Tempted by Her Convenient Husband

by Charlotte Hawkes

  And, not for the first time, Lukas shut it out.

  So she was attractive. It meant nothing that he noticed—he was, after all, a red-blooded male—but it didn’t mean he couldn’t control it, this jolt of heat that she seemed capable of igniting within him.

  Attraction was fleeting; flames died. And, no matter how innocent his bride-to-be appeared on the outside, he could not afford to forget that Lady Octavia Hendlington was an autumn crocus—beautiful to look at and seemingly harmless, but in reality she was toxic right through. Just like her father.

  Finally, she drew to an elegant halt beside him and he was suddenly struck once again by quite how vivid, how piercing her eyes were. A blue that almost seemed to reach inside him and strike that black thing which had long since resided where a heart would normally be.

  He couldn’t bring himself to look away. Worse, he didn’t want to.

  So as she stood before him, calmly allowing her bridesmaids to sort out the ridiculously long train of her wedding gown, Lukas fought to rein himself in, telling himself that the interlude was also a chance to get a grip on his own traitorous reactions.

  ‘You made it then,’ he remarked drily. For her ears only. As though engaging in banal conversation could somehow lessen her impact on him.

  But, as she tilted her head up to him even further, that punch became a fist, tightening around his lower gut. He forced himself to ignore it.

  ‘Did you think I wouldn’t?’ she asked.

  ‘It crossed my mind. Especially since your father told me that you were at your special spa retreat, which I understand is your social circle’s euphemism for rehab. Again.’

  ‘I wasn’t in rehab,’ she bit out, and he couldn’t have said why he thought she hadn’t intended to speak.

  For a moment it appeared that she was going to say something else, but then she blinked at him and closed her mouth. The air seemed to shift around them, leaving Lukas uncharacteristically unsettled. As though he’d somehow missed the mark.

  But he hadn’t. It had been well-documented in the media that the first time she’d attended some kind of rehab she’d been fifteen, about the time her out-of-control partying had really begun to hit the headlines. Although she’d been decidedly more discreet in the past decade or so, the rumours had persisted.

  That was presumably why her father had insisted on Lukas marrying her as part of the deal for Sedeshire International.

  Without warning, his bride-to-be turned her head elegantly to look around the cathedral.

  ‘Verging on overkill, don’t you think?’

  He followed her eyes as she glanced around. Bedecked in flowers, with the bells pealing and the world-renowned organist still playing, it was acutely apparent that no expense had been spared. Ordered—though none of it paid for—by her father, of course.

  Luxurious wreaths and wide velvet ribbons hung from the magnificent, towering stone columns, while generous bouquets of calla lilies and baby’s breath decorated each and every pew filled with the four hundred or so guests.

  ‘Precisely how I believe you instructed it,’ Lukas replied drily.

  Or perhaps, more likely, as had been instructed by some young twenty-something would-be party planner, and the Earl’s latest badly kept secret.

  If he hadn’t known better, he might have thought his bride-to-be actually winced. But if she did, she caught herself quickly.

  ‘Of course. And the fitted lace gown, a six-foot-long train and thirty silk buttons complete with rouleau loops?’ she bit out.

  ‘It’s from the most sought-after designer of the moment—just as I believe you requested.’

  ‘Really? You believe I requested a wedding gown so tight that I had to pour myself into it and then be sewn in place?’ She couldn’t help herself; her discreet tone did nothing to disguise the barbed note to her words. ‘It leaves nothing to the imagination.’

  The organist was concluding now and the bishop was preparing to deliver his address, so Lukas had to move his head even closer to her ear to ensure they weren’t heard.

  Instantly he became aware that her scent—fresh and light, and not remotely cloying—was assailing his senses.

  Making his body tighten all the more.

  ‘If you’d wanted a say in the design of your wedding dress, and if you weren’t in rehab, Lady Octavia...’ he didn’t know why he felt the need to emphasise her name just then—perhaps to keep his mind on the game? ‘...then perhaps you should have bothered to come back and deal with it, rather than spending the last few months partying and sunning yourself on one beach after the next.’

  She glowered. ‘Are you guessing now?’

  ‘I don’t need to. Your glowing tan rather gives it away,’ he made himself say. ‘But, either way, does it matter?’

  There was the briefest of pauses, as though she wanted to say something—perhaps along the lines that it mattered to her. But instead she flashed a bright smile which he couldn’t help feeling was a little too practised.

  ‘Of course not.’ Her smile had an edge that felt an awful lot like a blade. ‘I’ve long held the title of Sedeshire’s lost cause heiress, after all.’

  ‘Then all the more reason to make it a show and quell any rumours that this is some hastily arranged marriage simply because you are pregnant with my—or any other man’s—child.’

  She bristled, though he suspected he was the only one close enough to spot it.

  ‘Does that title concern you?’ he couldn’t help himself from asking.

  ‘Lost cause heiress?’ Her head snapped up. ‘Of course not. I learned years ago not to care what anyone thought.’

  He couldn’t have said why, but he didn’t entirely believe her.

