Silver Splendor (31 page)

“You’ll have to trust me.”

She touched the bruise on his jaw. “But you just stood there and let Owen strike you. You felt guilty for compromising me.”

“I deserved Owen’s anger, because I should have married you before I took you to bed. He acted as any good father would.”

Regret stirred in her; she thrust it away, promising herself she would think about Owen later. Uncertainly she gazed at Nicholas. “I want to believe you… .”

“And I want you for my wife, Elizabeth. I won’t settle for less, ever again.”

She caught her breath. “Are you saying we won’t sleep together again unless I agree to your proposal?”

His eyes went dark with determination. “Precisely.”

“That’s unfair. You’re manipulating me.”

“I can’t be fair when it comes to you.” He molded her to his long body, his lips feathering her cheek. “Do you truly want to give up what we shared last night?”

His silvery eyes mesmerized her. Half dazed by his nearness, she shook her head.

His hand curved around her breast. “Neither do I.”

Through the layers of bodice and chemise she felt the sweep of his thumb over the fullness of her flesh. Her nipple leapt to life; her body responded like pliant clay in the hands of a skillful sculptor.

“Was I too rough last night?” he murmured.

“No… no, of course not.” Unable to resist, she slid her fingers over his shirt front, delving inside his dark blue morning coat. “You were tender, wonderful.”

“Then you enjoyed making love with me?”

The moans of fulfillment echoed in her memory. Closing her eyes, she rested her spinning head on the firm edge of his shoulder. “You know I did.”

His mouth kissed a path to the soft skin of her ear. “Have you ever felt that way with any other man?”

“Never,” she whispered.

“And I’ve never needed a woman the way I need you. Feel how much I want you.”

He guided her fingers to his groin; through the tightened fabric of his trousers, he was long and hard and hot. A sigh shuddered from her as she ran her fingers lightly over the bulge, rediscovering the shape of his arousal. He groaned, and she gloried in the sound of his pleasure. His body was so exciting, so male. Desire drizzled through her veins like heated honey. She put her mouth to his throat, breathing in his scent, tasting the tang of his skin.

His hand shifted to her thigh, kneading her soft flesh just tantalizing inches from the place between her legs. “Don’t you want to feel me moving inside you again?” he said huskily.

“Yes,” she moaned. “Yes, yes, yes.”

“Then say you’ll marry me, Elizabeth. Say yes, and we’ll spend the rest of our lives making love. We’ll raise a family, share our joys, all our hopes and dreams.”

She lost herself in the fantasy spun by his words; then all rational thought vanished like a wisp of smoke as his fingers pressed against her mound. Despite the barrier of petticoats and skirts, his touch ignited fire. Restless and aching, she angled to him, lifting a knee onto his thigh.

“What’s your answer?” he muttered hoarsely.

Her hips arched toward his questing fingers. “I can’t think when you do that.”

“Don’t think. Just say yes.”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes.”

His mouth came down hard on hers. He kissed her possessively, passionately. She parted her lips to the sensual sweep of his tongue. Her arms slipped around his lean waist, caressing the rippling muscles of his back, reaching up to stroke the strong column of his throat.

“I knew I could convince you,” he murmured against her mouth. “I’ll secure the special license straightaway.”

She opened her eyes to his triumphant smile. “Special — ?” she said, collecting her scattered senses. “What are you talking about?”

“My dearest love, you’ve just agreed to become my wife.”

The carriage swayed as it turned a corner. She clung to his waist for support. “I did?”

His eyes gleamed. “Yes, and I’m afraid there’s no getting out of it. You gave your word of honor.”

Elizabeth felt dazed, unable to think, swept along on a rising tide. “A promise extracted under duress.”

“Then I shall have to make the arrangements swiftly, before you can change your mind.” His thumbs circled gently over her temples. “We can even be married this afternoon.”

His expression was tender yet taut, as if he expected her to protest. An unfathomable place inside her glowed at the knowledge of his love. She searched her heart for doubts and found only a deep, abiding warmth. Nicholas was her anchor in the confusing currents, her armature on which to build a new life.

