In Scandal They Wed

  “Good night, Linnie.” The moment the name slipped out, he knew his mistake.

  Halfway to the library’s door, she froze. “Don’t,” she bit out, slowly turning.

  He hadn’t meant to call her by the name. It was simply habit. Years of thinking of her as Linnie, Ian’s Linnie. Imagining what she would look like, be like . . . and finding she was none of that.

  She was more.

  He cocked his head, watching her, slightly puzzled over her extreme reaction at his slip.

  “I’m not that girl.” An emotion he couldn’t name washed over her face. “Not anymore.”

  He nodded, studying her . . . wondering if he would ever understand her. If she would always be this mystery. A woman who tightly clung to her barriers even as she responded to his touch. “It was a slip.”

  She looked away, blinking, almost as though battling tears.

  “Evie,” he drawled, saying her name firmly, wanting to give her that, to appease her. Because, for whatever reason, it mattered to her. “Good night.”

  “Good night.” As she stepped from the room, he couldn’t be certain, but he thought he heard her whisper his name.

  Evie blinked back stinging tears as she fled the library, rubbing her knuckles in each burning eye. Foolish, stupid tears.

  She didn’t cry.

  Ever.

  She had not cried since Barbados.

  Nor during those wretched years when Papa had abandoned her at Penwich to suffer hunger, fend off bully girls, and, on occasion, endure Master Brocklehurst’s strap on her back.

  She had not even wept when word had reached her of Linnie’s death. Her sister had never fully regained her strength after Nicholas’s birth, and she’d fallen even weaker within the misery of her marriage.

  Linnie’s death had devastated Evie. It was Linnie who’d written her at Penwich after all. Only ever Linnie. And still, Evie had not wept; she had stoically borne it all.

  Why now must she feel the need to shatter into sobs?

  The answer skittered across her mind, plain as day. Because after tomorrow, your safe world will be ripped from your fingers.

  The Harbour had never seemed so far away as it did now. Even when she’d spent time in London and the country with Fallon and Marguerite, home had felt close. Always within reach.

  Nicholas, Amy, Aunt Gertie, the Murdochs—she missed them. Missed them all. Already she felt adrift without them.

  Spencer would take her from all that, keeping her with him until he finished with her and then return her as if nothing had happened.

  Ascending the winding stairs, she slid her fingers over the railing, polish-smooth and warm beneath her palm. Once in her room, she stopped and flexed her chilled toes on the plush rug beneath her feet.

  A knot formed in the pit of her belly. Ian’s son. That’s what mattered to him. And a future heir. Not her. She was only a peripheral concern. Any courtesy given to her merely extended from his obligation to Nicholas.

  It wasn’t as though he wanted her. Cared for her.

  He would bed her simply because he was her husband—a man. She’d long understood the nature of men. She would do well to remember all the hard lessons of her life and not lose her head with fanciful thoughts.

  Spencer stared at the open doorway where Evie had vanished as though a pack of hounds chased her. He did that to her. Sent her running. His stomach twisted at the unwelcome notion. His wife-to-be couldn’t escape him fast enough. Brilliant. Precisely what every groom hoped for in his bride.

  The whisper of his name still trembled on the air. As did his last glimpse of her, bare feet peeping beneath the flash of her white hem.

  He’d struggled not to stare at those bare feet as she’d sat across from him, hugging her glass of brandy as though she’d clutched the Holy Grail. He had struggled and failed. Those slim feet, so feminine, so bare, had made it hard for him to remember that he should wait until they were properly wed. The flash of her lithe, naked body had made it impossible. If she had not stopped him, he would have taken her on the library floor.

  She was to be his wife. His. Not Ian’s. Whether or not Ian had her first, in the eyes of God and law, she would only ever belong to him. The fact gave him a dark, primitive satisfaction, chased by another feeling. A niggle of guilt. What would Ian think?

  Shaking his head, he reminded himself that his cousin was gone. If it wasn’t him, some other man, likely Sheffield, would eventually claim her. His gut twisted at the thought.

