In Scandal They Wed, Page 21

  “What I felt for you is true. Real. What we have—”

  “What we have . . .” He snorted, dropping his hands from her. He dragged a hand through his hair and released a hissing breath. He stared up at the settling night, at the tangled latticework of branches canopying them. After a moment, he looked down at her, at her blue gaze, her lush mouth. His stomach tightened. “I don’t know that we have anything.”

  “We do.” She moistened her lips.

  He watched the smooth glide of her tongue over her bottom lip . . . felt the familiar pull. Apparently she could still rouse him.

  “We have something,” she insisted. “Something special. Don’t let this ruin it.”

  “I won’t. You already did that.” With an inward curse, he advanced on her and backed her against a tree. “Tell me this . . . since we’re finally being honest with each other.”

  She nodded once, her eyes scanning his face, wide and wild as a moth dancing near flame.

  “That night in the cellar . . .” He paused, his jaw clenched so tightly that it ached. A nagging thought had been there since he’d overheard her stepmother in the parlor. One of the many thoughts tangling inside his head. “Were you a virgin?”

  Her lips parted on a small, breathy gasp. She dropped her gaze and he knew. She didn’t need to admit it.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  He supposed a small part of himself delighted in this—the primitive in him that thrilled in knowing he was her first. And yet she had lied, faked knowledge, let him use her as though she’d been a more experienced woman, accustomed to a man between her thighs.

  “So was the whole purpose in getting locked in the cellar a ploy? The darkness a way to distract me from noticing your maidenhead?”

  She sucked in a breath. “You know I had no part in that. I wouldn’t have wished myself down there for anything. I spent the entire day down there, terrified.”

  “Yes. A convenient fear, that.”

  Hurt flashed across her face. “Will you believe nothing I say anymore?” A certain bleakness entered her voice. “You won’t let me make this right, will you?”

  “Make it right?” he sneered, hating the ugly feeling coiling through him but unable to suppress it. “You want to make it right?”

  She nodded slowly, her eyes uncertain, afraid. As she should be.

  His gaze dropped, assessing her slender form shivering against the tree. “And what will you do to make it right? You’ve already shown how far you’ll go to cover your lies.” His blood thickened as he remembered those moments in the cellar. He ran his thumb over her bottom lip and felt a curl of satisfaction when the flesh quivered against his touch. “You took me between these pretty lips to distract me, didn’t you? Drive me wild so that I wouldn’t even notice the rending of your maidenhead. Did it hurt?”

  Fire filled her pale cheeks.

  “Hmm. I think it did.” He slipped his thumb inside her mouth, touched it to the tip of her tongue. “Yes, indeed. You’ll go far,” he murmured. “So what shall you do to make amends?”

  She said nothing, merely watched him with those wide, wounded eyes. He found that he hated that particular expression. He preferred her mad and fighting.

  Her tongue started to move against his thumb, her moist lips pulling, sucking. “Will you beg?” he asked hoarsely.

  She released his thumb. Her blue eyes glittered as her chin firmed, tilting at that proud, obstinate angle he was coming to recognize as distinctively Evie. “Is that what I must do?”

  He angled his head, still assessing her. He pushed his body flush with hers, savoring the sensation of her every line and soft curve that he had come to worship these last few days. It was more than he could take.

  “Begging isn’t necessary. I much prefer action to words.”

  She arched a brow.

  Stepping back from her, he crossed his arms and commanded in a cold voice, “Take off your clothes.”

  Chapter 26

  In the shadow of the woods, her face paled. She glanced around them, her gaze darting wildly over their surroundings. “Here? It’s cold. Anyone could come upon—”

  “I thought you wanted to make everything right,” he challenged. A voice whispered across his mind, telling him he was being harsh, cruel even. But he couldn’t stop himself. His sense of betrayal ran too strong. He had thought that, of all things, Evie was a woman he could trust. Sweet. Honorable.

  His jaw tightened, teeth aching where they clenched together. Perhaps honor did not exist among women. God knew he’d seen little evidence of it in the females to cross his path. “Prove it.”

