by Darcy Burke
Evelyn caught the misuse of his name. A little too casual. She frowned. Her husband’s randy ways would have to stop, and that included the servant girl’s as well. A glance at the negligee, though, made her heart skip a beat and goose bumps raced up her arms. That thin piece of illusion would hide nothing. Like a bodice and undergarments being ripped from her…her ears buzzed and her vision turned fuzzy. She grabbed the back of the armchair before her.
“Are you all right, my lady?”
Evelyn squeezed the chair frame but nodded. “I’m fine. Just the excitement of today.”
The girl nodded with a genuine smile. “Rightly so, you marrying his lordship.” She walked around Evelyn, unhooking her bodice from the bustled skirt, her mouth rambling again. When she heard his name spill from the girl’s mouth, her mind focused.
“I find it rather inappropriate you should call his lordship by his Christian name,” she retorted sternly.
The girl stopped her ministrations with Evelyn’s dress, her faced paled and her eyes widened before she looked at the floor. “Excuse me, my lady.”
Evelyn bottled her pent-up anxiety and rage to wave the girl away. As the maid scampered out the door, Evelyn sighed unevenly. She was tired, her nerves frayed. Apparently she was to change and wait for him here, where the small table near the chair held a bottle of wine and two goblets. A flush raced through her, anger building, not the desire he had produced in her before.
A loud noise of frustration echoed as she yanked the rest of her clothes off, though her abilities were thwarted as she fought the ties and hooks, mostly on the bustle, raging at Richard, Tristan, her father, Madeline and herself for being placed in this position. She threw the last piece on the floor, leaving her naked and chilled, but it didn’t register until she had the silk nightgown over her head and it fell, gliding down her body. The silk caressed her breasts and hips and down her thighs, eliciting a path of heat where it touched her skin. That fueled her resentment further.
She pulled the hairpins and combs from her hair, tossing them aside and brushed the length of her hair when she saw it. The door on the side of the room. No doubt it led into his chamber. As if she’d ever use it of her own accord! The brush smacked the floorboards, and other thoughts rushed into her head. He’d use that door. He had every right to. His husbandly rights. Her arms wrapped around her stomach tightly, her skin prickled. How could she give herself to him, regardless of her past? He, too, kept things from her, like knowing Richard and what happened. Her heart pounded in her ears. This was madness.
No, she thought. This marriage saved her daughter from being ignored by her grandfather. At first, Evelyn didn’t understand her father’s dislike of his grandchild, but after days and weeks, she figured it out. The child reminded the man of his own inability to watch after his own daughters, his failure to protect them. But deep down inside, Evelyn believed her father knew the families of the attackers, although he did nothing. Because of Maddy’s condition, he shipped them off to the country, to “recover,” while he tried to save what dignity the Hurstine family had left. What a farce that was. No wonder Maddy took off, though her not wanting her child baffled Evelyn. Mary had come into this world tainted by circumstances beyond her control, not only labeled a bastard but also abandoned by her own mother.
Evelyn inhaled deeply, troubled. Her anxiety heightened as the silk fabric caressed her skin, awakening nerves in unusual ways. It bothered her more that the gown wasn’t hers but a gift from her now wayward husband. She glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantle. It was ten o’clock at night. And the doors to the room remained shut. She halfway decided to go find him, but fear of leaving the room in this outfit gripped her. No, instead, she walked to the table. The wine decanter sat in the center, and she took it, pouring herself a glass, in theory to settle her nerves. She sat on the couch, her legs drawn up under her.
Where was he?
***
With a moan of exasperation, Tristan ran his fingers through his hair. The various notes, letters, ledgers, manifests and assorted pieces lying before him on his desk began to blur. Too many names, dates and locations pointed to the fact that the needle in the haystack remained hidden–or overlooked. Maybe, not even found yet…
“My lord,” Smyth said from his chair at the table set up next to Tristan’s desk.
Tristan looked up. Damn, his eyes were tired and dry.
“My lord, perhaps we should adjourn for the evening,” he started. A glare from the Marquis stopped the soldier. “Perhaps, sir, it is your wedding night,” the man added.
