Her gaze flitted to Spencer, looking at him starkly, doubtlessly seeing him through Sheffield’s eyes.
He lifted his one good shoulder in a shrug. Valid point. Spencer and Ian had often been mistaken for brothers, strikingly similar with their dark hair and green eyes.
“Do you deny it? Deny this is Nicholas’s father?” Sheffield shook his head, his eyes crinkling at the corners as though the sight of her hurt. “You’re no widow, at all! Are you?”
“Tread carefully, Sheffield,” Spencer warned, his voice thick in his mouth.
A flush of outrage crept up the other man’s neck, the only sign he heard Spencer. “Your silence speaks for itself, Evelyn. Have I been naught a fool? Wasting these last years in my hopes for a future with you—”
She shook her head wildly, gold-brown tendrils falling free, loosely framing her face in charming disarray. “I made you no promises.” Her voice rang hotly, all outraged tones. He liked the sound of it. Too much. Even with his back throbbing, the passionate sound stirred him.
Astonishment washed over Sheffield’s face. He seized her arm and thrust his face close to hers. “Are you daft? What did you think I was playing at all this time?”
With no regard for his injury, Spencer shot up in bed. “Unhand her,” he growled.
He had meant to merely observe, to let her maneuver this interesting turn of events on her own, but that was before Sheffield touched her. Before Spencer saw her wince. Before that hand on her arm fueled him to a cold rage.
With no regard for his injury, he swung his legs over the bed and pushed to his feet. Legs braced wide, he squared off in front of Sheffield, struggling to ignore his dizziness.
“Mr. Lockhart!” She scowled at him. Him. Didn’t she realize he only sought to defend her? “You musn’t stand,” she cried. “Get back in bed.”
His gaze narrowed on Sheffield. “Release her.”
Uncertainty flickered in the other man’s eyes, the fingers of his hand flexing upon her arm, as though considering Spencer’s command. “You’ve no stake here,” he challenged, although his voice gave the slightest tremor. “Whomever you may be.”
A dark and angry beast twisted inside Spencer, and before he could stop himself, he spit out, “I have every claim here. Whomever I might be, I’m family.”
Let Sheffield infer what he wished from that. At that particular moment—with a primitive burn sizzling through his veins—Spencer was only too glad to foster Sheffield’s misapprehension. Let him think I’m Nicholas’s father. Her lover. That she belongs to me. Recklessly, he tossed out, “Unlike you, I belong here.”
Black fury passed over the man’s face. He dropped his hand from Mrs. Cross’s arm and stiffly stepped away.
She glared at Spencer with wide eyes of glittering ice. Frozen. Astonished. Her mouth a perfect little O of horrified wonder.
“Evelyn,” the doctor bit out, smoothing a hand over each muttonchop sideburn. “We’ll speak again. When I’ve regained my composure . . . and your guest has left.” He turned for the door.
Sparked to action, she took a step after him. “Wait! Don’t go. You misunderstand the situation—”
Shaking his head, the doctor stormed through the door, slamming it after him.
She spun around, her flashing eyes settling on Spencer in a way that made his blood pump faster. “What have you done?” She tossed her arms in the air. “You permitted him to leave thinking—wondering . . .” She closed her eyes in one long blink, pressing a hand to her forehead as if it were too awful to contemplate.
He shrugged, then winced at the pull on his sore shoulder. “I did not care for the way he addressed you.”
“How he addresses me is none of your affair. You are not my protector. I can look after myself. I’ve done as much all my life.” She dropped her hand from her forehead and advanced on him. “However will I convince him you are not Nicholas’s father now?” Her cheeks deepened a becoming pink. “That you and I are not . . . were not—”
“Lovers,” he readily supplied, the word practically a growl.
She blinked, startled at his bluntness. Her gaze slid over him then, seeming to realize his state of undress. The pink in her cheeks burned brighter. For a lady of experience, she affected modesty most convincingly. A man could almost believe she was untouched. But then he knew all about the duplicitous nature of females. Long ago, the one girl he had thought to marry had only treated him to lies and deceit.
