Ask for It (Georgian 1)

Stepping closer, Marcus didn’t stop until he had her pressed against the wall, his thigh between hers, his hand curling around her nape. Burying his face in her neck, he breathed in her fragrance of warm, aroused woman.

She trembled in his arms. “Marcus . . .”

“You could have said anything else and I might have believed you. But to say you don’t want me is so blatant a lie, I cannot credit it.” He tilted his head and brought his lips to hers.

“No,” she said, turning her head. “A physical response means nothing, as you well know.”

Licking her lips, Marcus waged a battle of seduction, attempting to penetrate the defenses she’d erected against him. “Nothing?” he breathed.

She opened her mouth to retort and his tongue slipped inside, thrusting slow and deep, drinking in the taste of her. A moan escaped her. Then another.

His hand held her head still when she tried to pull away, his other wrapped around her hip, molding her into the heat of his erection. Marcus groaned, his body aching for her, his insides twisting as her hands remained at her sides, rejecting him silently even as her body responded helplessly to his touch. With a curse, he pulled away.

He didn’t want her like this, bent to his will against her own. He wanted her warm and willing, as eager for him as he was for her.

“As you wish, Elizabeth,” he said coldly, his gaze hard. He reached for his greatcoat, which hung on the rack beside the mirror. “You will crave me soon enough. When you do, come to me. Perhaps I’ll still be available for your pleasure.”

When she flinched and looked away, Marcus hardened his heart. He was hurting, a new and vastly unwelcome turn of events.

He left with a slam of the door, vaulting onto the back of his horse in his haste to leave. With a curt movement of his hand, he ordered the guards watching the guesthouse to remain behind.

As he rode away, his thoughts stayed with Elizabeth. Finding her on the balcony with St. John had nearly brought him to his knees. She had stood so bravely, with her spine straight and proud. She was no fool; he’d warned her of the danger, but she would not be cowed.

Damn her! Was there no way to rattle her? The still surface of her deportment was deceptive. The depths of her nature roiled with currents he longed to explore, yet he could never reach them.

She was tortured, he knew, and yet it was he who trolled the streets of London while she lay safe in Chesterfield Hall. It was he who suffered, and he had only himself to blame.

Why was it whenever she should be reaching for comfort, like tonight, she chose instead to turn away? Mere hours ago, she had been warm and passionate, her body arching beneath his, her thighs spread to welcome the thrusts of his cock. He could still hear the sound of his name on her lips and feel the bite of her nails in the flesh of his back. She’d been on fire, burning with passion. Over this last week together, he could have sworn the intimacy he felt with her went both ways. He refused to believe he was mistaken.

Feeling the chill of the late night air, he forced his mind away from thoughts of Elizabeth to catch his bearings. Dazed, he was startled to see the front of Chesterfield Hall. Unconsciously, he had returned, driven by a part of him that was screaming to be recognized.

He ignored it.

Drawing to a halt before the now darkened guesthouse, Marcus glancing around, spotting the mounts of the guards tied nearby. They were either patrolling on foot or had followed her to the manse. He faced the guesthouse and wondered if the door remained unlocked, if Elizabeth’s wonderful scent of vanilla and roses still lingered in the foyer. He dismounted and tested the knob, which turned easily. Entering, he closed his eyes to sharpen his sense of smell and inhaled deeply.

Ah, there it was—the faint alluring smell of Elizabeth. Slowly, he followed it, his eyes closed and stinging, his memory of the place guiding him through the darkness.

As he wandered silently through the house, Marcus allowed his mind to wander, replaying bits and pieces of their stolen moments together. He remembered her laughter, the throaty sound of her voice, the silken touch of her skin . . .

He paused, listening.

No, he was not mistaken. He heard the muffled sounds of crying. Tense, he walked cautiously toward the bedroom. With eyes now open, he could see the faint light of a fire dancing through the gap under the door. He turned the knob and stepped into the room. Elizabeth was there, seated in front of the grate. In much the same state as he was.

She was right—it was time to end the affair. He’d been a fool to press for one to begin with.

They were not meant to be lovers.

He couldn’t think, could barely function, his work suffered along with his sleep. It was no way to carry on.

