Wicked Promise (13 page)

Elizabeth watched him go, feeling as if her heart were being

squeezed into a painful ball. He wanted her. Just as she had wanted him. But in truth, she now knew, what she felt for him was far more than desire. Like Miriam Beechcroft and a dozen other women, she had fallen beneath the spell of the Wicked Earl.

Elizabeth rose wearily from the bench. She still felt shaky and numb, and images of Nicholas with the redhead burned before her eyes. She had known what he was like and yet she had believed him somehow different.

She was a far bigger fool than Nicholas Warring.

N
ick nudged his black Arabian stallion into a gallop, heading home from a day in the fields. It was nearly dark, the moon edging up, yet for him the day wasn't finished. Once he reached the house, there were hours of paperwork he still meant to do.

The horse crested a rise and Nick glanced ahead, saw the lights of the huge stone house like yellow beacons in the distance. He'd been pushing himself all week, working from dawn till dark, till every muscle ached and he felt nearly ready to drop.

It didn't seem to matter. Not even the hours of backbreaking labor could erase the image of Elizabeth's stricken face as she stood at the door of the Pink Room, staring at the debauched spectacle going on inside.

That she had seen him with the whore made him feel like the lowest sort, a man like St. George or Richard Turner- Wilcox. Though his reputation branded him a rogue, Nick had always considered himself above that kind of behavior. It was all right for them, he rationalized, but not for him. In the beginning, when he had first returned to England and discovered what an outcast he truly was, he had simply taken up the role they had cast him in, the part of the Wicked Earl. He had done it to thumb his nose at the society that had so thoroughly abandoned him.

Since Elizabeth had come—perhaps because she had come—he'd been determined to continue in that same vein.

But he had never meant for things to go so far.

Her image reappeared as he galloped across the green rolling hills, her pretty face damp with tears. Two days before, he had been kissing her soft sweet mouth, holding her slender body against him. His actions with the redhead felt like a betrayal of the very worst kind and in a way perhaps it was.

Elizabeth was an innocent. He had trod on that innocence and destroyed her illusions. She saw him now as the kind of man he had almost become.

Almost, he thought, but not quite.

In that narrow flash of time, that instant when he had seen her standing there in the doorway, something had snapped inside him. For months now, he had been restless, bored by the life he had been leading, finding it more and more distasteful. He was tired of the role he played, tired of the company he had been keeping. In a single instant, with a shot of clarity as bright as a shooting star, he had known it was time for his life to change.

In that vein, he had already taken steps to set things right. St. George and his entourage had been escorted from the house and subtly warned not to return. Others of a similar ilk would receive the same message.

As for Elizabeth, it wasn't right what she had suffered because of him, but perhaps it had happened for the best. Elizabeth knew nothing of the desire that ate into his loins whenever he looked at her. She didn't understand the lust he had been trying to hold at bay. She hated him now and she would stay away from him. What had happened would actually protect her.

The thought settled over him like a shroud, a cloak of bitter loneliness over a long and lonely day.

Elizabeth spent the next few days working in the conservatory. She'd said nothing of the scene in the Pink Drawing Room, nor did she intend to. If her aunt wondered why it was that she had been so quiet, why her appetite had waned to meager portions, the older woman could speculate as she wished. In the meantime, Elizabeth busied herself alongside Barnaby Engles, transplanting anemones, pansies, and tulips from the garden outside simply to give the glass-ceilinged room a little color—and Elizabeth something to do.

In the evenings, she took special care not to go anywhere she might encounter the earl. The thought of seeing him, of hearing his voice, made a painful ache rise in her chest.

As he had promised, his friends had left the house the following day and since then the place had seemed strangely empty. Word had been sent that she and her aunt were free to enjoy the house as they wished, that from now on supper would be served to them in the dining room.

