In Scandal They Wed

  She slapped his hand away and stepped back. “Is that your definition of a real marriage? Marriage involves more than the act of consummation.”

  “View it however you like. After we part ways, when you return here . . . or anywhere, you’ll still be mine, and I’ll not be made a cuckold.” He flexed one hand into a fist at his side and wondered at the stark surge of possession burning through him.

  Standing this close, he saw her lips quiver. She lifted her chin, staring down—if possible—the slim column of her nose at him. “I’ll not shame you. You need not fear that. I will behave with utmost decorum. I wouldn’t dream of behaving in a less than circumspect fashion.”

  “Well.” He cocked his head. A dangerous churning started in his gut. “It wouldn’t be the first time if you did.”

  She gasped.

  He blinked hard, angry with himself. What had possessed him to fling out that unkind remark? So she’d fallen from grace. He was no saint himself. Unlike the rest of Society, he was not one to hold ladies to impossible moral standards.

  Was he so jealous of her indiscretion with Ian? If it hadn’t happened, he wouldn’t even have been standing here with her now. He wouldn’t even have known her.

  She edged back a step, clearly on the verge of flight, and he didn’t blame her.

  Her gaze swept over him like he was something foul she found beneath her slipper. “Let us be clear now. At every encounter, must I account for my past? Is it something for which you will forever condemn me?”

  Bloody hell. “Linnie,” he started.

  “No. No.” She held up a hand, her slim fingers splayed wide in the air. “Please. You are correct, after all. I can make no claims to decorum. None that you should believe, at any rate. I’m merely the silly, stupid girl your cousin ruined before he left for the war. And you”—she looked him up and down—“are the honorable kinsman sacrificing himself on the altar of matrimony.” Her blue eyes glowed brightly. “How very proud you must be.”

  “I did not say that—”

  “No, but you meant it.” Her voice shook, rippling through him like a cold wind. “It’s only the truth.” Clenching her shawl tightly around her shoulders, she swung a wide circle around him, striding past with fiery dignity.

  He stopped her with a hand on her arm.

  He couldn’t help it; he couldn’t let her go. This stranger he would wed.

  He felt he should know her, understand her for all that Ian had shared about her. And yet he did not. He didn’t know the first thing about this creature with wit and courage and fire in her eyes and an expressive face that carried its own unique history. He didn’t know her. Yet. But he intended to.

  She glared at his hand on her arm and back to his face, her firm, narrow little chin jutting at an obstinate angle. He burned to grasp it in his hand, pull her to him and sample her mouth, see if her lips tasted as soft as they felt.

  “You have more to add?” she fairly hissed. “I think we’ve said entirely enough for one night. Perhaps we can begin again on the morrow with fresh insults.”

  His lips twisted. God, she was a spitfire.

  Even beneath the wool sleeve of her gown he felt the humming pulse of her warm flesh. She affected him. He thought back to the eager servant girl at the inn. Perhaps he should have taken her up on her offer. Because at this moment, this close, with his hand on Linnie, he wanted her with a blood-pumping intensity. The kind of intensity that forced him to act. Seize and claim her now.

  He tugged her closer. She came, tumbling against his chest. He hardened instantly at the soft press of her breasts through her hideous gown. Her head tilted back to watch him, her brilliant gaze softly questioning. He studied the length of her long lashes, inky cobwebs framing the vivid blue of her eyes. He would see them even in the deep of dark. In his bed. He would see her eyes even as their bodies rocked together, locked in passion.

  Aroused, shaken, he dropped his hand from her arm as if burned.

  Wide-eyed, she stared at him.

  “Go,” he snarled. “Just go, Linnie—”

  “Stop!” Her chest lifted with a giant breath. “Don’t call me that. I’m Evie.” Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. “No one calls me Linnie.” She looked away from his eyes abruptly, adding in a softer voice, “Not anymore.”

  He nodded jerkily. He’d heard the others call her Evie and thought it just another nickname for Evelyn. He hadn’t realized she now preferred it exclusively.

  “Evie,” he said, tasting it on his tongue, savoring it.