Tristan scowled. The lad was right. What time was it? He didn’t remember if he’d taken supper or not. The plate on the side of the desk with remains of a meal on it answered that question. There was his wife. It was his wedding night. What the hell was he still doing playing with these pieces? He knew the answer. Somewhere, somehow, an Englishman turned traitor to his own, and in his wake, forced Tristan to kill his friend.
The edges of black began to seep into his mind. The raw rage at that afternoon almost a year ago flooded his memory. His nostrils flared at the whiff of blood in the air, its odor unique. Like metal with a sweet allure. His heart skipped a beat. The village in an uproar, the wild accusations of foreigners nearby, then one of Aatifa’s brothers turned on him and the three British agents. Despite desperate attempts to blend in with the natives, there was always a chance of discovery. Tristan had become cocky. Assigned to this area, he succeeded quite nicely, or so he allowed himself to believe. Everything had fallen into place—the outlooks for Russian troops and maneuvers, reports carried back to British command.
And in one day, it all unraveled.
A quick look down at his hands was a mistake. In his eyes, they were drenched in blood. The racing of his heart pounded in his ears. He shut his eyes, forcibly pushing the scene out of his mind. How many times had he watched Grifton die? Or scanned the crowd, finding the accusers, the party of men dressed like every other Afghani, wrapped in togas. But the blue eyes gave the bastard away. Who was he?
The clock in the hallway rang in the hour. He counted eleven chimes and inwardly groaned.
“You are correct. We’ll resume tomorrow.” He stood and left the room, barely hearing Smyth’s rapid departure. Instead, he walked to his bedchamber.
Inside the master suite, the fire burned, the glow casting a dull light in the room. He wanted to sink into his bed and erase the scene in his head, but the door along the far wall grabbed his attention. The door to Evelyn’s bedchamber. His wife. He wondered how mad she was at him. Though somehow, he knew he’d avoided going to her because he had forced the marriage on her. His absence and the news she had been seen with another man, an interesting twist for a woman who seemed to avoid men, hadn’t set well with him. Many men of the ton would have been incensed if their betrothed had been within a mile of another possible suitor, regardless of the banns, perhaps claiming she was wanton. He doubted she was, but that didn’t stop his fear that the other man might try to take advantage of the situation. That fear ate at his gut in ways that made him uncomfortable. He was to protect her. And he needed a wife. Therefore, if he hadn’t pulled the ceremony off tonight, he might have lost her to another, and that would have made him fail Grifton’s final request.
Inhaling deeply, he turned the door handle slowly and pushed it open. Inside, the fire had dimmed, its low flames turned the room gold, like a sunset. She slumped on the armchair, legs tucked beneath her, her head against the winged back, asleep. He stood silent, his eyes riveted on her. The lacy tulle gown, despite its volumes of material, gave him hints of her body. The dusky rose of her nipples evident against the transparent material. Her bare neck an ivory contrast against the white lace that hung low above her breasts. Her dainty feet revealed adorable toes. Her long hair, glowing almost golden in the firelight, hung down in wisps over her shoulders. She was beautiful. Desire slammed into him, swirling deep and hot. Just a glance at her and he turned hard. Christ! She was Grifton’s woman�
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But he was her husband.
Lust, guilt and a compulsion to keep her safe battled inside him. His hands clenched.
He had every right to wake her and make slow, passionate love to her. Whatever had happened to her that night years ago apparently made her skittish to a man’s touch, but he had kissed her deeply and she responded to him, despite herself. He could do the same in bed. A voice in the back of his head told him not tonight. Let her sleep. With a slight smile, knowing she’d wake cramped in pain if he left her there, he walked over.
“Come, sweetheart,” he cooed softly, his arms scooping her as gently as he could, trying not to wake her. She murmured protests when he lifted her but nuzzled into his arms while he carried her to the bed. Slowly, he lowered her and covered her in the blanket. “Sleep.” He kissed her mouth lightly. The feel of her tender lips against his sent a lightning bolt directly to his groin, the impact driving desire to the edge. Hunger fed it, a need he fought with every last remnant of his restraint. A longing to lay next to her, wrap his arms around her, bore into him. With great reluctance, he left her and returned to his room, his cock throbbing. His damnation to hell reinforced.
