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Sadly, the law of the time was also in the Earl of Whitlow’s favor. Consequently, the only way that Elizabeth would be able to escape her father-in-law’s ill treatment of her was if she departed alone and left Christopher with his grandfather.
She would never, could never, leave her beloved son. No matter how cruel her father-in-law’s insults to her became.
He had increased those insults in both volume and viciousness since arriving in Cornwall a week ago. Deliberately so, Elizabeth was convinced, in a continued effort to force her into fleeing and leaving her son behind her. That would never happen.
But she believed the Duke of Bristol must have overheard some of that viciousness a few minutes ago, from the way in which he had been protesting his disapproval of the older man as he strode around the corner.
A shiver ran the length of Elizabeth’s spine when she saw the avaricious glint in the earl’s cold dark eyes as he now gazed first at Bristol before that wily gaze slid over to her.
She had absolutely no idea what that look meant, only that she didn’t like it. Not one bit.
“Bristol, this is the mother of Christopher, my grandson and heir. Elizabeth, the Duke of Bristol,” the earl added tersely.
Sterling had always thought Whitlow to be a most unpleasant fellow, but the manner in which the other man had just made the introduction of his daughter-in-law was yet another insult to add to the ones the earl had stated so publicly mere minutes ago.
Those deliberately hurtful insults, which Sterling had overheard the older man say to his daughter-in-law before the earl became aware of his presence, were not only cruel but untruthful.
Elizabeth’s beauty was such that being plump wouldn’t have detracted from her allure in the least. Possibly the opposite. Sterling could envisage nothing more pleasurable than having his hands full of a plumply naked and very warm and willing Elizabeth Marshall.
Her manner and movements were graceful as she curtseyed. “Your Grace.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Marshall.” Sterling, unable to resist touching her for a moment longer, reached out to take one of her gloved hands in his much larger one.
His ungloved fingers and palm instantly felt the warmth of her flesh through the thin leather, his lips gifted with the same heat when he bent his head and lingered over kissing the back of her hand.
Elizabeth’s softly indrawn breath had him glancing upward, their gazes clashing, hers the deepest violet, his own the palest green.
Something which was also indicative of their different natures?
Sterling knew himself to be a man of cold formality and controlled emotions.
From what he had observed of Elizabeth so far, she also knew how to control her emotions—most especially in the presence of her father-in-law—but the warm heat in the depths of her eyes told Sterling she also possessed an inner passion.
One that might, if explored, melt his own coldness?
Sterling dearly wished for the two of them to be in a position where that theory might be put to the test.
Sooner rather than later.
His fingers tightened about Elizabeth’s fingers as he turned to the earl. “I am only just arrived in the area an hour or so ago, but perhaps you and Lady Elizabeth might care to join me for dinner at Bristol Manor this evening?”
If Sterling knew the capable Rogers, and he did, his valet having followed him into battle on more than one occasion during the years of fighting against Napoleon, then the other man would already have the servants at Bristol Manor rushing about preparing for Sterling’s arrival. Up to and including the possible advent of dinner guests on their first evening here.
Rogers had been well acquainted with Plymouth and was just as determined to find his murderer. Indeed, Sterling’s valet would do everything in his power to ensure they achieved that end, including ensuring Sterling’s stay in Cornwall was as free from discomfort as possible.
Elizabeth appeared startled by the invitation. “Would you not like a day or two to rest after your long journey, before thinking of entertaining visitors?” She stilled the moment the question had left her lips, wincing as she gave a reluctant glance toward her father-in-law.
Henry Marshall looked furious, pale blue eyes glittering with anger, his cheeks flushed, lips thinned. “I believe the duke to be perfectly capable of knowing his own mind without any input from you, missy,” he snapped, pausing to give Elizabeth a narrow-eyed glare before turning to bestow an ingratiating smile upon Sterling. “Silly chit still has few of the social graces, despite my efforts to instill them in her. She obviously needs a firmer hand than my own,” he added suggestively.
Sterling found the earl’s comments both derogatory and worrying. The former spoke for itself, but Sterling couldn’t help but feel concerned as to what “efforts” the earl had already used in an attempt to correct Elizabeth’s already perfect manners.She might be the daughter of an impoverished lord, but she still would, and obviously had, been taught social etiquette.
If anyone’s manners could be called into question, then it was those of the Earl of Whitlow.
Sterling disliked intensely the comment regarding Elizabeth needing a “firmer hand” than the earl’s. It implied a use of physical chastisement against her Sterling would take exception to if it should be confirmed Whitlow had ever treated Elizabeth so poorly.
“You are mistaken in your assumption, Whitlow.” Sterling smiled at Elizabeth, knowing by the way her eyes immediately widened in alarm that his smile, rusty at best, completely absent at worst, possibly appeared as more of a grimace to her than conveying any warmth of feeling. “I find Lady Elizabeth’s manners to be as charming as she is beautiful.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” The demure lowering of Elizabeth’s lashes sadly hid those magnificent violet eyes from Sterling’s gaze. He also felt the loss when Elizabeth took the opportunity to belatedly slide the warmth of her gloved hand from his.