  It suited her. Linnie belonged to a little girl. He scanned her slender length, the breasts she hid beneath the rag she called a dress. Evie was a woman. All tempting woman.

  “Evie,” he repeated, brushing a stray strand off her cheek and tucking it behind her ear.

  Her eyes gleamed in the night, uncertain as they moved from his eyes to his mouth. Tension still hummed on the air, volatile and crackling. A cinder waiting to catch fire. Her gaze flickered with some emotion before dropping half-mast.

  He dipped his head, holding his mouth above hers, sighing her name against her lips. “Evie.” He liked that he could call her something Ian never had. Linnie was Ian’s. Evie would be his.

  “Yes.”

  He breathed in her gaspy reply, his gaze devouring her face, every curve and hollowed line. “Call me Spencer.”

  “Spencer,” she whispered, her stare back on his mouth.

  He nodded, liking the soft roll of his name on her lips.

  “Evie,” he tasted her name again. “I’m going to kiss you now.” He let his meaning hang, hover, sink deep.

  Her eyes flared wide, but she didn’t move as he lowered his head. He brushed his lips to hers, tasted gently the hint of warm sherry on her lips. Her lips moved tentatively, almost like a beginner. Or at least someone very rusty.

  Blood pounded in his veins. He shuddered, hard-pressed to keep his desire under control.

  She leaned into him, gave herself up, and he snapped. Slipping a hand around the back of her neck and an arm around her waist, he hauled her off her feet.

  With a firm grip on the back of her neck, he angled her for his mouth, groaning against her soft lips, forcing them apart for his invading tongue.

  Soft skin filled his palm. Silky tendrils brushed the back of his hand as he held her close, deepening the kiss, hungry, starving for more. He dragged his mouth down her throat, licking and gently biting at the wildly thrumming pulse in her neck.

  Her moan swung into a gasp.

  As if the sound frightened her, she lurched her face away. Too soon, it ended.

  Reluctantly, he released her, let her slide down the length of him.

  Like a woman drunk, she staggered back from the circle of his arms, pressing one shaking hand against her lips. Lips he still tasted on his own.

  His hands opened and curled at his sides, aching to haul her back, to clutch her close, to feel the slim, giving length of her against him again.

  Her wide eyes looked strangely wounded as she gazed upon him. “This is too soon. I’m still adjusting to the notion of marrying you . . . of, of—”

  “Sharing my bed,” he finished with a snap. Would she prefer he be someone else? He inhaled, his chest lifting. “I told you my expectations. This should come as no surprise.”

  She shook her head. Sun-kissed tendrils escaped the confines of her simple coiffure, framing her face and making her look young and fresh. Utterly desirable. “We’re not even married yet.”

  He couldn’t help himself. He tossed his head back and laughed. The harsh sound filled the garden, echoing all around. A kiss before marriage scandalized her? When she had done so much more before? With Ian?

  Her eyes flashed with outrage, understanding the meaning behind his laughter.

  Even in the gloom, he detected the burning rise of color in her narrow face. She made a sound, a low, animal-like noise in the back of her throat. This time he saw her hand coming—but unlike the last time, he caught it
in his grasp. He flexed his hand over her slim fingers. So fine that the slightest pressure would crush them.

  She whimpered and tried to pull free.

  “You struck me once,” he bit out. “Don’t make it a habit.”

  She tugged harder, color unevenly staining her cheeks. She possessed mettle, he’d give her that.

  “Then don’t make it a habit of treating me like a whore.”

  “Very well.” He inclined his head ever so slightly, unable to deny that charge.

  For whatever reason, she provoked him into flinging her past at her time and time again. Bewildering, that. He didn’t condemn her; he was certainly no paragon of morality. On the contrary, he came from a long line of scoundrels. To be fair, he had to count himself among their ranks a time or two. Before the war, he’d almost been as wild and unrepentant as the rest of the men in his family, all in the hope to fit in among them.

  And yet her past with Ian plagued him. Drove him to fling angry words. He sighed, not particularly liking himself just then.

  He dropped her hand. “Go,” he commanded.

  She didn’t move.

  “Go,” he barked.

