In Scandal They Wed
Page 5

With a groan, Spencer dropped his head into his hand, picturing his return home with ugly clarity. His stepmother, with Adara at her side, would toss every eligible young lady of the season at him. He would be bombarded on every side with mealymouthed chits and their garrulous mamas. The harder he resisted, the harder they would push him into Society.
All he wanted was a little peace in his life, but he would have none of it until he married. Until he provided an heir. He straightened on the bench as a sudden thought seized him. He need only intercept his stepmother and Adara’s aggravating plans and arrive home . . . ineligible.
But there was only one way to do that.
His blood began to pump as an idea grew, took hold.
Rising to his feet, the legs of the bench scraped the floor.
“Where are you going?”
“For a ride.”
“This late, milord?” Bagby glanced to the door that rattled, buffeted from the wind outside. “In this weather?”
“I need to clear my head.” In a firm and unflinching voice, he commanded, “Return home tomorrow, Bagby. Assure my stepmother all her wishes shall be satisfied. I will secure my title and perform my duty.”
Bagby blinked, clearly startled by this happy turn. “Indeed. Very good, my lord. She will be most content to hear that. Most content.”
With a curt nod, he swung on his heels and left the inn.
Chapter 5
Spencer Lockhart’s name tossed through her head as violently as the winter winds blowing outside her window. Unable to sleep, she pushed down the counterpane and dropped to the floor, padding barefoot across the worn-thin rug.
Since his departure, she’d moved about in a daze, still seeing him in her mind. Imposing and handsome in her tiny parlor, his gaze blistering and intense, that deep voice of his rippling her skin in a way that both thrilled and scared her.
He was a handsome man, true. But she’d witnessed the devastation handsome men wrought over women. She would not be so weak.
At the first sight of him, at his striking resemblance to Nicholas, she thought she faced Ian himself. Linnie’s lover.
She knew better now. Despite his resemblance to Nicholas, there was nothing soft or romantic about him, nothing that would have spoken to Linnie’s tender heart. Her sister would never have fallen in love with such a man—all hard edges and firm, unsmiling lips. The mere sight of him would have terrified her.
As he terrified me.
But for different reasons.
She crouched, opened the grate and stoked the coals, adding a few more from the nearby bucket, determined to keep the embers alive and burning. Not just for warmth. Even in summer, her grate burned, imbuing the room with a red-orange glow. Precious light. To stave off the dark. The always waiting dark, eager to pull her into its frightening maw.
Not since Barbados had she slept in the dark. Not since she’d learned that monsters lived and breathed, walked the earth in the guise of man. One couldn’t see what was coming in the dark . . . or what was already there, lurking close, ready to pounce.
It was true. As helpless as a child, she feared the dark. None knew of her shaming secret, her embarrassing weakness. And none ever would.
Sighing, she strode to the window, her nightrail whispering at her ankles. The full moon sat high in the sky. Frost gleamed on the ground, glinting like diamonds on the grass. Soon it would snow. Relief ran through her to know they’d saved what they could from the garden. For a few months, at least, they would have enough food.
Shivering, she lifted her palm to the window, pressing her hand against the chilled glass. A few months. She swallowed against the rising thickness in her throat. After that, she had no choice. In the spring, she would approach her father. Beg, if need be.
The image of Spencer Lockhart flashed through her mind again. Another worry. At least until tomorrow. Tomorrow, he would leave. After he met Nicholas.
His presence rattled her . . . made her feel strange and alive in places she thought dead. He made her feel, made her remember, brought back, in a dizzying rush, her girlish dreams of adventure and excitement.
The moon gleamed full and bright overhead, casting the front lawn and drive with an iridescent sheen. She squinted into the distance, gazing at the horizon, and spotted a figure at the crest of the hill, just beyond the drive. A lone horseman etched perfectly in the moonlight. Spencer Lockhart. She knew it was he. It could be no one else.
Her heart seized in her chest. What was he doing here? Immediately, the impulse to run into the nursery and fold Nicholas into her arms overcame her. Foolish.
Dropping her hand from the glass, she took a hasty step back and drew a deep breath into her lungs. He wasn’t the sort to steal a child. Even if her worst fear was true and he was here to claim Nicholas, he wasn’t the sort to sneak into a house in the dead of night and do so. She didn’t know how she knew this much of him, but she did. He would do so honestly, openly, using the law to his advantage. And she would fight him to her last breath.
“He can’t. He can’t. He can’t.” The words bled from her lips in a rushed mantra.
Why would he wish to saddle himself with a child? To take Nicholas from the only mother he knew? As long as he believed in her lie, believed her to be Linnie, he would not separate them. She tugged on her bottom lip, convinced of this. She need only to make certain he never learned the truth.
“Why are you here?” she whispered to the shadowy figure, so small in the distance, and yet he filled her whole world at the moment, larger even than the pulsing night.
Did he worry she would flee in the night with his cousin’s son? Perhaps if she had some place to go, funds to support herself, a father that cared for her as much as he did for himself, she would.
But no. She needed to stay and convince him of what she had managed to convince the rest of the world. Then he could leave The Harbour, confident in the care being given to his kin.
Man and rider stood upon the rise for several more moments, the wind whipping his greatcoat, tossing it like a banner around him.
