“I believe the night has grown chilly,” Marcus murmured.
“Yes, my lord,” Lady Barclay agreed. “I was about to say the same.”
Hiding his regret, Marcus nodded, and then turned on his heel and left.
Elizabeth crossed into the foyer of Chesterfield Hall with a silent sigh. Her lips still throbbed and tasted of Marcus, a heady flavor that was dangerous to a woman’s sanity. Although her heart rate had slowed, she was left feeling as though she’d just run a great race. She was grateful when her butler removed her heavy cloak and, tugging off her gloves, she headed directly toward the stairs. There was so much to consider, too much. She hadn’t expected Marcus to be so damned determined to have his way. How she would handle a man such as he would take careful planning.
“My lady?”
“Yes?” She paused and turned to face the servant.
In his hand he held a silver salver which supported a cream-colored missive. Innocuous though it appeared, Elizabeth shivered at the sight of it. The handwriting and parchment were the same as the letter demanding Hawthorne’s journal.
She shook her head and released a deep breath. Marcus would call on her tomorrow, of that she was certain. Whatever demand the note contained could wait until then. Reading it alone held no appeal. She knew how dangerous the agency’s missions were and she didn’t take her new involvement lightly. Therefore, if Marcus was so determined to plague her, she would at least make use of him in some small way.
Dismissing the servant with a wave, Elizabeth lifted her skirts and ascended the stairs.
What a sad twist of fate it was that the man assigned to protect her was the very one who’d proven he was not to be trusted.
Chapter 4
Unlike Marcus’s own townhouse in Grosvenor Square, Chesterfield Hall was a sprawling estate located a good distance from the nearest house. Standing in the visitor’s foyer, Marcus handed over his hat and gloves to the waiting liveried footman, then followed the butler down the hall to the formal parlor.
The location of his reception was a slight not lost on him. At one time he would have been shown upstairs and received as a near family member. Now he was not considered worthy of such a privilege.
“The Earl of Westfield,” the servant announced.
Entering, Marcus paused on the threshold and glanced around the room, noting with interest the portrait that graced the space above the fireplace. The late Countess of Langston stared back at him with a winsome smile and violet eyes like her daughter’s. Unlike Elizabeth’s, however, Lady Langston’s eyes held no wariness, only the soft glow of a woman content with her lot. Elizabeth had witnessed only briefly the kind of happiness his own parents had fostered over a lifetime. For a moment, regret rose like bile in his throat.
Once he’d sworn to dedicate his life to making Elizabeth look that happy. Now he wanted only to be done with his craving and free of her curse.
Clenching his jaw, he looked away from the painful reminder and found the curvaceous form that afflicted his waking and sleeping thoughts. As the butler shut the door with a soft click behind him, Marcus reached around his back and turned the lock.
Elizabeth stood by the arched window that overlooked the side garden. Dressed in a simple muslin day gown and bathed in indirect sunlight, she looked as young as when they’d first met. As always, every nerve ending in his body prickled with the sharp current of awareness that arced between them. In all of his many encounters, he’d yet to meet a woman who appealed to him as deeply or as hotly as Elizabeth did.
“Good afternoon, Lord Westfield,” she said in the low throaty voice which brought to mind tumbled silk sheets. She shot a pointed glance at his hand, which remained curved around the knob. “My brother is at home.”
“Good for him.” He crossed the broad expanse of Aubusson rug in a few strides and lifted her bare fingertips to his lips. Her skin felt exquisite, the scent of her arousing. His tongue darted out to lick between her fingers and he watched as her pupils widened and the irises darkened. Marcus brought her hand to his heart and held it there. “Now that your mourning is over, do you intend to return to your own residence?”
Her gaze narrowed. “That would ease matters for you, wouldn’t it?”
“Certainly breakfast in bed and afternoon trysts would be facilitated by a more private arrangement,” he replied easily.
Yanking her hand from his grip, Elizabeth turned her back to him. Marcus bit back his smile.
“Considering your obvious distaste for me,” she muttered, “I cannot understand why you desire to become intimate.”
“Physical proximity does not necessitate intimacy.”
Her shoulders stiffened beneath the fall of her dark hair. “Ah yes,” she sneered. “You have proven that fact again and again, have you not?”
Flicking an imaginary piece of lint from his ruffled cuffs, Marcus walked to the settee and adjusted his coat before sitting. He refused to show his irritation at the censure he heard in her tone. Guilt was something he didn’t require, he felt it often enough on his own. “I became what you once accused me of being. What would you have had me do, love? Go mad thinking of you? Longing for you?”
He sighed dramatically, hoping to goad her into facing him. It was a simple pleasure, gazing upon her features, but after four years it was a delight he needed as much as air. “I am truly not surprised to learn that, given the choice, you would have denied me what little solace I could find, cruel-hearted creature that you are.”
Elizabeth spun about, revealing cheeks stained bright with color. “You blame me?”
“Who else is there to blame?” He opened his snuff box and took a small pinch. “It should have been you in my arms all these years. Instead, every time I bedded another woman I hoped she would be the one to make me forget you. But they never did. Not one.” He snapped the lid shut.