In Scandal They Wed, Page 7

  “On horseback, no. We’ll be comfortable enough in a carriage.”

  “I can’t possibly be ready tomorrow.” It would take more than a day to explain matters to everyone in her household and set their concerns to rest.

  He frowned. “Then the day after tomorrow we shall leave for Scotland.”

  “Scotland?” She shook her head. Everything was happening too soon, becoming too real much too quickly. She squeezed her hands even tighter.

  “Know you of any quicker way to wed without special license?” He grinned suddenly, his teeth white and gleaming.

  She blinked. “Why do you look so . . . pleased?”

  “In the matter of one afternoon, I’ve righted an issue of honor on behalf of my cousin and managed to settle the bothersome matter of finding a bride.”

  “Oh.” Deflated, Evie moved toward the door.

  Certainly he wouldn’t be smiling because he was marrying her. That would be absurd. How many men would feel pleased about entering into marriage with a veritable stranger? He didn’t know her, and what he did know of her wasn’t her. It was Linnie.

  Their marriage was merely a point of honor for him. A cold calculation. Nothing more. She would do well to remember that. In a few months, they would put the farce behind them and continue their separate lives.

  Chapter 9

  The smile faded from Spencer’s lips as the door clicked shut behind Mrs. Cross—soon to be Lady Winters. He winced, recalling that he had neglected to mention that fact. It wasn’t deliberate. He could scarcely remember it himself. The formal address felt strange and alien on him. Unwanted. A loathsome title that had belonged to his father and brothers before him. It was never intended for him. A fact of which they had made certain to keep him apprised. Daily. Still, he ought to have mentioned it. Not that he imagined she would mind. What woman wouldn’t want a title before her name?

  He shook his head. Had he actually proposed marriage to Ian’s precious Linnie? What’s more, had he actually placed a stipulation on her for an heir? To be conceived in all haste?

  He laughed hoarsely. He might claim duty as his motive, but make no mistake, he longed to strip Mrs. Cross of her dowdy garments and explore her at leisure . . . to discover for himself all her hidden charms. The urge to bury himself in her softness had nothing to do with his need for an heir and everything to do with his desire to possess her.

  He carefully resettled his weight on the bed, mindful of his throbbing shoulder. Lusting after Ian’s woman was no way to honor his memory. And yet, he couldn’t seem to cease the lascivious bent to his thoughts.

  His guilt was alleviated somewhat at the thought of all he could provide Ian’s boy. Reason enough to marry her. And presenting Linnie to his stepmother and putting an end to all her matchmaking schemes held decided appeal. No doubt Adara had a hand in her schemes, too. She would be particular about who took her place as Lady Winters.

  Five years ago, he had been crushed when Cullen announced his engagement to Adara at the family’s annual Christmas ball. Especially considering the fact that the day before, the chit had promised to run away with him. When Spencer left England, he never thought to return. Never thought to see his degenerate brothers, his heartless stepmother, or the faithless Adara again.

  With no warning, the door flung wide.

  Mrs. Cross’s aunt strode inside, splotches of color staining the parchment-thin skin of her face.

  “What are you about?” she demanded.

  “At the moment?” He arched a brow and replied drolly, “Recuperating from an arrow you shot into my back.”

  She snorted. “You’re alive, aren’t you? Now.” She stabbed the air with one wrinkled, crooked finger. “Evie says you’re planning to marry her.”

  “I am.”

  Her rheumy-blue eyes narrowed. “Why would you want to do that? She’s ruined, you know.” She slapped a hand through the air. “She told me that you know everything. And let me tell you what else I know. I know that no man wants another man’s leavings.”

  Charming. “Apparently, I do.”

  With a disdainful sniff, she crossed her bony arms over her thin chest. “I don’t trust you.”

  “The boy’s father was my kin.”

  She rocked back on her heels. “Ah, ’tis honor that drives you, then?”

  “Your niece has agreed to marry me. She trusts me. Nothing else matters. Not even your approval.” He inclined his head. “Although desired, it is not necessary.”

