As for the performance of such a cold man in the marital bedchamber…

  Elizabeth instantly had a vision of a silent Bristol, wearing a long nightshirt similar to that worn by the faceless woman in the bed beneath him, briskly pushing up both those garments before he thrust his cock inside that lady’s channel. That same silence would prevail as he thrust a few times before spilling his seed inside in the hope of producing an heir. Afterward, he would withdraw his softening cock and straighten his nightshirt before rising from the bed and retiring to his own bedchamber. Again, all without speaking a word.

  Color heated Elizabeth’s cheeks when her gaze was caught and held by Sterling Bishop as he observed her through narrowed lids. She became even more flustered when he raised a mocking dark brow in silent query as he continued to look at her with those pale and piercing green eyes.

  As if, Elizabeth acknowledged with an inner wince, he knew exactly where her thoughts had taken her.

  Dear God, she sincerely hoped not.

  Thomas, having been taught from when he was a very young man that it was not acceptable for a woman to allow her thoughts to linger on such intimacies, let alone enjoy the physical act of lovemaking, had refused to talk on the subject with his wife.

  To that end, despite their love for each other, their own lovemaking had always been muted in restraint. Enjoyable, of course, because the two of them were in love with each other, but Elizabeth had always known there could be more, if only Thomas would allow it.

  She wondered if she was being fair by assuming the autocratic gentleman she now knew as being Sterling Bishop, the Duke of Bristol, was as cold inside as he appeared on the outside. Sometimes the most outwardly controlled people were inwardly a mass of seething emotions simply waiting for the right key to turn and set them free.

  Not that Elizabeth thought that she could ever be that key for this haughty man.

  Besides, what would she do with a man whose heart and emotions appeared to be as frozen as ice?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Indeed, Bristol continued to hold her gaze for several long and piercing seconds more, after which he gave a barely perceptible inclination of his head in her direction before turning his attention to her father-in-law.

  He removed his hat before speaking. “Introduce me to this lovely lady, if you please, Whitlow.” It was an order rather than a request.

  One her father-in-law, surprisingly, did not take exception to, as might have been expected. Instead, the earl actually gave what looked to be a gleefully pleased smile. Not a pleasant sight at the best of times, when some of his teeth were missing and others yellowed from lack of cleaning. But the intent behind that smile was all the more disturbing when Elizabeth could think of no reason for it.

  Lord Henry Marshall, the Earl of Whitlow, was not a man who was often given to showing humor of any kind. In Elizabeth’s presence, at least.

  He had made no secret of his disapproval of his son’s wife when the couple returned to London a week after their elopement. Nor had that attitude changed in the years since. The disapproval had remained at a manageable level whilst Thomas was alive to act as a buffer against his father’s deliberate rudeness toward his wife. But in the ten months since her husband’s death, Elizabeth’s life as Thomas’s widow and Christopher’s mother had become unbearable.

  Three months ago, she had decided she could not suffer her father-in-law’s cutting remarks a moment longer and had removed herself and Christopher to the Whitlow estate in Cornwall. The two of them had lived peacefully together here for all that time, Christopher loved the freedom of his daily visits to the sandy cove a short distance from the house, where Elizabeth built sandcastles and collected shells with him.

  Unfortunately, the earl had decided to join them a week ago and had immediately resumed his bullying and insults to and about her.

  If she could have, after Thomas died, Elizabeth would have taken herself back to her parents’ house. It might be small and overcrowded, with two of her younger sisters still unmarried and living at home, but it had always been a house full of love.

  The earl, when Elizabeth told him of that wish, had been only too happy for her to leave. But he also made it clear that if she chose to do so, she would not be taking his grandson and heir with her. Unfortunately for her, her father-in-law had informed her, Thomas’s will had appointed his father, the eleventh Earl of Whitlow, as Christopher’s paternal guardian until he reached the age of one and twenty.

  She knew Thomas would not have made the stipulation with any intention of hurting her or doubt in her ability as Christopher’s mother. But Thomas had been brought up to respect the earldom and, consequently, his father—even if that father was not always respectful to Thomas or his wife. As such, Elizabeth knew Thomas would have seen naming his father as guardian to any children in their marriage as being the correct thing to do.

  Elizabeth very much doubted Thomas had ever thought he would be dead at the age of five and twenty.

  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.

  He turned impatiently toward the earl. “Dinner at Bristol Manor this evening, then.” He made it an instruction rather than a request, unashamedly using his higher social status to coerce the other man into accepting.

  “Of course.” The earl nodded graciously before shooting a sly glance in Elizabeth’s direction. “My son’s widow often finds herself…indisposed in the evenings, as she is still overwhelmed with grief. I hope you will not be too disappointed if this evening should prove to be one of those evenings and she is unable to join us?”

  “On the contrary, I should be beyond disappointed if that should prove to be the case,” Sterling bit out. “To the extent that if that should occur, I should prefer to reschedule the engagement to a night when Lady Elizabeth feels able to join us.”

  Elizabeth had no idea what Bristol was about, singling her out in this noticeable way. But, to her dismay, he was succeeding in increasing the avarice in her father-in-law’s gaze to a disturbing level.