  For an interminable moment, she didn’t move. Cold wind stirred the branches in the trees, whipping a loose strand across her cheek. In the gloom of the woods, it looked almost black against her pale skin.

  Then, her hands moved to the front of her dress. She unfastened the ties of her cloak. It fell in a hush to the snow-dusted ground. He watched, his breath coming harder as her fingers crawled over each of the tiny buttons. She shrugged free of the dress, letting it drop in a whisper at her feet. Her shoulders gleamed in the twilight like glistening marble, and his mouth watered.

  She loosened the strings of her petticoat until it, too, dropped. The rest of her clothes followed: corset, drawers, garters, stockings. Until she stood naked before him. Her gaze held his, defiant and proud. “I trust you will warm me?” She cocked a brow in challenge.

  In the deepening dusk, he noticed the burn in her cheeks. Her hands shook at her sides, her body shivering against the bite of cold.

  With a curse, he stepped forward. Even in his fury with her, he hated to see her tremble from cold and would stop her suffering if he could. His anger turned on himself.

  He crowded her. Shrugging out of his jacket, he forced her into it. Next he shielded her from the wind with his body, backing her into the tree again.

  She said nothing, offered no protest as he took her shoulders in his hands and stared down at her.

  Her gaze remained fastened on his face as his hands dropped, slid inside his jacket to circle her waist. His palms brushed up her ribs—took each breast in his hand.

  A sharp little gasp escaped her. He grasped the mounds firmly, his thumbs stroking her pebbled nipples, stroking the cold tips into burning peaks.

  As her breath fell faster, so did his movements, until he plucked rapidly at the turgid little crests. A satisfied growl erupted from his chest as her expression altered. Her eyelids dropped to half-mast. She watched him through those partially closed eyes, her arousal a lush, palpable thing.

  He released her breasts and jerked her pelvis against him, loving the feel of her naked body. Vulnerable and exposed. Ready for him.

  He ground his arousal into her in fierce, angry thrusts that made her head arch back against the tree. She moaned. All his anger spiraled then, swung into a dark desire to have her, to dominate and possess . . . punish her with his body. Make her want him.

  He nudged her legs apart with his knee.

  A quick hand between her thighs found her ready, wet for him.

  Her cry ripped sharply in his ear, the wild sound merging and vanishing into the woods. Her fingers curled around his arms, digging into his biceps through his jacket, drawing him closer.

  With a growl, he grabbed her hands, positioned them back against the tree. “You don’t touch.”

  She blinked, nodding.

  He moved his hands to his trousers, gazing starkly into her face, hating this need for her, this want that coursed through him like a spreading poison.

  Hiking one of her thighs up around his hip, he penetrated her in one hard thrust.

  Her gurgled cry filled his ear.

  Clutching her bottom in both hands, he lifted her higher, spread her wide for his every driving plunge.

  She dipped her head, her mouth seeking his.

  He dodged her lips, not allowing her that pleasure. Or himself.

  He pumped harder, reveling in her clinging heat. He po
unded her against the tree, seeking his release, taking his pleasure and crying out his deep satisfaction when it arrived.

  The night swallowed up his guttural shout as he spent himself inside her warmth.

  He collapsed against her, pushing her deeper into the tree. The wind rustled the leaves, and he grew aware of the cold again, aware of the shivering woman against him.

  Aware of what he had done.

  As another moment ticked by, his actions sank in all the deeper, and he felt like a wretch. He had never treated a woman so roughly. With so little concern for her comfort. But then, never had he found himself in the grips of such savage need. And he had reveled in it—in her. Which only made him all the more disgusted with himself.

  Deep within him, her betrayal still stung. Worse than his father’s betrayals. Worse than when Adara had lied to him and chosen Cullen. The pain went deeper.

  Because he loved Evie. Despite everything.

  He cursed beneath his breath. For once, he could not gather his usual cloak of reserve.