Elizabeth had pled the headache that first night and her aunt had dined downstairs alone, but the earl made no appearance. Apparently he was working late in the fields and had not returned until the household had fallen asleep. The next night was the same. On the third night, stifled by the walls of her room, Elizabeth took courage and headed downstairs. Cook had prepared a delicious meal of succulent roast quail and venison pasties, but again, thankfully, there was no sign of the earl.

Elizabeth began to wonder about him, as she did now, working over a bed of fresh earth, her hands immersed to the wrists in rich black soil. He was avoiding her as she avoided him. That he had a conscience at all seemed a positive sign, and it made Elizabeth question whether the pain she had read on his face that night might actually have been real.

It made her wonder if he might have meant what he had said and was well and truly sorry.

Nicholas sat hunched over his desk, penning a letter to Sydney Birdsall. It was the fourth draft he had written. The other three sheets of foolscap were wadded up and tossed into the waste bin.

Dear Sydney,

As you and I discussed at our last meeting, the London Season is about to begin. In accordance, it would seem the time is at hand to begin preparations for Elizabeth's introduction into Society and subsequent search for a husband.

Having come to know her over the past few weeks, I have discovered that besides being quite lovely, she is a charming, intelligent young woman with a good deal to offer a mate. I believe finding candidates for her hand will not be a difficult task. However, choosing one suitable for a woman such as Elizabeth may be difficult, indeed. I look forward to a report on your progress in this matter, as well as a suggested date for Elizabeth's departure to London.

With most sincere regards, your friend, 

Nicholas Warring, Earl of Ravenworth

It would have to do, Nick thought, surveying the letter again, though he still wasn't completely satisfied. He was hoping Sydney would read between the lines and choose very carefully the men he would approach regarding Elizabeth's marriage. It would have to be done. With Bascomb so ferociously determined to have her, there wasn't time to wait for the natural course of events. And Nick wasn't about to leave Elizabeth's happiness in the hands of fate.

He reached for the sand shaker and dusted it over the page, waited for the ink to dry, then folded the letter and sealed it with a drop of wax. He would send it today—the sooner the better. Perhaps once she was gone, he would be able to forget her.

God knew nothing else he had tried had had the least effect.

Elizabeth sat on a polished walnut pew of the small stone chapel at Ravenworth Hall. A glowing stained-glass panel, a scene from the Crucifixion, bathed the chapel in shades of sapphire, rose, and gold. A carved wooden altar covered by a length of embroidered linen stood beneath the window, an aging gold-leafed Bible sitting open on the top.

Elizabeth had been coming to the chapel off and on since her arrival at Ravenworth Hall. At first the place was dusty, the linen cloth yellowed from so little use. Considering the wicked nature of the chapel's owner, Elizabeth had not been surprised. The second week, however, she had found the place clean and polished to a shine, the earl having anticipated her need, since she would not be traveling to the church in Sevenoaks.

The gesture had been mildly surprising, but the real surprise came with the discovery that the chapel was no longer in use because the earl had donated money for the construction of a new church in the village. His servants attended service there as did his tenants and the people in surrounding homes and farms as far away as Tonbridge. It pleased her to think that Nicholas had done such a thing, that the Wicked Earl might yet be redeemed, though she continued to have her doubts.

Elizabeth ran a hand over the empty pew in front of her, enjoying the feel of the polished wood. From the moment she had first walked through the door, she had found the quiet charm of the little chapel comforting. She sat there now, thinking about the earl, missing his dark presence in a way she hadn't expected, a way that made a soft ache throb next to her heart.

She hadn't seen him since the night she had found him with the woman. Since then, he'd been gone from the house every day until late into the evening. Mercy had been clucking worriedly, wringing her hands because the earl was driving himself to exhaustion.

" 'E just keeps on workin' night and day. 'E's been actin' strange all week. 'E sent them leeches 'e calls friends a-packin'—and good riddance to the lot of 'em—but now 'e seems bent on workin' 'imself to death."