“Yes,” she said softly, brushing her cheek against his smoothly shaven face. “I’d like that very much.”

Was he wrong to press Elizabeth into marriage so quickly?

Frowning at the sun washed rose garden, Nicholas leaned a shoulder against the window frame. Behind him, dishes clinked as a footman discreetly cleared the dining table. He hadn’t seen Elizabeth since midmorning, when he’d left to procure the license from the bishop. The women had taken their luncheon upstairs, Cicely agog with excitement, Aunt Beatrice in a flurry of preparations. He’d used considerable tact and judicious flattery to smooth his aunt’s ruffled feathers. Despite his assurance to the contrary, he knew she believed pregnancy to be the catalyst for the hasty nuptials. One day his aunt would accept Elizabeth, he told himself. Already he’d seen dislike change to grudging admiration that was fast becoming real affection.

Fierce joy blazed in his heart, a joy tempered by disquiet. Should he have granted Elizabeth a lengthy betrothal and a grandiose wedding?

No, she was not a woman to care for social frivolities. And he dared not wait. It might be damned selfish, but he must move now, before she decided she couldn’t fit both him and art into her life.

Intending to clear his desk of business matters, he strode into the corridor and headed for the staircase. After today he wanted nothing to distract him from settling the mystery in Yorkshire… and nothing to interfere with the loving he intended to shower on his wife. In the entrance hall a team of housemaids busily polished the brasswork and scrubbed the acre of white marble floor. Dobson stood at the opened front door and accepted a calling card from a man. A man with fair hair and aesthetic features.

Peter Tate, the Viscount Buckstone.

Nicholas felt every muscle in his body tense. Pivoting sharply, he strode to the door. “Buckstone,” he said, acknowledging the viscount with a curt nod. “Might I be of assistance? It’s rather early to be out making calls.”

Buckstone brushed a white gloved hand over his Nile green morning coat.
Like a preening peacock,
Nicholas thought in disgust.

“My business is with Miss Hastings.
She
doesn’t keep conventional hours.”

“I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time,” Nicholas said, savoring his news. “Elizabeth is too busy to bother with you today.”

“Indeed?” Buckstone drawled. “I think she’ll spare a moment to hear me out. It’s about the commission.”

A cold knot formed inside Nicholas. Looking into Buckstone’s triumphant eyes, he knew the viscount held the bait that could entice Elizabeth from marriage. Never before had Nicholas contemplated underhanded action to win a woman from a rival; he had always shrugged and left the choice to the lady.

Until now.

“Come along,” he said abruptly.

Turning, he strode into the drawing room. He drew sour satisfaction from forcing Buckstone to trail behind like a faithful hound. Carefully Nicholas closed the double doors. Inside, a pair of gardeners filled vases with great bunches of roses, no doubt acting on Lady Beatrice’s efficient orders. Spying the earl, the men tipped their caps and scuttled outside.

“Holding a soiree this evening?” the viscount asked, eyeing a basket of fragrant blooms.

“A wedding reception.”

Buckstone’s thin features drew into a frown. “I say, did I hear you correctly? Someone is getting married?”

“Yes. I am.”

“You?” the viscount scoffed. “I’ve seen no banns published. Who is the bride?”

“Elizabeth.”

Buckstone’s mouth sagged open. His hands froze in the act of peeling off his pristine gloves. His eyes widened until they bugged out like a frog’s.

“So you see,” Nicholas continued in grim delight, “you truly are wasting your time.”

“I don’t believe it,” the viscount sputtered. “You, marrying a common American artist? No, you must be bluffing. You want to keep her to yourself, as your mistress.”

Anger surged in Nicholas. “She’s too fine a lady to fill the role of mistress.”

“You’ve dishonored her, then, gotten her with child. That can be the only reason for such undue haste.”

The grain of truth in the wild accusation brought a flash of guilt, guilt that made Nicholas want to smash his fist into Buckstone’s pale face.