  Her thin gray brows winged high, reaching toward her hairline. “Indeed. Aren’t you the arrogant one?” She curled a finger toward him. “Now heed this, I’ll be watching you.” Her gaze scanned his face. “A handsome face and fine eyes won’t fool me. Hurt her and next time my arrow might find its way to your heart.”

  Before he could respond to that dire threat, she drove a hard line from the room, nearly knocking over the sturdy Mrs. Murdoch as she entered.

  “I believe,” he said drolly to the wide-eyed housekeeper, “had she been on the front line, the war would have ended a great deal sooner.”

  Mrs. Murdoch chuckled. “No mistaking that, sir.” She set a tray on the bedside table. Tendrils of steam floated above a bowl of creamy soup. Standing back, she cleared her throat. “She’s worried for our girl. We all are. None of us want her to make a mistake. And this is the sort of mistake a woman can spend a lifetime paying for.”

  He nodded grimly. “True. And by that token, a man can suffer, too.”

  “No denying that, but with all due respect, when a marriage suffers, the woman’s left with fewer choices.” She shrugged one plump shoulder. “The world belongs to men. I’ve seen many a woman crushed beneath a husband’s”—she paused, eyeing the length of him stretched out in her mistress’s bed—“displeasure.”

  “I won’t hurt her,” he vowed. “I have too much regard for my cousin’s memory to do such a thing.”

  “And what if that regard were lost?” she broke in, her brow wrinkled, clearly troubled. “What if you learned she was not . . .” Her voice faded, her gaze dropping away.

  “Not what?” he prompted.

  Her gaze lifted, her eyes bright and resolved. “What if it turns out she’s not the woman you thought you were marrying?”

  How could he be disappointed? Could he even claim to know her? He merely knew she was Ian’s Linnie. The mother of Ian’s child. Beyond that, nothing. He needn’t know anything else. That was enough.

  Ah, but you know something else. Something more. You know you want her. You want to know her intimately. As Ian knew her.

  Shaking the thought off, he gave the housekeeper a reassuring smile. “Truly, I don’t know her well enough to punish her later if she doesn’t live up to my expectations. I have no expectations.”

  With an unconvinced nod, she moved for the door. “Enjoy your dinner.”

  “Thank you,” he murmured.

  Hand on the latch, she paused. “Contrary to what you say, you have expectations. Whether you admit it or not. Whether you even realize it. We always do.”

  The door clicked shut behind her. Spencer stared at the dark paneled wood. As the housekeeper’s words rolled through his mind, doubt crept in.

  What did he truly know of the woman he planned to wed?

  What do you need to know? a small voice whispered. He had thought he knew Adara. Knew her heart and mind. Lucky for him he’d escaped that noose.

  Shaking his head, he picked up his spoon. He supposed Mrs. Murdoch was right. He did know something about his bride-to-be . . . he did in fact possess one expectation.

  He would have her in his bed.

  Millie Anderson, the village laundress, rented rooms above the blacksmith’s. Rumor purported that the blacksmith accepted payment upstairs in her private rooms every Sunday after church. Payment was not rendered in the typical fashion.

  Shunned by gentlefolk, her situation was one for which Evie felt great empathy. Linnie would have faced the same ostracism had the world known
of her fall from grace. Evie could yet suffer such a fate if her lack of a husband ever came to light. The threat of that scandal forever nipped at her heels.

  Convinced Millie could help her, Evie knocked lightly on the door. Light seeped from the wide crack beneath until a shadow fell there, blocking the glow. The pungent odor of manure floated from the stalls below.

  “Yes?” a voice called from within.

  “Miss Anderson? It’s Evelyn Cross.”

  After a moment, the door opened. Evie stared at the hard-eyed woman. She was handsome. Perhaps once beautiful. The flesh edging her eyes sagged; her face was gray where it was not chafed red and raw. Ice-gray strands streaked the dark plait hanging over her shoulder.

  Exhaling a great breath, Evie proclaimed, “I need your help.”

  Millie arched a brow, hesitating only a moment before holding the door wide and motioning Evie within.

  A sparse room greeted her. A single bed, unmade. Table, chairs, a large chipped basin on a stand. A tattered sofa sat near a smoldering grate. Millie plopped down inelegantly upon its worn cushions, curling one leg beneath her.