  And there was the matter of doing right by Nicholas. He rubbed his fingertips together, imagining he still felt the silkiness of her skin. She was no monument to a dead man. He realized that. Perhaps that’s what she needed to realize, too.

  A slow smile curved his lips. Tomorrow, he would resume his seduction. He would use every method he possessed in his arsenal to bring her to his bed. Like it or not, he was a Winters. He knew a thing or two about talking reluctant ladies out of their gowns. It was his birthright.

  Although she didn’t realize it, Evelyn Cross’s life was about to change.

  Tomorrow they would marry.

  And she would be his.

  Chapter 14

  Sitting in the small parlor at the back of The Black Boar, Evie nibbled her way through her dinner. The savory lamb and parsnips would have more than satisfied her appetite on any other occasion, but given the circumstances, she could scarcely choke down a mouthful.

  Chasing a pea with her fork, she stared at the frosted panes of the window, where snow fell in a hazy blur of white. As good a place to look as any; certainly better than staring across from her, where Spencer sat. The journey north had been bad enough. She’d endured his close proximity for hours, feeling his intense stare as she’d constantly struggled to keep her feet from tangling with his boots.

  Giving up on her pea, she reached for her glass and took a healthy swig of sherry.

  Would she ever be comfortable in his presence? His nearness, his utter maleness, swirled around her like a heady fog of perfume. The quick little fluttering in her belly whenever she broke down and feasted her gaze on him mortified her. Considering the lie that stood between them—that he would forever believe her to be her sister—the situation was nothing short of misery; all in all, untenable considering they were about to be married.

  “How much longer, do you think?” she inquired, mostly from a need to fill the uneasy silence.

  When the innkeeper’s wife had offered them the parlor, she had informed them that a good many couples were marrying today, no doubt choosing wintertime to elope in the hopes that the abysmal weather would slow down irate papas in their pursuit. She would fetch them the first available reverend.

  He shrugged one broad shoulder. “Can’t say.”

  A clock ticked on the mantel, a lonely sound in the silence. Her gaze fell on his large, masculine hand resting casually on top of the small table. He sat at an angle, his knee peeking out the side. A very muscled knee. She hadn’t known a man’s knee could be so well shaped. Heat crawled up her face, and she hastily moved her gaze back to the window. The wind howled a desperate song, shaking snow-spotted branches outside.

  “Nasty bit of weather,” he murmured. “Fortunate we arrived when we did. Looks as though it’s worsening.”

  Her gaze snapped back to his. “Will this delay us from returning home?”

  He shrugged. “Depends if the roads are passable.”

  Nodding, she tugged on her bottom lip, her legs shaking beneath the table at the prospect of being stuck at this inn with him. For how long? She’d braced herself to endure one night. But two? Three?

  “It wouldn’t be so terrible. Since we’re not having a proper honeymoon, this might at least give us the time you wanted.”

  She shook her head, confused, unable to recall wishing for time alone with him, time for him to rattle her senses and rob her of her composure. She would hardly wish for that.

  He cocked a brow, smiling harshly. “You expressed a desire
to become better acquainted.”

  “I never—”

  “You did. In fact, you cited that as the reason we should wait before consummating our marriage. Now we shall have that time.” His smile deepened. He waved a hand airily. “In idyllic solitude.”

  “Oh.” She pulled at her sleeve, suddenly feeling like she couldn’t draw air deep enough into her lungs.

  “Are you well?” He frowned. “You look pale.”

  “I don’t know if I can do this.” Her gaze darted to the door. She rose to her feet in a swift motion, jostling the table. Dishes rattled a protest. She hated this. Hated the compulsion to run. Nonetheless, she heard herself say, “Perhaps I have not thought this through enough. It is all happening too quickly. Marriage is so very . . . permanent.”

  She loathed the tremor in her voice. Loathed feeling fear. Since that long-ago night in Barbados, she had worked so very hard to rid her life of fear. Perhaps impossible to completely prevent, but she had managed thus far.