Heaving a deep breath, she demanded quietly, “What are you doing here? Truly?”
He wondered that himself. He’d intended this to be a simple errand. A quick matter to attend to—the fulfilling of his promise to Ian and a welcome delay to his entry into Society as the new, bride-seeking Viscount Winters. Wretched prospect, the latter.
“You know why I’m here. Ian wanted—”
“Wanted you to cast me into scandal? Place the taint of illegitimacy on his son?”
Her words jarred him. She was correct, of course. What in bloody hell was he doing letting that jackass leave thinking he was Nicholas’s father? That Linnie might not be a widow at all but a fallen woman?
Her blue eyes shimmered with entreaty. “I’ve walked a fine line since Nicholas’s birth, adding one lie to another until I can scarcely remember what I’ve said . . . or who I am anymore . . .” She glanced away, blinking fiercely. A hoarse laugh escaped her. The sound shuddered through him. “Believe it or not, it’s not my shame I fear so much . . . but Nicholas?” She shook her head. “Illegitimacy is a cruel stamp to bear.”
No worse than Society judging her a whore.
He really was a selfish bastard, thinking only of himself. Injury aside, he was in no hurry to depart, no hurry to take leave of the female he found a fascinating study of contradictions. Vulnerable yet strong. Innocent yet experienced. Indeed, the idea that had seized him last night pressed upon him with even greater fervor.
The more time he spent in her company, the greater she affected him. Staring at the sensual fullness of her mouth, he imagined himself tasting her, savoring her at his leisure.
He sighed. Only one thing remained to do in this situation.
Fortunately, he was in the market for a bride.
Perhaps it had been his intent from the start, the moment he had been crawling toward ever since setting sail for home. Since Ian first whispered stories of her to him across the fire.
“An easy matter to rectify.” He stared hard at her bewildered face, testing the idea in his head before he spoke the words that would seal his fate, and hers.
Words that would satisfy his vow to Ian.
Words that would fulfill his obligation to his title and family.
Words that would satisfy his inconvenient longing for her.
“Marry me.”
For several moments, silence held, hung on the thick air. Shock flashed across her face, lasting only a moment before the outrage arrived. Outrage and something else. Something fleeting and wistful. It passed over her lovely eyes and then vanished before she slapped him full across the face.
The crack of her hand on his cheek reverberated on the air. She tucked her arm close to her body, folding a hand over her stinging palm.
Marry me.
Flexing her hand, she instantly regretted her loss of control. So uncustomary for her. Bold demonstrations of emotion were more Fallon’s forte. Evie had always rebuked her for that. Yet here she was. Striking the man her aunt shot with an arrow. Because he possessed the temerity to offer her marriage?
Heat stung her face. She pressed her offending hand close to her side, as if the hand acted of its own will and could not be trusted.
He fingered his cheek, cocking a dark brow at her.
Her chest lifted and fell, as if she’d run a great distance.
Her gaze scanned his taut, sinewy forearm, moving on to his broad chest and flat, muscle-ridged belly. Her mouth dried and watered alternately at the firm, warm-looking flesh.
She did not know gentleme
n like him existed. He was bred for the fields, not a drawing room. He could easily crush her. And she had slapped him? She’d been on the receiving end of a man’s fists before and it was not an experience she intended to repeat.
Although the way he stared at her, his eyes gleaming an unholy ice-green, she did not think he wished to return her slap for one of his own. Indeed, the way he stared at her brought to mind all manner of illicit thoughts involving the two of them, their bodies locked together, her hands exploring his delicious masculine form.
He spoke in a slow, deep voice that made her belly tremble. “Not the reaction I was expecting.”
Lifting her chin, she fought to reclaim her composure. Dignity. “What did you expect? You’re cruel to mock me—”
“I do not mock,” he bit out. “I can assure you, marriage is not a topic a man makes light of.”
She pressed her lips shut, supposing that to be true.
