His mouth moved to her ear, and he spoke in a seductive whisper. “Too late. Even now the servants are watching us. It won’t be long before every household in London knows we’re lovers. Avery will learn of us, whether you are seen or not.”
The color drained from her face. She hadn’t considered that. Servants were the worst gossips. “I would think a man with a secret life such as yours would have discreet servants in his employ.”
“I do. However, this is one bit of news I suggested they spread.”
“Are you mad?” Then her eyes widened. “Is this about the wager?”
Marcus sighed. “You wound me. Losing is odious, love, but I would never use you in such a callous manner.”
“Lose?” she cried, her mouth agape. “You didn’t!”
“I did.” He shrugged with nonchalance. “How foolish to avoid a bet in which the outcome is decided by my own actions.”
She frowned. “Which way did you lean?”
His grin was blinding and made her heart skip a beat. “As if I’d tell you.”
His hand at her elbow, Marcus escorted her through the rear garden and out a side gate that led to the stables beyond. He looked on grimly as she mounted her horse. The two armed outriders waited a discreet distance up the mews.
He sketched a quick bow. “Until this evening.”
The burning between her shoulder blades told her he watched her until she rounded the corner and blended into the street beyond. The ache in her chest made breathing difficult and she knew it would only get worse the more time she spent with him.
And she knew what must be done about it.
Chapter 7
“Why does it smell like a perfumery in here?” William grumbled as he walked the upstairs hallway of the Chesterfield mansion with Margaret.
“The scent comes from Elizabeth’s rooms.”
He glanced at her with a frown and saw her eyes shining in mischievous anticipation.
He paused at the open doorway of his sister’s sitting room and blinked rapidly. “It looks like a damned florist shop!”
“Isn’t it sweet?” Margaret laughed, her fiery hair swaying softly with the movement.
William could not resist touching one of the swinging curls. His sweet, wonderful wife. Those who did not know her well thought her a rare redhead of even temperament. Only he knew how she saved the wild, passionate side of her nature just for him. As desire tightened his loins, he sucked in a breath, and was assaulted with the overpowering smell of flowers.
“Romantic?” he barked. Entering the room he dragged Margaret behind him. Riotous bouquets of expensive, richly scented floral arrangements covered every flat surface in the room. “Westfield,” he growled. “I’ll kill him.”
“Calm yourself, William,” she soothed.
He surveyed the scene grimly. “How long has this been going on?”
“Since the Moreland ball.” Margaret sighed, the soft sound making him scowl. “And Lord Westfield is so handsome.”
“You are a hopeless romantic,” he grumbled, choosing to ignore her last comment.
Stepping closer, she wrapped her arms around his lean waist. “I have a right to be.”
“How so?”
“I have found true love, so I know it exists.” She stood on tiptoe, brushing her lips across his. William immediately increased the pressure, kissing her until she was breathless.
“Westfield is a scoundrel, love,” he warned. “I wish you would believe me.”
“I believe you. He reminds me of you.”
He pulled back with a grunt. “And you would want that for Elizabeth?”
Margaret laughed. “You are not so wicked as all that.”
“Because you have reformed me.” He nuzzled against her.
“Elizabeth is a stronger woman than I. She could easily bring Lord Westfield to heel, if she were of the mind to do so. Allow her to handle him.”
William backed out of the room, pulling her with him. “I have duly noted your opinion.”
She attempted to dig in her heels, but he lifted her easily and turned in the direction of their bedchamber.
“You don’t intend to listen to me, do you?”
He grinned. “No, I don’t. I will handle Westfield and you will cease talking about it.” He kissed her soundly as they reached their room. It was only by a twist of fate that he turned his head at that moment and saw Elizabeth reach the top of the stairs. He frowned, and lowered Margaret to her feet. She gave a soft murmur of protest.
“Give me a moment, sweet.” He started off down the hall.
“You’re meddling,” she called after him.
Something was wrong with Elizabeth. That was obvious even from a distance. Flushed and mussed, she looked feverish. His stomach clenched as he neared her. The color of her cheeks deepened upon seeing him, and she looked for a moment just as their mother had before she died, burning with fever. The brief flash of remembered pain quickened his steps.
“Are you unwell?” he asked, placing a hand to her forehead.
Her eyes widened, and then she shook her head quickly.
“You look ill.”
“I’m fine.” Her voice was low and huskier than usual.
“I will send for the doctor.”
“That’s not necessary,” she protested, her spine straightening.
William opened his mouth to speak.
“A nap, William. It’s all I need. I swear it.” She sighed and placed her hand on his arm, her violet eyes softening. “You worry too much.”
“I always will.” He placed his hand over hers, and then turned to escort her to her room. Since their mother had passed on and their father withdrew emotionally, Elizabeth had been all he’d had for most of his life. She’d been his only emotional connection during the time before Margaret when he’d been determined never to fall in love and risk the same misery as their father.
As they neared her room, his nose reminded him of the organic eruption that awaited them. “Why didn’t you tell me Westfield was harassing you? I would have dealt with him.”
“No!”
Her abrupt cry gave him pause, the fierce protectiveness he’d always felt for her rearing up in suspicion. “Tell me you are not encouraging him.”
Elizabeth cleared her throat. “Haven’t we had this discussion before?”
Closing his eyes, William released a deep breath and prayed for patience. “If you assure me that you will come to me for assistance if you have a need, I will refrain from asking you questions you don’t want to answer.” He opened his eyes
and looked down at her, frowning at the sight of the high color of her skin and glazed eyes. She didn’t look well at all. And her hair was disheveled. The last time her hair had looked like that . . .
“Have you gone racing again?” he barked. “Did you take a groom with you? Good God, what if you were thrown—”
“William.” Elizabeth laughed. “Go see to Margaret. I’m tired. If you insist on interrogating me, you can do so once I’ve rested.”
“I am not interrogating you. I just know you well. You are stubborn to a fault and refuse to listen to good sense.”
“Says the man who worked for Lord Eldridge.”
William released a frustrated breath, recognizing from her sudden rigid tone that she was finished talking. All well and good. He intended to manage Marcus on his own terms anyway. “Very well. Find me later.” He bent and kissed her forehead. “If you still look flushed when you wake, I’m sending for the doctor.”
“Yes, yes.” Elizabeth shooed him away.
William went, but his concern would not be dismissed so easily, and they both knew it.
Elizabeth waited in the hallway just outside the office of Lord Nicholas Eldridge, pleased with herself for having snuck out of the house while William was occupied. Because she arrived unannounced, she anticipated cooling her heels. To his credit, Eldridge did not keep her waiting long.
“Lady Hawthorne,” he greeted her in what she imagined to be a customarily distracted manner. Rounding the desk, he gestured to her to have a seat. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” Though the words were polite, the tone held an undercurrent of impatience. He resumed his seat and arched a brow.
She’d forgotten how austere he was, how serious. Yet despite the drabness of his attire and the gray of his wig, his presence was arresting. He bore the weight of his power with consummate ease.
“I apologize, Lord Eldridge, for the importunate nature of my visit. I’ve come to offer you a trade.”