Chapter Fourteen
Sunlight poured into the room, its beams reaching to Evelyn’s pillows, and its strength pulled her from deep slumber. Evelyn was reluctant to leave the comfort of sleep, the first she had in a long time. She rolled and snuggled under the covers. Her hand grasped the pillow next to her and she hugged it, relishing the cool cotton. The feel of fresh sheets seeped into her pores–and it brought her instantly awake. Her eyes shot open as she scanned the vacant spot next to her. She didn’t remember getting into bed last night. Her last memory was of sitting on the chair near the fireplace. Slowly she rolled over. The chair materialized. It wasn’t the fabrication of a disoriented mind, though a partially filled wine glass sat on the table with an empty one next to it. She frowned.
Who put her in bed? No sooner had she thought the question than the answer presented itself. Tristan. A glance at the door between their rooms showed it was shut, but…She remembered being upset, angry, frightened and annoyed, all tied up together when she sat, sipping the wine, wondering where he was. Her only guess about the remainder of the evening was that he came to her but she was asleep, so he carried her to bed. A flash of fear raced through her as she quickly looked down at herself. All the ribbons were tied, the gown was still in place.
He took her to bed and abandoned her. Instantly, she was confused. Why? Why didn’t he enjoy his rights? Heaven knows, she’d rather he do it when she wasn’t conscious. But no, he didn’t. She was still clothed and didn’t feel the slightest bit sore or achy, as she thought she would. Last time, she awoke from a drug-induced sleep sore, her hips painful from being pounced on by those criminals. Memories of that hadn’t dissipated over the last two years; therefore, she’d surely be feeling the aftereffects of his claiming.
Of course, he wouldn’t take her–others had soiled her. Tainted. Ruined. Hadn’t he said something of the sort? He needed a wife, she needed a husband. They’d suited each other well. His part of the bargain was fulfilled. He had a wife now–one he didn’t want to take. Strangely, a bitter taste came to her, one of her being undesirable. He didn’t want her. The fact made her gulp back the moan of emptiness that crept up, filling her. Why did it matter to her?
Because part of her, deep, buried but sneaking out unexpectedly, revealed the obvious–she wanted him.
No! That could never be! The only man she’d ever want is Richard.
But he was dead.
Her heart protested. She was married to another man. A Marquis, the most handsome bachelor in the city. So he was an army soldier, some she heard claim him mad from the atrocities in India. Perhaps the aloof nature of his had a reason, but, whatever the cause, she was his wife. She needed to bury Richard and the part of her heart that loved him so she could accept this man she spoke the wedding vows to yesterday.
And Mary needed them both as her parents.
She sat up, her head resting on the palms of her hands, troubled.
A soft knock at the door to the hall sounded lightly, then opened. Missy stood there with three footmen behind her, one carrying a sitz tub, the other two with pitchers of water, steam rising from them.
“Good morning, my lady,” Missy greeted with a small curtsey and then turned to direct the men.
Evelyn watched, her mind addressing the problem. She needed to bathe and dress and then find her husband. And she prayed to God for the strength to do so.
***
Dunsford leapt off his horse as it skidded to a halt near the stable. His groomsman walked up and quickly grabbed the reins as the animal sidestepped.
“My lord, you have a visitor.”
Dunsford frowned. Thankfully he’d taken the less strenuous route on his ride today so he still looked presentable. With a tug on his jacket and shirtsleeves, he headed toward the townhouse.
Inside the building, he headed toward his study. Past the door, he saw his visitor. Drat the man! His teeth grinding, he tasted the dirt from his ride. Without breaking stride, he went to the sideboard, pulled two glasses and poured brandy halfway into one, downed the contents, then refilled the glass and its mate.
“You have information for me?” He handed the glass to his visitor.
The man sat in the chair near the desk and tasted the liquor before answering. “You’ve been gone.”
“Yes, holiday and what not. No matter of yours.” How he hated this sniveling excuse of a man.