  Like a startled hare, she bolted, leaving him in the garden. He stood alone for several moments, dragging a hand through his hair. Tomorrow he would depart for Northumberland, to the one place that always felt like home. They would stay the night there before moving on to Scotland.

  The prospect should have settled peacefully in his chest. During the war, he had dreamed of returning to Ashton Grange. When his mother took him there as a boy . . . those had been good days. He hoped to reclaim a measure of that again.

  Only now he would possess a wife. Evie.

  He rubbed a palm against his thigh. He heard a door shut in the distance and knew she was gone. For now. Soon she would have nowhere to run. Soon she would be his.

  Chapter 12

  Evie looked up and stared through the parted curtains as if waking from a dream. “What is this place?”

  “Ashton Grange. The estate came to me through my mother.” Spencer swayed slightly on the squabs as the carriage turned onto the drive. “It’s the only thing I’ve left of her aside from a few rusty memories.” He shook his head. The barest scowl crossed his handsome face.

  She found herself staring at his well-formed mouth. Felt her own mouth part, her lips tingle and loosen on an inaudible sigh with the memory of their kiss.

  She’d thought of little else throughout their journey north. She couldn’t have imagined how much it would stir her. How much she would ache to feel his lips on hers again.

  She closed her eyes in a long-suffering blink. Millie’s voice filled her ears, her explicit descriptions dancing through her head. Heat swamped her, creeping up from her too-tight chest, to her neck, her face . . .

  She saw herself naked with Spencer, their bare limbs tangled, their hot mouths kissing, dragging . . . everywhere. To all the intimate places she now knew—courtesy of Millie—could be touched, kissed, loved.

  Cheeks burning, her breath fell faster. Embarrassed that Spencer might detect his mortifying effect on her, she quickly turned her attention back out the window just as they stopped before the sprawling country house.

  His voice slid across the closed confines of the carriage, brushing her skin like a feather’s stroke. “We’ll stay the night here.”

  Although he’d declared himself well-heeled, she certainly had not expected him to possess anything of this level. With its great mullioned windows and the flawlessly maintained front hedges circling the house, Ashton Grange looked like something that might belong to a duchess like Fallon.

  A sick little feeling stirred in her belly. With wealth and property came rank and position. Neither of which she wanted. The privileged were always scrutinized. The last thing she needed was scrutiny . . . where someone could pry loose a few truths best left buried.

  Mr. Murdoch hopped down from his perch to open the carriage door, looking so weary that Evie felt a stab of regret. The man needed to be resting beside his fire, his feet propped on a footstool, not haring off across the north of England atop a carriage in the cling of winter.

  Spencer must have read her mind. Or maybe he saw the tired lines around Mr. Murdoch’s eyes himself. “You can return to Little Billings on the morrow, Murdoch. I’ve a carriage here. One of my footmen shall take us the rest of the way.”

  Murdoch snapped to attention. “I’ll not be leaving Missus Evie alone—”

  “She won’t be alone. She’ll be under my protection. From here on, she’ll be my concern.”

  Apparently that wasn’t good enough. Murdoch cut his gaze to her, arching a bushy, caterpillar brow in question.

  Spencer tensed, looked at her, waiting to see how she would respond. Whether or not she would give herself over to him as a wife ought.

  Evie nodded. “It will be all right.” She glanced at Spencer. “I’ll be safe.”

  The wicked way his mouth quirked, she wondered if she perhaps misspoke.

  The front door swung open at that moment. A tall, ruddy-faced woman emerged. “Spencer?” She rushed down the steps. “Is that you, my boy?”

  Before Spencer could answer, she flung her arms around him in an unseemly display of affection. “Sweet boy! My sweet, sweet boy. I never thought these old eyes would see you again. Oh, dear, you’re here and we’re only with half staff. It shall take me a week to outfit the place properly—”

  Spencer patted her back, sending Evie a glance. “It’s good to be here, Mrs. Brooks. And no worries. I should have sent word of my visit.”

  “Indeed, you should have,” she chided. The woman pulled back and clasped his face with both hands. “Ah, look at you. You’ve the look of your mother. A fine, handsome man you turned out.” Her gaze drifted to Evie. “And who’s this you’ve brought with you?”