  He lifted a hand, let it hover, drift near her face, over the hair he knew felt like silk against his palm. She watched him, her eyes so stark, hungry, and intent, the purest of blues.

  Shaking his head, he dropped his hand.

  He pulled away, slid his body from hers.

  She sagged against the tree, her hands turning, curling into the bark as if she would fall to the ground otherwise.

  Most of her pins had fallen loose, and her hair flowed around her like a cloud of shimmering bronze. She reminded him of some sort of wood nymph, naked and feral, as natural to her surroundings as the air itself.

  He forced his gaze away, refusing to let the sight affect him. She’d affected him enough. He could let her affect him no more.

  He gazed off into the woods, staring blindly where the trees thickened and nothing but murk and shadows dwelled.

  “I’m leaving,” he announced, setting his clothes to rights.

  “Leaving?” She crouched and snatched up her clothes, pressing them close to her body. “Back to the house—”

  “No. Back to Ashton Grange.”

  “What about . . .” Her voice faded. Thick emotion flickered over her face. Squatting, she stared.

  He shrugged. “We haven’t anything, you and I.”

  “Merely marriage,” she shot back, rising.

  He grimaced. “Unfortunate, that. But nothing too dire. Plenty of spouses live apart. It was our original plan, was it not?”

  “But I don’t want to. Not anymore.” There was no mistaking the tight emotion in her voice.

  He ignored it. “Our original agreement still stands. I will see that you are provided for.”

  “What of Nicholas? Have you forgotten him?”

  “Of course not. He’ll have all he needs.”

  She came off the tree then, eyes sparking blue fire. “Except a father.”

  Perhaps because it mattered so much to her, because he wanted to hurt her as she’d hurt him, he pushed, zeroed in on that most vulnerable spot. “His father is gone. Face it. Just like you can’t be Linnie, I can’t be Ian.”

  “Bastard,” she whispered.

  The dislike gleaming in her eyes gratified him in that moment. An easier sight than when she looked at him with her eyes warm and soft, compelling him to forgive her, to forget her betrayal, to believe in the promise he read in her face. To believe in love.

  “The boy stays with you for now.”

  “For now?”

  “He’s a child, still. A babe really. He believes you to be his mother—”

  “I am!”

  “Eventually, he’ll need a man’s influence.”

  “You’ll not take him from me,” she hissed, slipping into her clothes with angry movements, her blue eyes flashing. “Ever.”

  He angled his head. “Think you can fight me on this? And win? You’re in no position to make demands.”

  “You’re vile.” She shrugged out of his jacket and flung it at him with great force. “How could I have let myself feel anything for you?”

  “Indeed. I’m asking myself that same question.” Turning, he strode away, cutting a hard line through the trees. No turning around. No looking back.

  It was easier for him to leave that way. And stay away.

  Evie remained still for several moments, shaking in the chilled night, but not from cold. Cold fury washed through her as she stared at his retreating back.

  How could she have imagined herself in love with such a heartless man? He had narrowed in on her greatest fear, the core reason she had agreed to marry him, and attacked with all the viciousness of a predator.

  Was that who Spencer Lockhart really was?

  She swallowed against the lump rising in her throat at the notion of losing Nicholas. If this was Spencer’s reaction, she was right to have feared telling him the truth at the very beginning.

  With trembling hands, she finished dressing. Tears burned the backs of her eyes. She still felt him in the dull throb between her thighs, a mortifying reminder. Heat licked her cheeks. That had been the height of weakness—surrendering herself to him, letting him seduce her and then walk away after saying such cruel things.

  Did her betrayal justify such treatment from him? She shook her head, rubbing her fingers against her suddenly aching temples. She didn’t think so, but she vowed never to become so close that he could hurt her again.

  Dressed, she stomped through the woods, imagining countless different ways to stop him should he ever try to take Nicholas from her. She was a fool to have dropped her guard, to have let him in so quickly. Her stride quickened. She skirted the pond, eager to see her son.

  A dull pain spread throughout her chest. Amy would have taken Nicholas inside for dinner by now. They were probably wondering why she had not joined them yet. Of course, she wanted to—she had been gone for so long. She only hoped they did not read her misery.