Studying him warily, she took several steps away from his imposing figure—large and masculine and potent. Anything to distance herself from him. To lessen his overwhelming impact on her senses. “You best get back in bed. I wouldn’t want you to collapse.”
His lips twitched. After a moment, he obliged, lowering himself down. “I offer marriage in all sincerity.”
She stared. “You are serious.”
“If we wed, you shall have my name, my protection. Anyone who suspects you’ve lied about your past shall keep the opinion to themselves.” His jaw tightened. “Or court my displeasure.”
Tugging her bottom lip, she moved to the window and stared out at the lawn where she had spotted him the night before. Had he been contemplating this even then?
His voice curled toward her. “Think of the boy.”
Evie swung her gaze back to where he lounged on the bed. The sight of his bare chest made her stomach flip. “And he is the reason you offer marriage?”
She had to know. Needed to know what drove him. Certainly there were ladies far more eligible than she.
That unnerving intensity was back in his eyes. “He’s Ian’s son—my own kinsman.”
She nodded. “I see.” And she did. Spencer Lockhart was Nicholas’s kin. She was mired in lies regarding all else except this single truth.
“He deserves a future beyond what you can give him. I can give him that. The finest homes. Travel. Horses, hunting. The best tutors, and when the time comes, he shall attend the university of his choice.”
She pressed her fingertips to her forehead, suddenly dizzy. It was more than she had ever dreamed for Nicholas. More than her own father had ever given her. But it would require her marrying this man, a stranger with eyes so piercing a green she could scarcely think when he stared at her.
A shaky breath escaped her. “And what of me?” She had to know, had to ask.
“Ian loved you. For that, I can offer you the protection of my name. I am not without means. You shall never want for anything. Forgive me for saying so, but I believe that to be a marked improvement from your present circumstances.”
But they would be wed. Bound before God, together in this life and the next. A high price to pay for security. “That’s a great sacrifice on your part.”
His gaze raked her then, a slow-blistering perusal thorough enough to weaken her knees. “The arrangement won’t be without benefit.” His rich voice suffused her with a warmth she had no right to feel. He wasn’t offering to wed her because he fancied her in the way a man regarded a woman he wished to wed. To bed. Honor compelled him. Duty. No matter the manner he looked at her right now, she would do well to remember that.
He continued, “Since my half brother’s death, the family relies upon me to marry and provide an heir. I want that heir.” She shivered. The way his eyes glittered at her, she could almost imagine he said, I want you. “The sooner the better. Clearly, you are capable.”
Heirs? He wanted children. With her.
Her throat tightened. Fear hissed through her, urging her to refuse him. For her sake. But she couldn’t summon forth a refusal. What kind of mother would she be? It would not be fair to Nicholas. “If I am to consider this, we must have certain matters between us understood.”
He cocked his head. “The matter of marriage should be fairly straightforward.”
“Marriage, yes, but—what I mean to say is . . .” With a deep breath, she plunged ahead, “I can’t countenance intimacy with a stranger.”
His eyes narrowed to menacing slits. “I’ll be your husband—”
“A stranger still.”
A dangerous light entered his gaze. “It’s what married couples do, even”—he angled his head sharply—“unmarried ones.”
She stiffened at the express reference to her. A direct cut. Hot embarrassment swept over her.
He continued, “Is it the thought of sharing my bed you find so offensive?”
Her gaze skimmed his masculine form. He was a well-made man, and she had not reached the age of five and twenty without some curiosity about the pleasures to be had between a man and woman. Despite her past. The memory of waking in the dark to savage hands had never left her. If Stirling’s wife, the very girl Evie had been charged with accompanying to Barbados, had not burst in upon them, he would have completed his vile business with her.
And yet she knew the rough, drunken groping of Hiram Stirling couldn’t be all there was to the whole matter. She was confident that Mr. Lockhart would never take his fists to a woman for rejecting his advances. Indeed not.
