Part 34 (1/2)
”Good afternoon, my lord,” the servant greeted as Marcus handed over his hat and gloves.
”Apparently not, since the doctor was here.”
”Lady Westfield is ill, my lord.”
”The dowager?” But he knew that was not the case. His mother had looked the picture of health at breakfast while Elizabeth had been out of sorts for over a sennight. Worried beyond measure, he took the stairs two at a time. Her mother had fallen ill and never recovered, a fact he could not forget since the scars from that loss had kept them apart for years.
He entered their rooms cautiously, hesitantly. Pausing on the threshold of Elizabeth's boudoir, he caught the scent of illness, which lingered, defying the windows which were flung wide open to entice the air to circulate. His wife lay still as death on the couch with unhealthy pallor, her skin lightly misted with sweat despite the fact she wore only her negligee and the temperature was more cold than warm.
The doctor was an idiot. Despite his lack of medical knowledge, it was obvious to Marcus that Elizabeth was gravely ill.
A maid bustled around the room, arranging flowers in an effort to scent the room with something pleasant. One look from Marcus, however, and she curtsied and hurried away.
”My love.” He fell to his knees beside the couch and brushed the damp tendrils of Elizabeth's hair off her forehead. Her skin was clammy,and he fought the urge to s.n.a.t.c.h her to him and hold her close.
Elizabeth moaned softly at the touch of her husband's hand. Opening her eyes, she stared at Marcus, acknowledging, as she often did, that she would never tire of looking at him.
”What ails you?” he asked softly, his low velvety voice a soothing caress.
”I was just thinking of you. Where did you go?”
”For a ride in the Park.”
”You wicked man. Tormenting all the women in London with the sight of you.” The harsh cynicism that had once etched his features was gone, revealing a face of breathtaking masculine beauty. ”I 'm certain you set every female heart aflutter.”
He made a valiant effort to smile through his worried frown. ”You never become jealous anymore. I 'm not certain how I should feel about that.”
”You arrogant man. I trust you to behave yourself. Especially in the near future when I cannot be with you.”
”Cannot be with...Dear G.o.d.” He tugged her from the sofa into his arms. ”Please spare me,” he begged. ”Tell me what's wrong. I am wretched over your illness. I will find the best specialists, research every medical volume, call upon-”
She pressed cool fingertips to his lips. ”A midwife will suffice.”
”A midwife?” His eyes widened and then shot to her belly. ”A midw ife?”
”You certainly put enough effort into it,” she teased, adoring the wonder that slowly filled his eyes. ”You should not be quite so startled.”
”Elizabeth.” He squeezed her gently. ”Speech fails me.”
”Tell me you are happy. That is all I ask.”
”Happy? b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, I was beyond happy when it was just you and I . And content. Now...now there are no words for how I feel.”
Elizabeth buried her face in her husband's throat and breathed him in, finding instant comfort just from the feel of him next to her. She had suspected pregnancy for weeks, as her b.r.e.a.s.t.s had grown more tender and her body had been plagued by weariness. Hiding her morning illness had not been easy, but she'd managed until today. She finally called for the doctor when she'd been inwardly certain she would hear the news she desired above anything.
”I know precisely what you mean to convey,” she murmured against his skin. ”I will never be able to tell you how it touches me that you loved me, even when it seemed we would not have children.”
Settling more comfortably into his lap, Elizabeth thought of how different her life was now from how it had been only a year ago. She'd said she wanted equanimity, but what she had truly wanted was numbness, a respite from the knowledge that she was missing something vital. To have been so afraid, so sure that loving Marcus would weaken her, rather than strengthen her...She couldn't fathom it now.
”I love you,” she murmured, perfectly happy for the first time since she was a child. Secure in his arms, she drifted to sleep and dreamed of the future.
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T he Swansea Inn had begun its life as an antebellum mansion belonging to a cotton broker. Three stories tall, created of the local gray Savannah brick that turned a dusky pink when bathed in the red glow of sunset, it overlooked the Polaski Monument in Monterey Square, which Roxi considered the prettiest of the city's twenty-four lush green squares.
She'd heard rumors that the inn had, for several decades prior to the War Between the States, been a house of prost.i.tution, where wealthy planters and merchants had kept a bevy of women for their shared pleasure. There was even one bit of local lore that had General Sherman, after deciding not to torch the city but to give it to President Lincoln as a Christmas present instead, paying a visit to the house to celebrate having concluded his devastating march across Georgia to the sea.
Like so many stories about the city, the tales were couched in mystery and wrapped in sensuality, and had been told and retold so many times that it was impossible to know how much was true and how much was the product of Savannahians' vivid imaginations.
She'd never been inside before, partly because she knew she'd never be able to afford the prices, but mostly because it was a private club.
A place, more rumors persisted, of a.s.signations. Even, she'd heard whispered, the occasional orgy.
She might have a liberal view of s.e.x, but if Sloan Hawthorne had plans along those lines for tonight, he was going to be disappointed.
The moment the black car glided to a stop at the curb, the Inn's gla.s.s door opened and a man came down the stone steps.
A sudden, white-hot s.e.xual craving zigzagged through her like a bolt of lightning from a clear blue summer sky, sending every hormone in her body into red alert.
Roxi recognized him immediately. She'd Googled him yesterday after talking with Emma on the Internet, and while on all those Web sites she'd visited he'd definitely appeared to be a hunk, up close and personal he was downright lethal.
His hair was warm chestnut streaked with gold she suspected was a result of time spent beneath the California sun, rather than some trendy Beverly Hills salon. He was conservatively dressed in a crisp white s.h.i.+rt, muted gray striped tie, and a dark suit, which looked I talian and probably cost more than her first car.
He opened the back pa.s.senger door. His eyes, which were as green as newly minted money, lit up with masculine appreciation as they swept over her.
”Wow. And here I thought the woman was fictional,” he murmured.
”Excuse me?” Her body wasn't the only thing that had gone into meltdown. s.e.xual images of Sloan Hawthorne and herself writhed in her smoke-filled mind.
She told herself the only reason she was taking the hand he'd extended was that the car was low, her skirt tight, and her heels high.
Liar. Not only wasn't she sure she could stand on her own, she was actually desperate for his touch. Not just on her hand, but all the other tingling places on her body.
”I 'm sorry.” He shook his head. Sheepishly rubbed the bridge of his nose. ”I tend to talk to myself when I 'm bewitched.”
”I see.” He wasn't just drop-dead gorgeous. He was cute. I t also helped to know that she wasn't the only one who'd been momentarily mesmerized.
The b.u.t.terflies settled, allowing Roxi to pick up a bit of her own scattered senses. ”Does that happen often?” she asked.”This is the first time.” His gaze swept over her-from the top of her head down to her Revved up and Red-y toenails, then back up to her face again. ”That is one h.e.l.luva dress.”
”Thank you.” I t was a basic black dinner dress. That was, if anything that was strapless and fit like a second skin could be called basic.
”Did you wear it to bring me to my knees?”
”Absolutely.”
”Well, then.” He flashed a grin that would've dropped a lesser woman to her knees. As it was, it had moisture pooling hotly between Roxi's thighs. ”You'll be glad to know that it's working like a charm.”
Like so many of the fine old homes in Savannah's historic district, the Inn had several steps originally designed to keep the dust and mud from the unpaved dirt streets outside the house.