The visitor chuckled. “Well, you have missed an event that will not make you pleased.” He drank again. “That chit you were wooing, Reynard’s fiancé?”
Dunsford eyed the man carefully. “Yes, what of her?”
“She married while you were cavorting in the countryside, on ‘holiday’,” he laughed hollowly.
Dunsford’s glass thudded against the desktop as the anger surged through him. “Married? Evelyn? Who’d marry her? Considering…” He let the sentence hang.
His guest gave him a wicked grin. Dunsford’s gut twisted when he realized who it was.
***
Another drawer slid shut. Tristan raked his hair again, frustration driving him to madness. He closed his eyes, forcing him to focus again.
He’d spent the last three days and nights examining the documents Smyth collected. Manifests, letters, files and receipts. There was nothing straightforward, nothing pointing to a direct individual, but there was a trend. Misplaced expenditures, arrival of goods disembarked that showed on port records but not on ships’ ledgers. The dying magistrate’s hint of a name. It had a harsh sound, like a “t” or “d” but it had been garbled in blood. He needed to think straight. It shouldn’t be so hard to narrow down candidates with those initials, but he had other issues plaguing him.
Evelyn.
He’d ignored her for the time being. Guilt and desire made horrible bedmates. An erection started at any thought of her. Even now, sitting in Livingston’s office, skimming through the minister’s files and desk, he shifted as his hardening member stirred. But as much as he wanted her, two ghosts always appeared. Aatifa and Grifton. And their presence dampened his mood. Hell and damnation!
He reached for the lower right drawer to the desk, some inward compelling notion that it was the one he needed, only to find it locked. That didn’t deter him. He pulled a long slender wire and pipe from his waistcoat. Inserting them into the locking mechanism, he maneuvered them until he heard the click of the tumbler fall into position. A smile came to his face. Years ago, in his youth, prior to service, he learned to pick locks from one of the groomsmen who had a previous life of crime. Tristan believed the man had reformed, but, considering his abilities, no doubt the man could have made a fortune outside of mucking stalls.
The drawer clicked open. Its contents were exactly what Tristan had hoped for—files. He scanned the inside sheets carefully. The top agents’ dossiers were there, i
ncluding his, and he found that amusing. He found his two lost agents from Afghanistan, and then he discovered Grifton’s. First, he was surprised to find the dead agent’s files still there. He simply assumed that upon death, if the files remained as paper and not fire starters, they’d be stored deep inside the walls, never to surface. But these comrades in arms, in secret warfare, remained, even though it had been well over a year ago. His fingers traced the edge of Grifton’s file, an unusual need arising to take it and leave, but, instead, he gave into his immediate desires. In a quick move, he lifted it and sat back to preview it.
Inside was the man’s application and letters of recommendation for rank, even though enough money and title could get that. He flipped further. The orders assigning him to Tristan’s unit in India and the ones reassigning him to Fitzwaters’ command. The scrawled name at the bottom made Tristan’s eyebrows rise. Charles Silvers, Lord Dunsford. Hadn’t he heard that name not long ago? His mind struggled to remember when he heard footsteps on the wooden hallway floor, growing louder as they got closer. Quickly he put the file back into its location, closed the drawer, swiftly twisted the metal instruments in the lock and rolled the wheeled chair over to the wooden globe nearby.
“Lord Wrenworth, what a surprise to find you here,” Livingston stated as he walked into his office.
Tristan bit back a grin and looked up. “I’m here to deliver news.”
The assistant secretary eyed him. “You’ve found the culprit?”
Tristan gave him a bitter smile. “Not yet, but I’m getting closer. No, what I’ve come to report is that I have wed.”
The man’s jaw dropped, obviously astonished. “Truly? I had figured you to be a diehard bachelor.”
All pretense of this cover fell as Tristan said, “Yes sir, but you are well aware that wasn’t the case, aren’t you?”
Livingston snorted as he took his abandoned chair back behind his desk and barked, “You cannot mean to tell me that adorable little hoyden you stayed with to be anything other than a tool for the trade.”