  “This is Evelyn Cross. We’ll be journeying to Scotland in the morning. To wed.”

  Mrs. Brooks clapped her hands together. Before Evie could offer a proper greeting, the larger woman enveloped her in her arms. “Ah, lass! I always knew the right one would come along for our lad.”

  “Easy there, Mrs. Brooks. I’d like to keep her in one piece.”

  Mrs. Brooks pulled back, releasing Evie with quick hands. “Forgive me. I’m quite overcome.”

  “We’ve been traveling hard, Mrs. Brooks.”

  “Of course.” She waved Murdoch away from their luggage. “Good man, leave that for one of the footmen and move on to the kitchens with you for a meal.” Beaming, she lifted her skirts and led Evie and Spencer inside. “I’ll have you both settled in no time.”

  Evie snuck a glance at Spencer as he walked beside her, his face impassive, one hand on her elbow. Strange, but that hand on her elbow felt natural. Good.

  “Cook made shepherd’s pie—”

  “Ah. I remember it well. The best I ever ate.”

  Mrs. Brooks nodded gravely. “It’s the red wine. She uses a liberal hand.”

  In the foyer, Evie tried not to gape at the crystal chandelier. The spectacular monstrosity would not fit inside any room of her house. She blinked against its sudden light, welcoming the intrusion, letting it jar her awake, reminding her that this wasn’t natural. None of this was. Not his hand on her elbow, not him, not her . . . together in this mausoleum, soon to be married.

  And how could it be natural? Right? He didn’t know her, and he never could. Not with subterfuge sitting between them. Not with a union that would only resemble a marriage, and even then last only a few months.

  His hand moved from her elbow to the small of her back as they ascended the stairs. She shivered, that single touch undoing her. For the barest instant, a mere breath, she longed for this to be real and not a sham. For a moment, she considered confessing the truth. Telling him who she was. Who she wasn’t.

  A breath swelled up from her chest as she followed Mrs. Brooks down the corridor, her husband-to-be an imposing presence at her side. She exhaled, the a
ir shuddering from her lips as she imagined herself saying the words. I’m not Linnie.

  No. She couldn’t risk it, couldn’t risk losing Nicholas. Her gaze scanned the lavish surroundings they passed. Clearly, Spencer possessed the means to wrest her son from her. No magistrate would deny him. Especially in favor of a woman that wasn’t even Nicholas’s birth mother.

  She would keep her secret—and she would keep Nicholas. As for her marriage, she would do her best to be a good wife. For however long they were together. According to him, it wouldn’t be very long.

  For now, she would simply concentrate on making it through tonight.

  Later that evening, Evie brought her brush down vigorously and caught a snarl. Her reflection in the vanity mirror winced back at her. Still, she continued to brush the cloud of golden brown until her scalp tingled and the strands crackled.

  Tomorrow they would cross the border into Scotland. Tomorrow they would marry. Tomorrow she would add a new lie to the ever-growing pile.

  She’d always justified her decision to take Linnie’s place. Nicholas had needed a mother, and Linnie hadn’t been able to manage it—not without the support of Papa and Georgianna. Evie, however, had been expendable in their eyes.

  Somehow she did not think Spencer Lockhart would be pleased to know he was marrying Evangeline Cosgrove’s older half sister. No matter the altruism of her motives.

  Unable to stare at herself any longer, she set her brush down and pushed up from the stool. Rubbing her arms, not yet ready for sleep, she turned from the large tester bed.

  Muttering to herself, she snatched up her night-rail, convinced there was a library about. Swinging it around her shoulders, she stepped out into the corridor, intent on finding a good book to occupy her thoughts.

  With his solitude stolen, Spencer hungrily watched Evie from where he sat ensconced in a wing-backed chair, careful not to alert her of his presence in the library as he drank deeply from his brandy.

  He ceased to breathe altogether when she stretched up on her tiptoes for a thin volume on a shelf just beyond her reach. He’d never seen her hair loose and he drank in the sight, following the trail of waves brushing the rounded curve of her bottom. In the low glow of light, her hair gleamed like sun-kissed honey. His palms tingled, itching to bury themselves in the thick locks.