  She jerked her chin at Evie. “What brings a fine woman such as yourself here? I’m not accustomed to entertaining ladies.”

  Evie cleared her throat and settled beside the woman on one end of the sofa. “You know who I am?”

  “Aye, I know you. You’re the one that lives with that old bat, Miss Gertrude.” Millie sniffed and brushed at her soiled hem.

  Evie reached for her reticule, ready with coin for the favor she would ask. She didn’t possess much, but she considered this a necessary expense. If she was to wed Lockhart, she needed expert counsel.

  “I need information.”

  “From me?” Millie grunted, the sound deep and skeptical.

  “Of an intimate nature.”

  “Ah.” The woman smiled then. “I suppose I know a thing or two about matters of an intimate nature.”

  Heat crawled into Evie’s cheeks, her mind moving ahead, trying to form her first inquiry. “I had heard you might.”

  “I was a rich man’s mistress,” Millie shared. “My life wasn’t always this.” Her tired eyes flicked around her room in distaste. “If you would believe it, I served a fine lord. Loved him even, faithfully, for nearly fifteen years.” Her eyes gleamed wetly.

  Evie flexed her fingers over her reticule. “What happened?”

  “He took everything from me. My youth. My beauty.” Her mouth whitened at the corners. “He used me up, he did, and then tossed me aside when he was finished.” She fluttered her hand. “Never thought a wedding ring was all that important. I always scoffed at the priggish matrons marching along Bond Street. I had other jewelry. Emerald necklaces. Ruby brooches.” She snorted. “But I’m not telling you anything new. You know what it’s like to be abandoned by a man. Even in death. It’s not much different, is it?” Her gaze searched Evie’s face, clearly seeking confirmation of this.

  “No,” Evie whispered. “Alone is alone.”

  Millie nodded.

  Evie didn’t know that precisely, but she did know, staring at the pitiable Millie Anderson, that she saw Linnie in her. She saw what could have been. If she were not careful, what still could be.

  Her sister never would have survived such a life. Not even a fortnight. Evie thanked God that she had been there to help. So Linnie could live her last years in peace and comfort as a rich man’s wife. So Evie had the privilege of being Nicholas’s mother, even if she lived in a perpetual state of fear that she would end up like Millie Anderson, a pariah shunned by Society should the truth ever come out.

  With a grunt, Millie pulled her tattered shawl tighter. “Now. What’s your business with me?”

  Evie swallowed past the thickness in her throat and plunged ahead. “The fates have been kind enough to give me a second chance at marriage.”

  Millie’s brows winged high. “Indeed. What’s that got to do with me?”

  “I’ll be leaving for Scotland.” She swallowed again, the lump back. “Shall be married before the week is out.”

  “Congratulations.” Millie rose and opened the grate to add more coals from her dwindling supply.

  “Yes, but I find myself nervous about . . . er, the wedding night . . .”

  Millie turned, a frown marring the tired lines of her face. “You’ve been with a man before. What’s to be nervous about?”

  Heat licked Evie’s cheeks. “Yes, that was some time ago. I was scarcely a woman.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  Her cheeks burned hotter. “No,” she hastened to say. “I was merely young. Inexperienced. Really, it’s all a . . . blur—”

  “Isn’t the first time usually?”

  “I would like for it to be better . . . er, more memorable.” She choked on the words. “I want to appear—”not a virgin“—natural with the entire process.”

  “I see.” Millie stared at her intently, and Evie fought not to fidget.

  To fill the sagging silence, she asked, “Do you have any tips on how I might come across as more proficient?” She wet her lips. “How I might please him?”

  So that he doesn’t notice how woefully inept I am and reach the obvious conclusion?

  Evie bit her lip and waited.

  Millie’s lips twitched. “Aye, I’ve a tip or two that always worked for me.” She dropped back on the sofa, flinging her arms along the back. “They might offend your fine sensibilities, though.”

  Evie shook her head. “Please speak plainly. I’m ready.”

  “Are you now?”

  Evie’s thoughts flew to the man sleeping in her bed. Was she ready?