Elizabeth had felt strangely guilty. She knew he was punishing himself for what had happened. He had sent his so- called friends away. Theo Swann had told her that others of his acquaintance had received the same subtle message. Even Miriam Beechcroft had been barred from the door.

Her guilt slid away on a warm thread of hope. True, Nicholas Warring had hurt her, but he had never meant to, and it seemed he was doing his best to make things right. He had made a mistake, but no one was perfect. And whatever he had done, she couldn't stand to see him suffer. After seven years in prison, he had suffered more than enough.

Clasping her hands, Elizabeth bent her head and whispered a silent prayer for guidance. She cared for Nicholas Warring, no matter what sins he had committed, and for some inexplicable reason, she still had faith in him. She told that to God, and in the soft light of the church the answer to her prayers settled deeply inside her.

Elizabeth smiled for the first time since her fateful journey to the Pink Room and headed back to the house.

It was almost midnight when Elizabeth knocked on the door to Nicholas's study. She found him sitting behind his desk, his dark head bent over a stack of ledgers. He bade her come in, and when he glanced up, Elizabeth was shaken by the lines of fatigue etched into his forehead, the dark purple smudges beneath his silver-blue eyes.

"Elizabeth . . ." His chair scraped against the wooden floor as he came to his feet. "I am surprised to see you. It is late. I thought you would be sleeping."

"I've been waiting for you. I was hoping we might speak."

Tension seemed to ripple through his tall, lean frame. A muscle tightened in his cheek. "Sit down, then," he said formally, retaking his seat. "What is it that you need?"

Elizabeth smoothed the skirt of her mauve silk gown, fighting the sudden swell of nerves in her stomach. "There is nothing I need. That is not the reason I came here. I am worried about you, my lord."

The pen in his hand pressed hard on the page, forming a dark blue stain on the paper. "Worried? Why on earth would you be worried about me?"

"You are working too hard and I am told you are not sleeping. Cook says you are not eating very well. I have come to make certain that from now on you take better care of yourself."

He stuck the pen back in the inkwell, but ignored the wet spot on the page. "Why? Why should you care what I do?"

Elizabeth looked into his eyes and saw what could only be described as despair. It made a painful knot tighten beneath her ribs. "It would seem to me, my lord, that as your ward it should be my duty to look after you, just as you have been looking after me."

The lines around his mouth went thin, making his features seem hard. "I have done a very poor job of it, Elizabeth, as both of us well know."

"You are new to such a position. You are bound to make an occasional mistake."

His troubled eyes searched her face. "It was more than a mistake. My behavior was unforgivable."

Elizabeth smiled. "Nothing is unforgivable, my lord. Not if the person is truly sorry."

Something shifted in his features. His gaze searched her face. "Are you trying to tell me you have decided to accept my apology?"

"Yes, my lord. I believe it was sincere, that it came from the heart."

His expression changed once more, the uncertainty fading, his features lighting with relief. "As indeed it did."

"Then the matter is behind us. I shall return upstairs to my room and trust that you will rest this night. And perhaps, my lord, you will make time for something to eat."

Something warm sparked in his eyes. A faint smile curved his lips. "You called me Nicholas once. I found I rather liked it. Do you think perhaps we might go on in that vein from now on?"

Elizabeth smiled. "Yes, I believe we could. Good night, then . . . Nicholas. Perhaps I will see you at breakfast on the morrow?"

"I shall make a point of it. Good night, Elizabeth. Thank you for coming."

She left him sitting at the desk, but she could feel his eyes on her all the way to the door. They warmed her insides and she believed that she had done the right thing.

Only time would tell, of course.

Elizabeth ignored the voice that warned if she were wrong, she would suffer far worse than she had already.

Nick strode the wide stone path that led from the stable to the garden. Three days had passed since Elizabeth had come to him in his study and, during that time, an easy camaraderie had begun to grow between them. He knew it was dangerous to spend time with her, but he enjoyed her company far more than he had imagined, and he deserved a little happiness, he told himself, just like everyone else.