“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that,” Nicholas snapped. “You will not voice a single, damning word to anyone about Elizabeth’s character. If I hear you have…” His voice trailed off menacingly.

“But people will talk —”

“You won’t. And you’ll not be courting my bride’s favor today, nor ever again.”

“But I’m awarding her the commission for my father’s memorial. We’ll be working together for months in Ireland.”

Nicholas’s blood chilled. If presented with the choice between the appointment and their marriage, which would Elizabeth select? Willing his fingers not to shake, he picked up a long stemmed pink rose and casually examined it.

“Perhaps I should make myself more clear,” he said icily. “On her behalf, I am refusing your commission.”

“You can’t do that —”

“Can’t I?” he returned softly. “Elizabeth has accepted me as her intended husband, which affords me the right to speak for her.”

Buckstone stiffened. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Scowling, he yanked his gloves back on. “She knows nothing of being a countess. She’ll grow bored within the year.”

The possibility paralyzed Nicholas. Was he wrong to cage her free spirit? “I’ll take my chances.”

“You can’t stifle her yearning to be an artist. You’ll lose her if you try. And when that happens, I’ll be there to put the first bit of clay into her lovely hands.” Pivoting, the viscount marched jerkily toward the door.

Nicholas subdued a surge of violence. “In case you’re still planning to approach her, Elizabeth and I are leaving in the morning for an extended honeymoon trip. By the time we return, I doubt she’ll even recall your name.”

Only the faintest pause in Buckstone’s stride signaled that he’d heard. He banged open the polished oak panel and stalked out, his angry footsteps clicking on the marble floor. Going to the doorway, Nicholas glanced around the entrance hall. He had to make certain Elizabeth was nowhere in sight. One of the maids darted him a curious look as she industriously polished the banister.

Guilt ripped through him as the slamming door echoed through the vast room. If Elizabeth learned what he’d done…

A thorn pricked his thumb. Glancing down, he saw a bead of blood on his skin. Nothing remained on the bloomstalk; shredded pink petals scattered the crimson Turkish rug.

He flung the stem into a cloisonne vase. There would be other commissions, commissions that would not tear Elizabeth from home. Commissions that would allow her to sculpt during the day and lie in his arms at night.

He would make her happy, Nicholas vowed. So deliriously happy he need never again fear losing her.

“This is preposterous,” Lady Beatrice muttered under her breath, as she adjusted a pin cinching Elizabeth’s waist. “A ridiculous state of affairs.”

“Oh, pooh,
I
think it’s splendid!” Hugging a frothy aqua ball gown like an imaginary dance partner, Cicely whirled around, her chestnut hair flying. “Elizabeth is going to be my sister. What fun we shall have!”

“Such indecent haste.” Beatrice sniffed. “I don’t understand what’s come over my nephew.”

Her disapproval made Elizabeth’s heart throb in dismay. She could scarcely believe that in a few short hours she would marry Nicholas. Staring at her reflection in the cheval glass, she saw happiness and apprehension mirrored in her huge violet eyes. Could she adjust to being the wife of an English earl? Was she committing a colossal mistake by plunging into this marriage? For an instant Elizabeth wished fervently that she were in the conservatory, immersed in the familiar joy of sculpting instead of being the object of so much fussing, instead of standing on the threshold of a new life. Was all this pomp and circumstance a glimpse of the future?

Then she thought of Nicholas, his warm loving smile and his long powerful body, and knew that no fear was strong enough to sway her decision.

For all her opposition, Lady Beatrice had taken charge of the preparations like an admiral directing a fleet. Already the cook had come in to check the menu and the housekeeper to verify the guest list. Several maids, along with Miss Eversham and Cicely, scurried in and out of the dressing room, readying every detail of Elizabeth’s toilette, shoes and stockings, petticoats and kid gloves. At present the troupe of women was engaged in altering one of Lady Beatrice’s own evening gowns for Elizabeth, since she possessed nothing suitable.