your heart is involved.”

Nicholas’s stomach took a painful plunge. It was true; somehow his affections had gotten all tangled up in his desire for Elizabeth until he could no longer say which tormented him the more, passion or…

No, it was impossible; he could not term what he felt for her “love.” That was a gentler emotion, something poets wrote sonnets about, not this agony twisting inside, this turbulent yearning to absorb her body and soul.

Charles fetched fresh drinks. “You look like you need this… and a friend.”

Somehow Nicholas found himself pouring out the frustrating story, from their first meeting in a dank, dark street to Elizabeth’s relation to the Rockborough clan. He omitted only the invitation into her bed; he had no wish to taint her reputation, not even to his most trusted friend.

“What’s your next move?” Charles asked.

“I can only wait. So far Thisrlewood’s been able to turn up damnably little.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Charles remarked. “A pity the duke and duchess aren’t here tonight. We might have done a bit of sleuthing, observed their reaction to seeing Elizabeth.”

“I know,” Nicholas said, taking a swallow of brandy. “I feel so damned frustrated. How can I protect her when I don’t even know who I’m up against?”

Charles looked thoughtful. “I’ve never seen you so taken with a woman, old chap. You haven’t been thinking of marriage, have you?”

“Marriage?” The notion stunned Nicholas, swept him into fantasy. To lie beside her each night, to have the right to possess her beautiful body —

‘For God’s sake, be sure of yourself,” Charles urged. “You’d be throwing her to the wolves. Society might accept an artist as a novelty, but they’ll turn on her if she weds one of their own.”

“Don’t worry.” Nicholas laughed to cover a stab of pain. “Elizabeth Hastings is interested only in art. She views me as a model, not a man.”

“Quite the novel predicament for you. A lady who chooses to pursue art instead of England’s most sought after bachelor.” Charles’s gaze drifted to the crowd of dancers. “If it’s any consolation, Nick, you haven’t the patent on unrequited love.”

Nicholas didn’t need to look to know the focus of that moody gaze. “For God’s sake,” he said in an amiably chastising tone, “if you’d just relax enough around my sister to carry on a decent conversation, she might see you in a different light.”

“I know, it defies all logic. I tell myself that, but…” Charles shrugged, his expression like that of an anxious youth. “Then I take one look at her lovely face and clam up.”

“I’ve precisely the opposite problem with Elizabeth. Whenever I’m with her all I seem to do is rant and rave.”

Charles wore a crooked grin. “Women bring out the worst in a man. So why the devil do we need them so much?”

Nicholas chuckled. “Let me know if your logical brain ever deduces the answer to that.”

Charles frowned suddenly, his eyes narrowing as he peered through the press of people. “I say, isn’t that Drew Sterling speaking to Cicely? Phoebe must have put his name on the invitation list —
I
certainly wouldn’t have.” He cast an indignant look at Nicholas. “Since when do you allow that flounder near your sister?”

“Unfortunately he gained an introduction when he came to tea with the duke and duchess.” Nicholas decided a dash of jealousy mightn’t hurt Charles. “Cicely seems quite taken with Sterling… and you know her,” he said, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. “It’s damned difficult to keep her from going after what she wants.”

“She can’t possibly want that reprobate. All he cares about is squandering an inheritance he hasn’t yet received. He’s probably after her marriage portion.”

“Most probably,” Nicholas agreed, sipping his brandy, and relishing his friend’s quandary.

Then he caught sight of Elizabeth gliding off the dance floor, her arm entwined with Buckstone’s, her face flushed and shining. His amusement went sour. That acquaintance had gone on long enough. Turning, he set his brandy glass in the fern pot for want of a better place.

“Oh, there you are, Nicholas!”

Resplendent in a gown of sumptuous saffron taffeta, Lady Beatrice swooped toward them like a ship at full sail. She nodded briskly to Charles then focused a frown at her nephew.

“Have you seen the spectacle our houseguest is making?” she hissed. “Imagine! After all my careful instructions, she’s had the gaucherie to dance with the same man three times. And with Lord Buckstone, no less! People are beginning to talk.”