  Then this man had arrived and shaken everything up. She stared down at him. Suddenly something else warred with the fear clawing her throat.

  “I can’t do this,” she repeated, her voice stronger as she moved for the door.

  He was on his feet. Grabbing her arm, he swung her around. “Linnie—”

  “No!” She blinked hard and hissed, “I told you not to call me that!”

  Every time he said her sister’s name it was a knife in her heart. A reminder of the lie she lived . . . the lie she must always live with him. A lifetime of never dropping her guard, never relaxing her breath—it would send her to an early grave.

  She tried to twist her arm free, but it did no good. He grabbed her other arm, pulled her close, shook her a little. His hands on her arms felt like manacles.

  “Stop! Let me go!”

  “What are you so afraid of?” he hissed, his glittering gaze darting sharply over her face, achingly close. The strong, square jaw, the well-cut lips, the deep grooves on either side of his mouth—all combined to overwhelm her senses.

  This. You.

  His voice gentled. “I’ll not hurt you, Evie.”

  “You keep calling me Linnie,” she accused, the connection so easy, so clear to her. Calling her Linnie hurt, wounded her in a way that would only strike him as irrational. As it should. Ignorant of the truth, it should.

  “It is your name,” he reminded. “In a manner. Short for Evelyn. It’s all Ian ever called you. How I first came to know you.” His stare drilled into her, stripping everything bare. She quivered deep in her belly, wishing he stared at her in such a hungry, visceral way but knowing that he was not. He was staring at Linnie . . . at whatever extraordinary pillar of womanhood he believed her to be, courtesy of Ian. “Forgive the slip. Evie will take getting accustomed to.”

  His words made her throat ache. Would he ever become accustomed to her? She shook her head, felt the pins of her coiffure loosen, her unruly hair fighting for release. She froze.

  “Listen,” he continued. “The whole of Little Billings knows you left with me. They expect you to return as my wife. To not do so will sink you into ruin, mire you so deep you shall never recover. The effects of which would spill over onto Nicholas. You can’t very well run like a frightened rabbit now, can you?”

  He was right, of course. She could not walk away now. She could not be so selfish. She’d never been weak or cowardly before. By damn if she would begin now.

  She nodded once. “You are right, of course.”

  “This is settled then.” He arched one brow. “At last?”

  “Yes.” She swallowed hard. “At last.”

  “I’ll hazard to guess that marriage is scary under the best of circumstances.” His lips twisted. “But I vow to never hurt you.” His hands gentled on her arms, flexing. “You needn’t fear me, do you understand?”

  She gazed into his eyes, drowning in the woodland green, soaking up his words, letting them fortify her. “I’m not afraid.”

  “But you were.” Something sparked in his eyes then. “Is it him? Is it Ian?”

  Ian? She shook her head, frowned. Ian? The dead man hadn’t crossed her mind. An irrational laugh bubbled in the back of her hot throat, but she fought against it, bit it back.

  She should be thinking of him. He was Nicholas’s father, after all. But only Spencer filled her head. Spencer’s nearness, his overwhelming maleness, the memory of his bare chest, ridged with muscles that resembled a Greek sculpture. The thought that he would be her husband, that he would finish what they started in the library, made her heart pound faster.

  And it dawned on her. She didn’t fear Spencer at all—she feared herself. That’s what she was running from.

  She melted in his arms and watched him like a starving woman. Even now, the night ahead tormented her. Enticed and tormented her—equally.

  She wanted to consummate their marriage. She could finally learn all that transpired in the marriage bed with a man who brought her body to life. But that would mean he would likely uncover all she sought to hide. The secret she had guarded so closely these years. What a mess.

  His fingers slid up her arms, singeing her through the fabric of her dress. “Answer me. Do I have a ghost to contend with?”

  She held his gaze, read the stark need in the brilliant green depths. The demand for truth.

  She licked her lips, considered her answer, and blurted, “Yes.”

  He jerked.

