Avery tried to look reassuring. “I believe Lord Westfield is more than capable of handling this matter, if you will just trust him to do so.”
“I cannot go to him with conjecture.” She clasped her hands together imploringly.
“What is it you would ask of me that you would not ask of your husband?”
“I need you to research St. John’s story. If what he says is true, we must wonder at the irony of two brothers working on opposite sides of the law. Hawthorne was killed and my brother wounded while investigating St. John. That cannot be a coincidence.” She clutched his hand. “And Lord Eldridge must remain ignorant of this development.”
“Why?”
“Because he would certainly tell Westfield. I’m not certain how my husband will take the news. I need some time to sort this out.”
“You sound as if you believe.”
Elizabeth nodded miserably. “I have no reason not to. The resemblance between St. John and Hawthorne is startling, and the tale is so fantastic how can it not be true?”
“I fear you may be doing a disservice to his lordship.”
“A little more time,” she begged. “It’s all I ask. I promise to tell him everything you discover.”
He released a long-suffering sigh. “Very well. I will investigate, and keep my silence in the interval.”
Elizabeth’s heart gave a tiny leap of grateful relief. “Thank you, Mr. James. You have always been a dear friend to me.”
Flushing a dull red, he said, “Don’t thank me just yet. We may both end up regretting that I agreed to this business.”
Over the next few weeks, Elizabeth accustomed herself to married life with Marcus. The Ashfords remained in residence at his insistence. He rested easier knowing she was not alone and Elizabeth appreciated the company while he attended to his affairs.
At Eldridge’s insistence, they attended the occasional Society event, ones most likely to attract St. John. The pirate had managed to throw off the agents tracking his whereabouts and hadn’t been seen in London since the afternoon he’d spoken with her. His sudden departure was a mystery that set them all on edge.
The threat to her was always on Marcus’s mind. Guards were stationed in and around the house, dressed in Westfield livery to avoid arousing the suspicions of his family. The endless waiting made her husband as restless as a caged animal. She’d known from their very first dance together that he was a man who held a tight rein on his passions. He unleashed them fully on her.
He held nothing back. When he was angry, he yelled. When he was pleased, he laughed. When he was aroused, he made love to her, regardless of what time of day it was or where they were at the moment. Twice he left the Lords in the middle of the afternoon to seduce her. She had never felt so important to someone, so necessary. Blatantly possessive, he showed no hesitation in speaking harshly to any man who acted too familiarly with her.
For her own part, Elizabeth found that her jealousy did not ease with her new ownership. It was a miserable personality flaw to be cursed with in a society where dalliance was not only widespread, but expected. Marriage only increased Marcus’s appeal to other women. His vibrant energy was now mellowed to the slow, languid grace of a man who was well-loved often by a passionate woman. It made him irresistible.
One evening, during a masked ball, Elizabeth’s jealousy finally got the better of her. As Marcus moved toward the beverage tables, she noticed several women choosing the same moment to replenish their own glasses. Looking away in disgust, Elizabeth spied the Dowager Duchess of Ravensend coming toward her.
“Do you see the way women follow my husband?” she complained, rising from a quick curtsy.
Her Grace shrugged. “Masked events give license to cast off what little restraint Society clings to. Note the shaking palm tree in the far right corner? Lady Grenville and Lord Sackton have abandoned their spouses in favor of some exhibitionist sport. And Claire Milton returned from the garden with twigs in her hair. You should not be surprised they sniff after Westfield like mongrel bitches.”
“I’m not,” she announced curtly. “But I won’t tolerate it. Excuse me, Your Grace.” With rapid strides, she moved into the next room to find her husband.
She located him near the refreshment tables, a glass in each hand and surrounded by women. He shrugged innocently when he saw her, his lips curving wickedly beneath the edge of his half mask. Pushing through the small crowd, Elizabeth claimed one of the glasses, and then linked her arm with his. Her spine stiff, she led Marcus back to the ballroom, all enjoyment in the evening gone.
The duchess took one look at her face, and excused herself with a smile.