The notion of sharing Spencer Lockhart’s bed was far, far from offensive. Since she’d met him, the idea had been there, a sensual nibble at the edge of her awareness. The very thought of having him—of him having her—sent heat shooting to most intimate places.
The man before her radiated adventure, reminding her that once upon a time she had been a girl who’d longed for that very thing. She had once been someone who wanted to explore the world. Her stomach dipped and fluttered. Spencer was that—the adventure she’d always wanted, but from which she might never recover. If the warmth he stirred in her belly was any hint, she would easily welcome his touch, allow him to do to her the sort of things a husband did to his wife.
Except then he would know.
A woman did not give birth to a son without knowing a thing or two about the happenings within the marriage bed. How could she explain her inexperience . . . her virginity?
She pressed a hand to her belly, hoping to quell the flutterings, and lifted her chin. “I can’t even entertain the notion of sharing such intimacies. I scarcely know you.” The lie tripped from her tongue with surprising ease.
His green eyes glowed. With a wicked twist of his lips, in a mocking tone that implied he knew she lied, knew that she did entertain such notions, he assured her, “No worries. You’ll get to know me.”
The words, their very suggestion, sent a lick of heat twisting inside her belly.
She shook her head. “If I’m to seriously consider your proposal, I’ll have your word that you shall not . . .” She paused, moistening her lips. Her stomach clenched tighter at the sight of his eyes following the movement of her tongue. Clearing the thickness from her throat, she finished, “I’ll have your word that you will not require that of me.”
“ ‘Require’?”
She gave a jerky nod.
His green eyes frosted over. “I’ve no use for a female who is less than willing. There are plenty of women who would welcome me in their beds.”
Heat scored her cheeks. His words shouldn’t have stung, but they did.
He continued, his voice as chilly as the cut of his gaze. “I’ve never taken an unwilling woman to my bed. I’ll not begin with my wife.”
Wife. The word jarred her. Was she actually doing this?
His hand moved over the taut flesh of his stomach in a lazy circle. Her gaze followed the movement, mesmerized.
“That is not to say I won’t persuade you into changing your mind. As I’ve said, I need an heir.”
<
br /> Her pulse jumped in alarm. She snapped her gaze back to his face, fearful that he was correct—that with one look, he could persuade her into doing just about anything. “I-I need time.” Perhaps forever.
His green eyes swept over her appraisingly. “I need a wife in the truest sense. At least until you’ve conceived an heir. Then we can assume a more relaxed arrangement.”
“A more relaxed arrangement?”
“Of course. I’ve never subscribed to the notion of a love match. That’s for novels and starry-eyed virgins. Marriage is a practical matter. It should be treated thus. You can live the life you wish. Wherever you wish. In Town. In the country. Travel, if you like.” He shrugged, as if it were of little account.
“And you?”
“Will do the same, of course.”
She considered him carefully, weighing the prospect of living with him, sharing his bed, if only for a short time. It would certainly lessen the risk of his learning the truth, assuming she managed to keep it from him through their initial intimacies. One could survive anything with the end looming in sight.
She clasped her hands tightly together. “How long do you think until we can live . . . separately?”
For a moment, he looked annoyed. Then his face turned to cool marble. “I imagine that depends on how vigorously and frequently we put ourselves to the task of begetting an heir.”
Her cheeks burned. “Of course.”
“Of course,” he echoed, his tone clipped and officious.
She sucked in a breath. Are you mad? How can you consider marrying this man? Sharing his bed? Pushing the hissing whispers aside, she asked herself how she could not. For Nicholas’s sake, how could she refuse? He offered her son a future. Not to mention an end to their dire straits. No more worrying over their dwindling pantry stores. She would make a pact with the devil himself for such security.
Folding her arms across her chest, she lifted her chin. “Very well. I accept.”
He stared at her a long moment, assessing her before nodding. “We’ll leave tomorrow.”
Her arms dropped. “Tomorrow?” She gestured to his figure lying upon her bed. “You are in no condition to travel—”
In Scandal They Wed Page 6