Educating Elizabeth (2 page)

She started to speak again but he was beyond listening. He silenced her by taking her mouth in a deep kiss as he inched the fabric of her nightgown up to her waist. Her lips tasted of caramel and yielded to his questing tongue with soft ease. He groaned as her tongue brushed his and her hands flattened on his chest.

He spread his knees and the belt on his dressing gown slipped open. With one swift motion, he lifted her and was about to ease her down onto his hardening flesh when her teeth crashed into his lower lip. Staring intently up at her, he realized her wide eyes reflected panic rather than passion.

She was no light skirt.

Dear God--had he almost raped an innocent?

He clenched his teeth and began to lift her away from him. "Don't move, Miss Waterstone. I will..."

Her fingernails raked down his cheek, his back arched in protest, and he tried desperately to push her away. She slid from his slackened grasp to the floor. Gervase pulled his dressing gown around his waist and knotted the sash. Bile rose in his throat as he stared down at her and he shuddered. Had he lived amongst the depths of human depravity for too long to recognize the truth?

"Miss Waterstone, there has clearly been a misunderstanding." He held out his hand to her. "I swear I will not touch you again. You must let me help you."

She stumbled to her feet and continued to retreat until she reached the connecting doorway to his suite.

"Don't you dare come any closer, you...you disgusting reprobate!"

As she turned to run through the open door to his suite and into the freedom of the hallway beyond, Gervase gathered himself and made a lunge for her. With a cry, she crashed against his dressing table, knocked the contents to the floor, and went down on her knees. Her fingers closed around a small travelling clock. Straightening, she aimed it right at his head.

Gervase came to an abrupt stop and held up his hands.

"Miss Waterstone, please put the clock down. It is made of solid brass and you might injure yourself if you attempt to throw it. I'm sure we can sort out this very unpleasant situation to your satisfaction."

Her mouth worked and she swallowed twice before she was able to speak. "I'm well aware of how heavy the clock is, Your Grace. I am the one holding it, after all. My brothers taught me how to throw properly when I was a little girl, and I'm quite capable of hitting my target."

Her brave statement impressed him more than he cared to admit. Any other woman of his acquaintance would have been in floods of tears by now, not calmly threatening to brain him with his own clock. He fought an absurd desire to laugh.

"Well, if you wish to throw something at me, please go ahead."

He advanced a step toward her, one hand held out, and then froze as she drew her arm back.

"I don't think I could kill you, even though you deserve it. They would probably behead me at the Tower if I murdered a duke." She eyed him with great consideration as though he were a paper target. "No, I think if I winged you, it would be enough to stop you from following me."

Gervase laughed then and took another step forward. "Stop this foolishness, my dear. Give me the clock and we will talk. You have my word I won't lay a finger on you."

She took aim as he crossed the carpeted space between them and the heavy clock connected with his shoulder, ripping his dressing gown and making him reel backward.

"That," he said with deep appreciation, "was indeed an excellent shot." The shocking pain caught him unawares and he staggered to the side and fell against the marble mantelpiece, striking his head.

Eventually, he heard his valet's worried voice over the roaring in his ears. When Jacques bent over him, Gervase managed to grasp his sleeve.

"Don't let her leave."

Jacques's voice sounded puzzled and increasingly faint. "Who, Your Grace? You are the only person here."

Mr. Forester tightened his grip on Elizabeth Waterstone's upper arm as he knocked on the door of the Duke of Diable Delamere's London townhouse. The brass knocker was designed to resemble a writhing fish. Its greenish patina added life to the sinuous casting and echoed the faint color on Elizabeth's face. A sharp breeze swirled around the square, dislodging the few leaves that clung to the tree branches and fluttered the limp ribbons on Elizabeth's bonnet.

"Thank God," Mr. Forester muttered. "It's already noon and the house isn't hung with black crepe, so we can safely assume the duke still lives despite your efforts."

Elizabeth drew in a hard-won breath as the door of the mansion opened to reveal a silver-haired butler. Her stepfather managed to insinuate his foot inside the door.