She held her breath, watching, bewildered.
The stallion pawed the earth impatiently. Fingers pulling at her lip, she shifted impatiently on the balls of her feet. What thoughts crossed his mind as he stared at her cottage?
Her voice cracked the silence of her bedchamber. “Go. Turn and go.”
At last, he did.
She watched him disappear, praying that perhaps he had changed his mind and wouldn’t return on the morrow.
Sliding beneath the crisp covers, she winced at the uselessness of that request. Of course he would. He considered himself some sort of protector, appointed by Nicholas’s father. In his mind, that gave him the right to stay, to pass judgment on her. Anger simmered through her as she recalled his snapped words.
“Trust a lady well and truly compromised to set store in notions of love rather than the practical matters of life that require attending.”
For years, she’d treaded a fine edge, guarding her deception, always counting pennies. She attended a great deal to the practical matters of life! Not a day passed when she did not.
Turning on her side, she rested a hand beneath her cheek. Her stomach twisted and flipped at the thought of seeing him again.
He frightened her. His size, his austerity, his very maleness. The intensity of his stare filled her with an uneasiness that had little to do with her closely guarded secrets and everything to do with how much he affected her and reminded her that she was a woman. A woman who had dismissed notions of intimacy and physical love long ago.
For the first time since she returned from Barbados, she questioned her determination to live life with no knowledge of the intimacies shared between a man and woman. Perhaps at five and twenty, she might, at last, hunger for the pleasures of the marriage bed.
With a man like Spencer Lockhart.
No, no, no. Not him, of course. Merely a man like him. Handsome. Strong. Broad-shouldered. Dark-haired. It needn’t be him in particular.
Rolling on her side again, she almost believed herself.
“You’re certain you don’t wish for me to stay?” Marguerite squeezed Evie’s hand with one of her own.
“No. Go. You’ll miss your train.” Smiling, Evie nodded to Mr. Murdoch waiting beside the carriage to take Marguerite into the village.
“Are you certain?”
“He only wants to see Nicholas.” Evie shrugged, trying to project a level of nonchalance.
“But if he learns—”
“He won’t. He doesn’t even suspect.”
Marguerite shook her head, her glossy, dark hair gleaming in the faint morning light. “Perhaps he was told something you don’t know, something Ian shared about Linnie. What if you inadvertently say something . . .”
It wasn’t anything Evie hadn’t already considered, hadn’t worried about late into the night. Especially given Spencer Lockhart’s strange appearance outside her window last night. She couldn’t shake the dark suspicion that he wanted more than to simply meet Nicholas.
“Come now, Marguerite. He would never consider that I am anyone other than Linnie. It’s too incredible.”
Marguerite’s lips twisted. “Indeed,” she mocked. “It’s beyond fathomable.”
Evie forced a smile. Marguerite had tried to talk her out of this charade years ago. Marguerite and her other old school friend, Fallon. Of course, recently sacked and returned from Barbados, Evie had not been in the proper frame of mind to heed their advice. A good thing. She didn’t regret her decision. Even now. Who knew what sort of life Nicholas would have had without her?
Marguerite hugged her tightly, and there was surprising strength in the embrace for one so small, for one who had barely survived their years at Penwich. Pulling back, Maguerite’s gold eyes drilled into Evie with stark intensity. “Take care. I’ll fret every moment until I hear all is well. Write me as soon as he departs and let me know what happened.” She wagged a gloved finger in Evie’s face. “Everything.”
“Of course.”
Moistening her lips, Marguerite suggested, and not for the first time, “You know, Fallon could be of help—”
“That’s unnecessary.” Wed to the Duke of Damon, Fallon possessed considerable influence, not to mention wealth. Evie had already prevailed upon her more than once when things had become too dire. She accepted Fallon’s generous gifts—toys and clothes for Nicholas, oysters and chocolate-candied fruit every Christmas. Certainly, her friend would give more if asked, but Evie hated to ask.
“Don’t be so stubborn,” Marguerite chided.
“Of course, if I must prevail upon her, I will, but I’m still hoping my father will come through.”
Marguerite snorted. “Don’t wait too long. Any father that would dump you at Penwich can’t be relied upon.” Her gold eyes glinted, and Evie knew she was speaking from experience.
Linking arms, Evie walked Marguerite to the carriage door. “You’ll visit again?”
“Same time next year,” Marguerite promised, ascending the rickety carriage. “And I’ll see you at Easter? At Fallon’s?”
“Of course.”
Evie stood back and watched the carriage clatter down the drive, crossing her arms and burrowing deeper in her cloak. She stiffened when the carriage rounded the bend, leaving the road clear for the approaching horse and rider. Spencer Lockhart.
Her fingers dug into her skirts. She forced herself to remain in place, fixing a tight, welcoming smile to her face.
As he neared, the paleness of his gaze came into view, settling on her with familiar intensity. Did he look at everyone that way? Or just her?
And did anyone else’s stomach twist as hers did?
Chapter 6
“Mrs. Cross,” he greeted, doffing his head as he dismounted in one fluid motion.
“Mr. Lockhart,” she returned. “Thank you for granting me time to speak with Nicholas. He’s most eager to meet you.”