  Without realizing it, Elizabeth felt sure, the politeness the duke was showing toward her—so at odds with the way the Earl of Whitlow habitually addressed her—was creating a speculation inside her father-in-law concerning the duke’s possibly having an interest in her.

  A speculation which the duke had unwittingly added to by his comment of canceling them joining him for dinner this evening to another night if she was indisposed. It sounded very much as if he was saying the earl need not bother attending if she could not.

  Elizabeth made sure to keep her lashes lowered as the duke assisted her into the carriage, and as they took their leave of that gentleman before the carriage moved on to drive them back to Whitlow Grange.

  “Well, well, well,” Whitlow drawled from the seat opposite her, and in a voice that caused Elizabeth to think of a spider about to trap an unsuspecting fly in the stickiness of its web. “I have absolutely no idea why it should be, but it would seem you have found favor with the haughty Duke of Bristol, when everyone knows that very little succeeds in pleasing him.”

  Elizabeth could well believe that, having witnessed firsthand the air of coldness the duke kept about him like a cloak.

  Except when talking to or looking at her, it seemed. Then, those pale green eyes seemed to burn with the inner passion and fire she had suspected might be the case beneath that gentleman’s cold facade.

  To Elizabeth’s surprise, she felt a similar awareness of the duke.

  Indeed, her fingers still tingled from where Bristol had maintained a grip of her hand for far longer than could be considered polite. A tingling sensation which had traveled the length of her arm and caused a feeling of fullness in her breasts and a tightening and engorging of the buds at their tips.

  It was…disturbing at best, and worrying at worst.

  Not only because it was the first stirring of physical arousal she had felt since Thomas died, but because the despicable man who was her father-in-law seemed to find even those small signs of the duke’s partiality of her to be of infinite interest. She couldn’t even begin to guess as to why that was.

  She turned away to look at the passing countryside. “I am sure the duke was only being polite.”

  Thin and bony fingers curled about her upper arm, digging painfully into her flesh. Elizabeth knew from past experience that bruises would appear on her skin later today. Ones that would require she hide those bruises by wearing a long-sleeved gown when they joined the duke for dinner the evening. Not that it would be a hardship; the weather really was unseasonably cold.

  “Bristol ain’t the sort of man to be polite to anyone unless he wishes to be,” the earl crowed as he sat forward on his seat. “As it was, the man couldn’t take his eyes off the titties so blatantly displayed above the neckline of your gown and pelisse,” he added with satisfaction.

  Elizabeth glanced down at the two garments, both styled in such a way that the tops of her breasts were barely visible.

  “Not that you have much there to show,” the earl added scathingly. “I don’t know what Thomas was about marrying a woman with the curves of a broom stick.”

  Elizabeth bit her tongue to prevent herself from asking him to make up his mind: either she was too fat or she was too thin, but she could not be both. But she knew better than to arouse her father-in-law’s ire unnecessarily.

  “Make sure you wear a gown with a very low neckline this evening,” the earl added in a hard voice.

  Elizabeth winced. “I do not believe any of my mourning gowns are designed in that style.”

  “Then send for a seamstress and have her do the appropriate alternations. Or have your maid do it,” the earl dismissed. “Just make sure the gown is tight enough and low enough this evening for your titties to look as if they might burst over the top of it and your nipples be in danger of becoming visible too. I wish the duke to be able to ogle your titties, if he feels so inclined.”

  Elizabeth’s cheeks burned at being spoken to in such a blatantly crude manner.

  Nor did she have any idea what scheme the earl was currently formulating in his devious mind, but whatever it was, she wanted no part of it.

  As she had wanted no part of him since the moment Thomas had brought her to live in his father’s home, following their elopement. The earl had wasted no time in raining down vicious and derogatory comments about Elizabeth’s unsuitability as his son’s wife, in regard to both her and her family. Even Christopher’s birth, a year later, made no difference to his animosity toward her. He had continued to use every opportunity, usually out of Thomas’s hearing, to repeat those insults. No doubt, if Christopher had not looked so much like his sire, having inherited Thomas’s features along with his dark hair, the earl might even have questioned whether or not he was Thomas’s child at all.

  Since Thomas’s death, she’d had no choice but to tolerate the bitter old man for Christopher’s sake. She consoled herself daily that, even then, it would only be until such time as her son was fully grown and the earl could no longer use him as blackmail to force her into doing as he wished.

  But that compliance most certainly did not include dressing herself up like a whore this evening, as the earl was so obviously requesting she do.

  CHAPTER THREE

  If Whitlow had thought Sterling unaware of the older man’s speculation toward the warmth he had shown to the man’s daughter-in-law this morning, then he was mistaken.

  Sterling might choose not to interact with or join in the conversation of others, his closest friends being the exception. But what most people failed to observe about his silence was the watchfulness which allowed him to miss very little of what was going on about him.

  As he had noted, that earlier today, Whitlow had been aware of Sterling’s uncharacteristic warmth toward Elizabeth, and immediately begun to scheme as to how that interest might be of benefit to him.

  James Stanley, previously the Duke of Plymouth’s valet, was now acting as aid to the five remaining Ruthless Dukes in their endeavors to find the man who had murdered Plymouth. Stanley had recently, under Sterling’s instruction, checked into the affairs, both personal and private, of both living adult members of the Marshall family.