Marcus chuckled. “Thank you, Lady Westfield. To my recollection that is the first time I have ever been rescued.”
“You have never wanted to be rescued,” she snapped, hating that he could be so nonchalant in the face of her upset.
He lifted a hand to caress a powdered curl. “You’re jealous!” he crowed.
She turned away, wondering, as she often did, how many women in the room knew him carnally as she did.
Marcus stepped around until he faced her. “What is it, love?”
“None of your affair.”
Uncaring of their audience, Marcus traced the bottom curve of her lip with his gloved thumb. “Tell me what’s wrong, or I cannot fix it.”
“I detest every woman who knew you before.” Blushing, she lowered her head and waited for his laughter.
Instead, his deep, velvety voice swirled around her, encasing her in warmth. “Do you remember when I said intimacy and sex can be mutually exclusive?” His head lowered to hers, his mouth brushing her ear as he whispered, “You are the only woman I have ever been intimate with.”
A tear escaped. Marcus brushed it away.
“I want to take you home,” he murmured, his emerald gaze hot behind the mask. “And be intimate with you.”
She left with him, desperate to have him all to herself. That night he was so tender in his lovemaking, adoring her with his body, giving her everything she asked. His gentle ardor brought tears to her eyes and afterward he held her in his arms as if she were the most precious thing in the world.
Every day brought her closer to him. She was beginning to need him, not just with sensual craving but for so much more. It was a passion that would take a lifetime to sate.
She could only pray fate would give her that chance.
Chapter 19
“You should not have come to my home.”
Christopher St. John vaulted into the unmarked Westfield town coach. The pirate’s overwhelming presence dominated the interior and added a palpable energy to the air, forcing Elizabeth to retreat into the squabs. Glancing out the window, she remained surprised at the elegance of the small townhouse he resided in. It was conspicuous in the unfashionable part of town where it was located. However the two burly henchmen at the door betrayed the seediness of the goings-on within.
He took the seat opposite her. “It’s not a fit place for a lady and this ostentatious equipage is attracting the kind of dangerous attention you don’t want.”
“You know I had no choice. As soon as I learned your direction, I had to come. I have no other way of reaching you.” She arched a brow. “You, Mr. St. John, have questions to answer.”
His full mouth curved wryly, as he leaned back and adjusted his coat. “No need to be so formal. We are related, after all.”
“As i
f I could forget.”
“So you believe me then.”
“I had your claim investigated.”
St. John glanced around, taking in the opulence of the dark leather interior with one sweeping glance. “Such a shame you married Westfield. Looks as if the man could use a lightening of his purse.”
“I strongly suggest you find other sport, if you don’t wish to anger me. I am not pleasant when I’m cross.”
St. John blinked, then threw his head back and laughed. “By God, I do like you. Rest assured, I am loyal to members of my family and Westfield is something of a family member, is he not?”
Rubbing between her brows in a vain effort to ward off a headache, she muttered, “Westfield knows nothing of this and I prefer to keep it that way.”
St. John reached over and opened the small compartment door by his seat. Withdrawing a glass, he poured two fingers of brandy, which he then offered to her. When she refused, he put the decanter away. “I realized you hadn’t told him about us when he came to see me. However, I did think you would have told him since then.”
Studying him more closely, she noted the faint yellow of a healing bruise around his left eye and the small scab on his lip. “Are your injuries from Westfield?”
“No other man would dare.”
She winced. “I apologize. I had no intention of telling him about our meeting, but I neglected to tell my mother-in-law to keep quiet about it.”
St. John waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “No lasting harm done. Quite stimulating, actually. After years of doing nothing more strenuous than exchanging barbs, it was time for us to get to business. I was glad he found me. I was curious to see how he felt about you. The man has never had a weakness in his life. I regret you are one I cannot exploit.”
“What is your grievance with Westfield?”
“The man is too arrogant, too titled, too wealthy, too pretty—too everything. He’s as rich as Croesus and yet he cries foul when I take a tiny bit of his blunt.”
She snorted. “As if you would have a party should someone steal from you.”
He choked on his brandy.