  For marriage?

  For him?

  She fidgeted on the sofa, suddenly restless. “Yes.” She inhaled deeply through her nose. “Please proceed.”

  Well over an hour later, Evie departed Millie Anderson’s room with her cheeks afire and a low throb pulsing in her belly.

  She had a difficult time accepting everything the woman imparted as fact. Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on the way she viewed it—Millie’s information included detailed descriptions, which resulted in vivid images permanently etched in her mind. Scandalous images of Evie and Lockhart acting out every one of the ribald scenarios described.

  Now that she was informed, could she behave so boldly? Could she perform the intimacies Millie had described? To convince Lockhart of her experience, did she have any choice?

  On the bottom floor, stalls that smelled like they hadn’t been cleaned in over a year lined the walls. Pressing a hand to her nose, she hurried forward, jerking to a halt when the burly blacksmith stepped in her path.

  Wiping his hands on his stained leather apron, he pressed close. “Have a nice talk with Millie, Missus?” His dark eyes skimmed her figure insolently.

  “Quite so.” She lifted her chin, scanning him distastefully and thinking of poor Millie crushed beneath his sweaty hulking form. At that thought, she fished the coin from her reticule that Millie had refused to accept. “See that Miss Anderson has fresh coal supplied to her room every day.”

  With narrowed eyes, he snatched the coin.

  “And you’ll deliver just coal . . . not your”—she wrinkled her nose—“unwelcome person on her.”

  His fleshy lip curled over stained teeth. “What do you care happens to some tart?”

  Staring at the blacksmith’s red, bulbous face, she simply couldn’t stomach the thought of Millie suffering his attentions another day. “If she cannot pay your rent, see me,” she ground out. She’d worry about explaining that expense to her husband later.

  “The arrangement I have with Millie suits me well enough.”

  Pig. “If you refuse my money, I’m sure we can find Miss Anderson quarters elsewhere. Perhaps your wife might recommend somewhere else?”

  “Very well,” he bit out, his ruddy face burning red.

  Evie smiled brightly, suddenly feeling lighter inside. “Thank you. Good day.” She p
ulled her shawl tight and started toward home. For the first time, the future did not loom quite so grimly. She could manage this—manage her husband.

  Wrong or not, she permitted herself to feel hope. What were a few months if she and her loved ones gained lifelong security?

  Chapter 10

  Lockhart joined Evie for a private dinner that evening. It was Mrs. Murdoch’s idea. Dinner was usually a noisy, boisterous affair with her son leading the charge. They all dined at one table—Aunt Gertie, the Murdochs, Amy, and Nicholas.

  She’d been unable to pay the Murdochs or Amy a proper wage for nearly a year. They remained only out of love and goodwill. Considering that, Evie refused to be waited upon. And yet tonight, Mrs. Murdoch insisted on serving, claiming the evening required more dignity. She even arranged for Amy to take Nicholas to bed early . . . leaving Evie to dine alone with her future husband.

  He sat across from her, stiff with military bearing. His firm lips fell hard and unsmiling as he sat rigidly in his chair. An eternal soldier . . . or did he simply regret his proposal? She didn’t know—didn’t know him enough to hazard a guess.

  With her dinner tasteless in her mouth, she chewed and tried not to fret over the future. The entire matter was decided. They would leave the day after tomorrow. Lockhart wanted to be off sooner, but he didn’t stand a chance against the intractable Mrs. Murdoch. According to the housekeeper, he would be fit for travel only then. No one suggested calling Sheffield back for his expert opinion on the matter.

  It was settled. She would be a married woman before the week was out. Evie reached for her small glass of sherry and downed it in a swift gulp. Mrs. Murdoch’s eyes widened from where she stood sentinel along the paneled wall.

  Her future husband lifted an arrogant brow at her.

  “How is the sole?” The sound of her voice breaking the silence almost startled her.

  He looked up. “Fine. Delicious.”

  She nodded, glad for that at least. Mrs. Murdoch had worked a small miracle, trading some of her special drawing salve for fresh fish in the village. Otherwise the night’s fare would likely have been stew. Mrs. Murdoch knew how to stretch out a broth.