"We wish to see the duke. Is he available?"

Elizabeth cringed at Mr. Forester's arrogant tone and tried to put as much distance between them as possible.

The butler inclined his head. "His Grace is not receiving visitors this morning, sir. May I take a message or do you wish to leave your card?"

Dennis Forester frowned and fumbled in his pocket before handing the butler a dog-eared card. After a quick glance at the card, the butler surprised her by moving aside and motioning them in.

"Mr. Forester, I believe that His Grace will make an exception in your case. Please follow me."

The black and white marble hall was horribly familiar and twice as overwhelming in the harsh daylight. Elizabeth found it difficult to believe she had fled down that very staircase not ten hours earlier. An image of the duke's horrified expression as he tried to push her away from him burned in her mind.

She came to an abrupt halt as the butler bowed and opened the door into the duke's library. The carpet was so thick that her feet sank into it and made no sound. It took a great deal of her remaining courage to raise her eyes and look at the man behind the desk.

Her breath caught at his stillness. Sea Devil, the English translation of his French family name, suited him well this morning. His skin was pale and in startling contrast to the blackness of his hair and the cat-like slant of his gray eyes. He wore no coat. Her gaze flew to his right arm and the sling that protected his shoulder.

Elizabeth sank into the nearest chair and looked down at her half boots. Her head pounded from the incessant arguments and accusations her stepfather had flung at her since her unprecedented return home the night before. In her mind, her mother's tears and lamentations dueted with his threats in an endless circle of despair.

She silently raged as she listened to her stepfather apologize for her behavior to the duke, who sat back in his chair, apparently bored by the whole affair. She hadn't realized she had been sent into the home of an infamous rake until her stepfather had told her this morning. Elizabeth clenched her jaw and winced.

The duke's cold eyes flicked in her direction and he slammed his hand down on the desk, making her jump. "Mr. Forester, I don't wish to speak to you. I wish to speak to Miss Waterstone. Get out. I will inform you when I require your assistance."

As a set down, it was masterly, and if Elizabeth hadn't been so steeped in misery she might have applauded the sight of her stepfather silenced and evicted in a few curt sentences.

The duke waited until Mr. Forester backed out of the room and then came around to sit on the front of his desk. His booted foot swung close to Elizabeth's skirts and she struggled to take her eyes away from the rhythmic movement. She remembered the muscled strength of his arm around her hips, the surprising heat of his fingers on her skin.

"What services have you provided for your stepfather's debtor's in the past?"

His question lacked all emotion and bore no hint of an apology, but somehow it helped to steady her shredded nerves. She made herself meet his cool gaze.

"I...I've aided their wives, usually in a social capacity," she struggled to explain. "Many of my stepfather's acquaintances have recently become wealthy. I helped them with cards of invitation, note writing, advice on etiquette ..."

She licked her lips as the subtle hint of his citrus fragrance stole toward her. She tried to breathe through her mouth and eased back in her chair. His faint French accent was less pronounced in the daylight. Probably because he wasn't in his cups.

Unwillingly, her gaze shifted to his mouth. Her unguarded response to his open-mouthed kiss had led to her undoing. By the time she'd regained her wits, he'd moved on to more carnal matters and taught her far more than she wanted to know about a man's brutal desires. She hoped her bonnet shielded the blush that rose unbidden to her cheeks.

"Perhaps that explains why you came with me so willingly last night." The duke paused. "You did not expect to share my bed, did you?"

Elizabeth shook her head, beyond speech now, as the horror of her predicament flooded her anew. Her mother and stepfather had given her to this man to pay a debt.

"Then why in damnation did you come back here this morning? Did you expect your stepfather to insist that I marry you, or for him to call me out?"

He didn't wait for her to respond. Instead, he walked across to the window, which overlooked the square, his back turned to her, his shoulders rigid. Without a coat, Elizabeth could clearly see the tight fit of his buckskin breeches and the elegant length of his legs. After a long moment he looked at her over his shoulder.