  Her cottage loomed near. The whitewashed walls and brown thatched roof suddenly felt dear and familiar.

  She inhaled deeply. Lesson learned. She would reclaim the life she’d had before Spencer ever burst into her world. Yes. She’d take that life back. And pretend it was all she ever wanted.

  She would pretend it was enough.

  Chapter 27

  Spencer sipped from his cup and glanced at Mrs. Brooks, lifting his brow. Cold coffee. Again.

  She arched a brow back at him in familiar defiance, daring him to complain. He knew better. Pressing his lips into a mutinous line, he sipped a second time.

  “Something wrong, my lord?” she asked with decided cheek.

  “Slightly . . .” He chose his words carefully, fully aware that his staff had tired of his foul mood over the last fortnight and was in a state of mutiny. A fate worse than cold coffee awaited him if he did not watch his words.

  Ever since his return home, he’d been the veritable lion with a sore paw. In the beginning, he had convinced himself it was merely his lingering anger. Fury over Evie’s betrayal. Over being made a fool. However, as days rolled past, he’d realized it might be something more. Something far more serious.

  He missed Evie.

  Whoever, whatever she was, she had infiltrated his life. In a very short time, he’d become accustomed to her. He had come to crave her, need her as his lungs required air. Logic didn’t apply. Otherwise, he would simply shut down that weak part of himself that still wanted her—even after her betrayal—and go about his life.

  “Slightly what?” Mrs. Brooks asked with a challenging glint to her eyes.

  “Tepid,” he answered, arriving at a suitable word that wouldn’t put her nose too badly out of joint. Especially considering how greatly he missed her scones. She had not made any of his favorite foods since he’d returned without his bride.

  “Is it?” she asked with mock innocence. As though she were not fully aware she had been serving him cold coffee the last several mornings. As well as substandard food at each meal. Nor was he too dense
to conclude the reason why.

  Not after Mrs. Brooks had declared him a fool for leaving Evie behind in Little Billings. He had said nothing. He tolerated her impertinence. What else could he do? Reveal Evie’s subterfuge to the world so everyone would understand why he’d deserted her?

  Mrs. Brooks left the room with a sniff, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Seated behind his desk, he turned in his chair and stared out at the gardens. The weeks had not eased the bitter ache in his chest. Evie’s betrayal still stung. It stuck in his throat to know that the first woman to fill his heart in . . . well, ever . . . had not trusted him enough with the truth of her very identity.

  Mrs. Brooks returned then, clearing her throat. “You’ve a caller.”

  “Who is it?”

  Her nose lifted a notch and her eyes glinted with accusation. “Your father-in-law, Mr. Cosgrove.” The relish in which she uttered his name implied that she thought Evie’s father was here to upbraid him. Unlikely. He recalled her father clearly. The spineless fellow lived in the shadow of his formidable wife. He’d more than likely come to beg for funds now that he’d learned Evie was wed to a viscount. A new relation with deep pockets was a singular opportunity.

  “Show him in.”

  Moments later, Evie’s weak-chinned father stood before him, hat in hand.

  After a moment, Spencer rose to properly greet the man, even if he wasn’t feeling kindly disposed to visitors, especially the related-to-Evie variation. In particular this fool. What kind of man permitted his daughter to sacrifice her good name and engage in fraud? Even to benefit his other daughter.

  “I’ll be brief,” Henry Cosgrove began, stepping forward.

  Spencer rounded the desk, reluctant to offer his hand, but supposing he would. He was midstride when the smaller man dropped his hat, swung back his arm, and planted his fist in Spencer’s face.

  Spencer staggered from the unexpected blow, the desk behind him catching him. Holding one hand over his eye, he glared at his father-in-law. “What the hell was that for?”

  “A father is supposed to protect his daughter.” Cosgrove tugged on his jack, his face red and twitchy. “I confess I’ve done a poor job of it over the years, but I figured it’s not too late to start.”