  As much as she loathed adding another lie to the web, if it stayed his impulse to seduce her, it was worth it.

  “I feel as though I’m betraying Ian.” A logical enough reason to keep Spencer at arm’s length, however much it pained her to spit the lie past her lips.

  Something passed over his features then. “Betraying Ian,” he murmured. His hands fell from her. “Legitimizing his son? Giving Nicholas a future he could never hope to have as a bastard? Hardly rings of betrayal.”

  She nodded. “Of course not, but feelings of the heart are not always logical. Just because we marry today doesn’t mean we have to consummate tonight—”

  “You’ve made your wishes clear on that matter.” His eyes stared at her. Hard. Intractable. “Tirelessly so.”

  A knock sounded on the parlor door then, followed by Mrs. Macgregor, the innkeeper’s wife. A tall gentleman with wind-chapped cheeks fell close on her heels.

  Cold washed over Evie, dulling everything else—even the usual heat she felt in Spencer’s presence. Fortunate, she supposed. She needed to be dulled. Numb to this farcical undertaking.

  Mrs. Macgregor introduced Mr. Hart.

  Somehow, a proper greeting passed her lips.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Mr. Hart said. “If you’ll stand here, we can proceed.”

  Spencer took her elbow and guided her before the window. Cold drifted from the glass, penetrating the wool of her dress. She shivered and folded her arms in front of her. Spencer must have felt her shudder. He stepped close, the length of his arm lining with her body, which only made her tremble more.

  The reverend began.

  She watched his lips move, tried to absorb his words. It was as though she drifted underwater, in a great vacuum, void of time and noise.

  Turning, she studied the strong profile of the man at her side. Stoic. His mouth didn’t give the slightest bend. His features looked carved from marble.

  He would be a part of her life now. Forever. Unto death. She struggled to wrap her head around that. To appreciate the significance of the moment. The enormity of marrying a stranger. Even as she tried to absorb all that, to see through the blur, to hear past the dull roar in her head, nothing the reverend said penetrated. Not her name. Not his.

  Nothing until Mr. Hart uttered the words man and wife.

  Man and wife. Man and wife.

  She was married.

  As a girl at Penwich, she had dreamed of adventure, of leaving the ordinary behind and flying away from the familiar. Even in those days, marriage had
not played into her notions of adventure. And afterwards, after Nicholas was born and she’d given up on the notion of adventure, marriage had loomed ever further, the most distant and remote of possibilities.

  And yet now, here she stood. A wife.

  “You may now kiss your bride.”

  The pronouncement launched her heart into her throat. She turned.

  Those pale green eyes stared down at her, inching closer as his head lowered. She felt the others watching her, cheerful, interested, blind to the fact that they watched a set of strangers wed . . . prepare to kiss.

  His hands took hold of her shoulders, firm but gentle.

  Her gaze fixed on his descending lips.

  At the last moment, she turned her face away. His lips landed on her cheek, stilled there for a moment, a warm press to her chilled cheek. She fixed her eyes on the frosted windowpane until his mouth lifted. Until his hands fell away.

  Slowly, she settled her gaze on his face.

  A breath shivered from her lips. Something dark and angry glittered in the green of his eyes, and she understood at once. He did not like being denied. Especially this. Their first kiss as man and wife. Not an auspicious beginning, but she could not help herself.

  Mrs. Macgregor clapped heartily, unaware of the tension. For a few moments, they preoccupied themselves with signing a leather-bound register. Well, the others did. She could narrowly function. With a shaking hand, she signed her name, an indistinct scrawl. And it was done.

  Now she had the rest of her life to become acquainted with her husband.

  And pray he never became too acquainted with her.

  Chapter 15

  “We’re sleeping here?”

  Spencer watched as Evie stood in the center of the inn’s finest room and tried to grasp that she was his wife.

  “Yes.” Leaning against the armoire, he broodingly watched as her gaze flicked to the bed, then away, then back again. His lips twitched. “Is there something wrong with the room?”