“Elizabeth,” he called softly.

Her eyes flew open, and she brushed furiously at the wetness on her cheeks.

His heart softened. The crack in her shell was open wide and he could see the woman she hid so well, fragile and very much alone. He longed to go to her and offer the comfort she so obviously needed, but he knew her too well. She would have to come to him. Any overture on his part would only force her to flee. And he didn’t want that. In fact, he couldn’t bear the thought. He wanted to hold her, care for her. He wanted to be what she needed, if only just this once.

Saying nothing more, Marcus removed his clothing, his movements deliberately casual. He threw aside the counterpane and slipped into the bed. Then he watched her, waiting. As she did every night, she gathered his garments and folded them neatly. She was biding her time, collecting herself, and his chest tightened with his understanding.

When she came to him and presented her back, he said nothing, simply loosened her dress in response to her silent command. His cock twitched and then hardened as she shrugged out of it, revealing her body naked, as always, beneath. Sliding over, he allowed her the room to slip into the bed next to him, into his arms. Marcus tucked her against his chest and gazed at the gilt-framed landscape that hung above the mantel.

This is contentment, he thought.

Her face pressed against his chest, Elizabeth whispered, “It must end.”

Marcus caressed the length of her spine with long soothing motions. “I know.”

And as simple as that, their affair was over.

Marcus entered Lord Eldridge’s offices a little past noon. Sinking into the worn leather chair in front of the desk, he waited for Eldridge to acknowledge him.

“Westfield.”

“Lady Hawthorne was approached by St. John at the Marks-Darby ball last night,” he said without preamble.

Gray eyes shot up to his. “Is she well?”

Marcus shrugged, his fingertips rubbing across the brass tacks along the arms. “By all outward appearances.” Other than that he couldn’t say. He’d been unable to coerce her into speaking about the subject. Despite his most passionate persuasion, she’d said not another word to him the rest of the night. “He knew of the book and the meeting in the park.”

Eldridge pushed away from the massive desk. “A man matching St. John’s description was treated for a bullet wound to the shoulder the same day.”

Marcus released a deep breath. “So your assumptions about St. John’s involvement in Lord Hawthorne’s murder appear to be correct. Did the physician relate anything of value?”

“Nothing beyond the description.” Eldridge stood, and stared out the window at the thoroughfare below. Framed by the dark green velvet of the curtains and the massive windows, the agency lea

der seemed smaller, more human and less legend. “I’m concerned for Lady Hawthorne’s safety. To approach her at such a crowded event is an act of desperation. I would never have considered St. John would be so bold.”

“I was surprised as well,” Marcus admitted. “I intend to call on her now. Frankly, I’m afraid to leave her alone. St. John had a brooch of Elizabeth’s, a piece she says Hawthorne had upon his person the night he was killed.”

“So it’s that way, is it?” Eldridge sighed. “The pirate has never lacked for boldness.”

Marcus grit his teeth, remembering the vastly unpleasant encounters he’d had with St. John over the years. “Why do we tolerate him?”

“A reasonable question. I’ve often considered the alternative. However he is so popular I’m afraid his disappearance might make him a martyr. Hawthorne’s work was a secret. We cannot reveal it, even to justify a criminal’s death.”

Cursing, Marcus stood.

“It chafes, Westfield, I know. But a public trial and hanging will do much to dispel his myth.”

“You hope.” He began to pace. “I’ve worked on the journal every day. The cryptic code changes with every paragraph, sometimes every sentence. I cannot find a pattern and I’ve learned nothing of value.”

“Bring it to me. Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

“I would rather continue my examination. I think I’ve learned enough to continue.”

“Maintain a level head,” Eldridge warned, turning around as Marcus growled low in his throat.

“When have I not?”

“Whenever Lady Hawthorne is involved. Perhaps she has information of import. Have you discussed any of this with her?”

Marcus sucked in his breath, not wanting to admit that he disliked talking about her marriage.

Eldridge sighed. “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”

“I am the best agent to protect her,” Marcus retorted.

“No, you are the worst, and I cannot tell you how it pains me to say so. Your emotional involvement is affecting this mission, just as I warned you it might.”