  ‘And, for what it’s worth, the lace alone on your bridesmaids’ gowns took months to sew,’ Lukas added, ‘so there will be no question that this wedding took care, and planning, and time. I hope you enjoyed those last months of heady indulgence. But I should warn you, your partying lifestyle is now at an end.’

  ‘How very autocratic of you,’ she bit out before she could stop herself. ‘And between the intricate lace of my bridesmaids’ dresses and the tightness of this one to show that there is no baby bump concealed beneath, I’m flattered that you paid such close attention.’

  ‘As you should be.’

  Before she could work out whether he was serious or still mocking, he flashed her a wolfish smile.

  ‘Perhaps, though, having you as the mother of my heir could be a wise selection. Good stock, as they say.’

  He knew he would score a hit even before he said the words. There had never been any mention of heirs before, even if he couldn’t entirely explain what had made him even say it.

  It seemed his bride-to-be got under his skin a little too much, but she didn’t need to know that. Neither did she need to know that he was lying about heirs; he had never had any intention of ever perpetuating his cold, damaged bloodline.

  Not with a father—biologically, if nothing else—like his.

  Still, something in Lukas had uttered the words, and now he relished the way his soon-to-be-bride practically bubbled with indignation.

  And something else he chose not to identify.

  CHAPTER TWO

  HE COULD NOT be serious?

  Oti bristled as his eyes raked over her and pretended that he didn’t leave a scorching trail of awareness right from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. And everything in between.

  Especially everything in between.

  ‘And should I present my head for inspection so that you can ensure there are no bulges or depressions which may indicate any dental issues?’ she sniped, her voice just on the brink of being loud enough to be overheard, before she caught herself. ‘Perhaps you’d care to examine my legs to ensure they’re symmetrical and well balanced, and that there is no sensitivity or
similar problem to the structure?’

  ‘I’ll presume that’s how you inspect a horse or some such animal, shall I?’ His low voice seemed to ripple the air in the space between them. ‘How clichéd that someone with your upbringing should use that as a frame of reference.’

  ‘And how banal that a self-made man from one of the worst estates in the country would look down on me for doing so,’ she shot back acerbically, though she made sure the smile never slipped from her lips.

  ‘Touché,’ he acknowledged instead. ‘It seems we each continue to prejudge the other.’

  ‘Although, in my case, I believe my judgement is rather more accurate, is it not?’

  Even as she said it, she couldn’t stop herself from shivering at the way every single person was watching her. Prejudging her in exactly the way that Lukas was talking about.

  Weighing her up. Measuring her. Damning her.

  All of them wanting to know what she’d done to land the much-chased infamous playboy and marriage-phobic Lukas Woods.

  He’d been right about the dress—as galling as that was—half of them probably thought she was already pregnant. Deliberately.

  ‘Smile,’ he instructed brusquely, offering a flash of straight white teeth that any onlooker might believe was a genuine smile.

  And Oti obeyed, ignoring the way her heart was pounding in her chest—assuring her that her adrenaline was all fired up and ready to carry her at speed, straight back out and to the waiting car.

  But she couldn’t. Not just because of her father, whose grip on her arm had been so tight as he’d propelled her down the aisle that she could still feel the bruise forming under her skin even now. Not just because she couldn’t bring herself to humiliate Lukas like that, when, despite everything, he had at least given her a chance—two chances—to back out of this marriage. But because she had no idea where that would leave Edward.

  Edward—how could she leave him to their father? Her heart had practically broken the last time she’d visited and he’d begged her to help him end it all with dignity, only to threaten to ban her from visiting again when she’d refused.

  ‘Octavia? What is it?’

  She tried to speak but choked on the words, yet the bishop droned on, oblivious, mercifully too caught up in his own self-important role to notice.

  ‘Did he hurt you?’

  She blinked, taking a moment to realise that she was massaging the tender spot on her arm. She dropped her hand instantly. Lukas already looked furious, as though he was just looking for an excuse to call the wedding off.

  She couldn’t blame him; marrying Lukas, taking his money, was all a lie. But it would give her a chance to help save Edward’s life, so how could she refuse?

  ‘Of course he didn’t hurt me,’ she lied smoothly. But she couldn’t help adding, ‘After all, my father is an honourable man.’

  She hadn’t expected Lukas to get the reference, but he arched an eyebrow almost imperceptibly.

  ‘Marc Antony?’ his voice rumbled. ‘His oration at Julius Caesar’s funeral.’

  It was a long-standing joke between her and Edward. She certainly hadn’t expected Lukas Woods to get it. She blinked quickly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Interesting,’ he murmured, his eyes holding hers.

  Rare, dark granite-grey with perhaps the faintest hint of a midnight blue flecked through them. And they rooted her to the mosaic floor.

  ‘If you see yourself as some kind of Marc Antony, and your father as Brutus, then who might you cast in the role of Cassius, I wonder? Or even Caesar himself?’

  Wordlessly, Oti stared at him.

  If she’d hoped that her months away would diminish the effect he had on her—even during their one single meeting, five months ago in the conservatory of Sedeshire Hall—then Oti now realised she’d been wholly naïve.