"You are sadly mistaken, if you think that scoundrel wishes to protect your reputation. The wretched man is probably beside himself with glee. He assumes the price of your virginity will cancel his debt to me."

"You did not take my virginity, you..."

He silenced her with a gesture. "I hesitate to correct you, but by the rules of polite society, I dishonored you." He swung around. "If you had heeded my advice and not taken a pot shot at me with the clock, we might have stood a chance of repairing the damage. Unfortunately, by running home to your stepfather, you've given him the opportunity to ruin us both."

Elizabeth tried not to cry at his contemptuous statement and forced herself to remain calm. As she stared into the abyss her life had become, a sudden recklessness claimed her. "I will throw something else at you if you give him money."

The duke's eyes narrowed as he considered her.

Elizabeth stood up; no longer content to be towered over. "If anyone deserves to benefit from your despicable behavior, it is me."

Appalled by her own daring, Elizabeth bit her lip. If she wasn't careful she would blurt out her desperate need to find a way to support herself and her invalid brother, and that would never do.

The duke nodded and resumed his seat behind his paper-strewn desk. His long fingers toyed with a quill pen as he continued to study Elizabeth.

Unable to understand his silence, Elizabeth started to shiver. Her normal good sense seemed to have deserted her. The duke thrust a glass of brandy into her hands and closed her fingers around it.

"Drink this, it will calm you."

She repressed a hysterical desire to laugh and obediently sipped at the strong spirit. It raced into her empty stomach, warming her body, making her cough. The duke patted her back, his strong fingers stirring the soft hairs at the nape of her neck. He took the glass and placed it on the desk.

"Miss Waterstone, may I ask you yet another favor? Will you take off your bonnet? It is most fatiguing to converse with a bunch of faded yellow primroses and a threadbare green bow."

She removed the offending bonnet and tossed it aside. She flinched as the duke's breath hissed out. Elizabeth closed her eyes as his cool fingers touched the purple bruises that covered her right cheekbone and eye.

"Your stepfather did this?"

Her eyes flew open at the iciness of his tone and the harshness of his expression. Fearing she had stirred the devil, panic swamped her senses and she struggled to breathe.

He moved away. "So you did not tell him the truth very easily." He took a deep breath and resumed his position behind the desk. "Miss Waterstone, your association with Mr. Forester led me to make certain assumptions about your character, assumptions which proved to be false." He paused. "Be assured that I shall do everything in my power to remedy the situation."

Elizabeth stared at him, surprised by his unexpected explanation and unsure of how to deal with it.

"Do you wish to return home with Mr. Forester?"

The duke's soft question caused the remainder of Elizabeth's stored courage to crumble. "My mother has forbidden me the house. She fears I might tarnish my half-sister's reputation."

The duke stood and crossed to the fireplace. He tugged on the bell. "You need to rest. For the moment, consider my house your own. When you awaken, we will talk again, I promise you."

She nodded, too weary to resist him and too weary to care. As they waited for the summons to be answered, the duke returned to his desk, took up a sheet of parchment, and began to write.

Elizabeth stared at his bent head. In repose, he had long eyelashes and high cheekbones Elizabeth wished were her own.

"I'm sorry I hurt you. I didn't know what else to do."

His pen stopped moving and he raised his head. For the first time, his eyes met hers without a hint of disdain.

"You did nothing I did not deserve. And that, my dear, is why I'm prepared to help you."

Elizabeth allowed herself to be escorted from the room by his housekeeper. Her stepfather waited in the hall, hands clasped behind his back, as he studied an immense portrait of the present duke. His shrewd eyes sought Elizabeth's, an anxious question in them, but she swept past him without a word. She would take the duke's offer of a refuge and pray that some solution would present itself to her troubled mind by the calm light of morning.

*** *** ***

Gervase lounged in his chair, his fingers drumming on the armrest, as he awaited the return of Mr. Forester. His first instinct was to beat the man half to death for his treatment of his stepdaughter. Hard-won maturity and wiser counsel prevailed as Gervase admitted that his own treatment of Miss Waterstone had been nearly as brutal.