  ‘I keep looking at you and thinking you present yourself as quite the incapable, guileless young woman in this entire agreement. But you aren’t, are you?’

  She blinked. It was true that she wasn’t herself around Lukas. She hadn’t been even from that first moment.

  For a woman who had always prided herself on her gentle nature and giving personality, she seemed to turn into this smart-mouthed sass machine whenever Lukas Woods was near. It would have been disconcerting if she hadn’t decided it was a good defence mechanism. And she was only with him for Edward’s sake. Not her own.

  ‘Perhaps we should try needling each other a little less?’ he suggested as the bishop began to wrap up his opening speech. ‘Given that we’re about to become husband and wife.’

  Husband and wife.

  Oti knew it had been meant as a light quip, but the words echoed through her head as a strange sensation poured through her. And this time it had nothing to do with the low, impossibly rich voice that coiled around her unexpectedly, seeming to permeate her very bones and making her feel...odd. Or the way his mouth was so close to her ear that his warming breath brought jolts of unwanted attraction straight down her centre. To her core.

  Husband and wife, it echoed again.

  And she tried to pretend that something didn’t kick hard in her chest. Or lower, if she were to be shamefully honest.

  What was she thinking, taking on a man like this...marrying him?

  Even for her brother. But what choice had she had? She could finally see the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel, when the last four years had pitched them all into the blackness. How could she have done anything but run towards it and hope that it was the way out, and not another oncoming train?

  It was odd, wasn’t it? The way her life seemed to be cleaved into such clear segments. It was as if she’d been reeling from one thing to another—her attack, her mother’s death, then Edward’s accident—these past fifteen years. Reacting. Countering. Hopelessly out of control. But always playing catch-up.

  She hadn’t had time to breathe or think. Or even work out the person she was.

  She’d thought she’d been getting closer to finding herself these last years with HOP. Working in South Sudan had been the first thing that had truly felt her own. It had helped to ground her. At least her last memory out there was of the walk with the young mum Kahsha, where the prolonged exercise had finally helped the baby to shift and descend.

  Now there was a five-day-old baby back near their camp called Ayshani-Oti. Her heart actually felt as though it was going to swell its way out of her chest.

  If only her father’s Machiavellian wrangling hadn’t once again caught up with her. He started fires wherever he went. Destroyed everything. He’d used Edward against her, and she’d had no choice but to fling herself once more into a burning building in the hope that she could put the fire out.

  Only this time the fire was Lukas Woods. And she couldn’t help fearing that he was going to be the one to finally burn her.

  ‘If any person present knows of any lawful impediment to this marriage, speak now or for ever hold your peace.’

  Oti tuned back in as the bishop was speaking, the silence descending in the cathedral seeming suddenly so loud in her ears. The vaulted ceilings echoed with the sound of a guest coughing. Someone sneezing. And all she could think was that she had a hundred objections to going through with the marriage.

  Not least the fact that she no longer trusted herself or her motives. Not entirely.

  And then she caught Lukas’s grim expression and she couldn’t have said what that sensation was that rolled through her; it was as though he was waiting for someone to object. But no one did.

  Another cough.

  Another shuffle of bottom against wooden pew.

  And Lukas merely watched her. Challenging her. And taunting her. Baring his teeth in something that might appear to be a smile but made Oti think of wolves and sharpened fangs.

  She needed to keep her head in t
he game, lest she end up being ripped to shreds. And she could pretend to be offended by the entire agreement all she liked—she certainly ought to be—but the truth was that she was floored by her insane attraction to Lukas.

  She had been, right from the moment she’d walked into that room in Sedeshire Hall five months ago. He’d made every reservation she had about the ludicrous marriage disappear from her brain.

  Or maybe it was more that her brain had ceased working altogether.

  Despite all the pictures she’d ever seen of him in the papers—and there was a plethora of them, all displaying the man in all his honed magnificence—not one of them had even come close to conveying quite how breathtaking he was up close.

  Quite how heart-stopping.

  Six feet and four inches of pure, sizzling muscle that—she’d realised after a startling instant—had her hands actually itching to reach out and touch. To see if, beneath that exquisitely tailored suit that had clung so lovingly to his broad shoulders, he could possibly be as rock-solid as he looked. As though he was magnificent enough to rival even the most famous of the Greek statues. Myron’s Discobolus, perhaps. Or Glykon’s Farnese Herakles.

  Oti had always considered herself relatively cultured, interested in such works of art on a purely intellectual level. Up until that moment. But, standing there in that room, it had been as though her whole world had suddenly tipped up on end and shifted. She’d felt more and more pyretic the longer she’d been in Lukas’s company and though she’d pretended it was just the circumstances of their meeting, she’d known it had all been a lie.

  Now, there was no lying any more.

  The bishop smiled benevolently at them and declared his delight at leading the marriage vows.

  Oti’s heart gave another lurch.

  ‘And so it begins,’ Lukas murmured as he shot her a smile that, to the congregation, would surely have looked like a smile between lovers.

  But she knew better. She was close enough to see the expression in those hard grey eyes. And the smile wasn’t reflected in them at all. Her heart began to hammer.