In Scandal They Wed
Page 4
“Correct,” Evie echoed, but the word rattled around inside her head. There was nothing correct in this situation. Nothing correct with Spencer Lockhart’s nosing about. A ragged breath shuddered past her lips.
Nothing correct about the tightness in her belly when he stood within five feet of her.
Spencer made short work of shedding his clothes. The serving girl waited for him on the bed, undressed, ready, her head cocked to the side and eyes gleaming with lusty approval as she watched him discard the last of his garments.
“You’re a finely made fellow.” Her hands stretched out to touch him as he came down on the bed.
Spencer was no saint, even if he wasn’t quite the Lothario his pedigree demanded. His father, his half brothers, even Ian . . . scoundrels each, a score of peccadilloes to each their credit. In comparison, his sexual habits ran tame.
All the same, he’d taken his pleasure with women over the years. Faceless females. Usually camp followers or village women trying to earn money to survive the ravages of war.
They would come to the soldiers’ tents in the dark of night and offer their services, so no one in their community would learn of their shame—or the means they took to support their families.
Such arrangements suited him best. No entanglements. No emotional involvements. Not since Adara, not since he’d borne witness to the horror of war, had he involved his heart with a woman. He doubted he ever could be that boy again. So trusting. A young fool who believed in the love poets spouted.
As he sank down beside the copper-haired maid, the wan, narrow face of Linnie Cosgrove—Cross, he supposed he should think of her—materialized in his head. Those impossibly blue eyes of hers watched him—glared at him. As though she stood witness to his cavorting.
Instantly, his ardor cooled. At least his ardor for the willing wench in his bed.
Thoughts of Linnie, however, consumed him.
He growled low in his throat. Why should thoughts of one colorless slip of a girl plague him when a well-rounded female kissed upon his neck? It was all Ian’s fault. His cousin had imprinted her on his soul, it would seem. A tattoo etched for eternity in his head.
Squeezing his eyes tightly closed, he kissed the maid hard, deep. Desperate to rouse himself, his hands caressed her plump br**sts. She moaned, her n**ed body arching beneath him.
Still, she remained firmly embedded there. In his head. Miss Cosgrove . . . bloody hell, Cross. Linnie.
The maid scored her nails down his back, pulling him closer, urging him to claim her. In a move that likely sent every Winters male turning in his grave, he tore free from her.
Collapsing on his side, he flung an arm across his forehead. The satisfaction he had hoped to achieve in a quick romp eluded him. His chest felt as hollow as ever, his body achingly unsatisfied.
The female beside him gasped for breath. “What’s wrong? Did I do something—”
“No, I’ve simply had a change of . . . heart.” He felt his lip curl in a grimace as an image of the disagreeable Mrs. Cross rose up in his mind.
“Oh.” She lifted up on one elbow to trail a finger down his chest. “Pity. It happens.”
His mouth twisted. She thought him incapable. He didn’t feel compelled to correct the misapprehension. Easier than explaining that thoughts of another woman drove him to distraction.
“We can try again. Later perhaps?”
“Perhaps,” he replied vaguely, wondering how to kindly request that she depart his room.
“You called on The Harbour today, I hear tell.”
He grunted, idly wondering how he was to cope with Society when he could scarcely tolerate one maid’s aimless chatter. How would he endure the dames of the ton?
The girl wiggled into a sitting position, brazen and comfortable in her nudity. “What business does a fine gentleman like you have with those there?”
“None of your affair.” Didn’t she have chores to attend to?
“You know the Cosgroves then? Widow Cross is an uppity prig. Not at all friendly.”
A smile twitched his lips. The description was not amiss. “Indeed?” He imagined that she had built a certain distance between herself and the outside world. The better to protect her house of cards.
The girl continued, “Not that she has any right to such airs, given she’s practically destitute. And she has no looks to speak of—”
“You may go,” he broke in, beyond caring for her feelings.
Her cheeks reddened. She leaned forward, brushing a heavy, swaying breast against his arm. “Would you not like to try again—”
“Sadly, no.” He did not smile, did not bother injecting kindness into his voice. His words rang out coldly.
“Very well.” Snapping her mouth into a hard line, she hopped from the bed. “Is it what I said about the Widow Cross? Didn’t mean no insult. You’ve no cause to feel protective over her. Everyone in these parts likes her well enough. Sour ways and all, she’s made do.” Her eyes snapped hotly. “Has a fine gentleman like Peter Sheffield faithfully trotting after her—”
“She has a suitor?”
“A lovesick puppy more like it,” she sneered.
The notion shouldn’t have bothered him, shouldn’t have lodged like a rock in his chest. Ian himself had often wondered if Linnie had married another . . . if that explained the unanswered letters. A suitor shouldn’t give him pause. On the contrary, Spencer should be relieved she’d found a gentleman to care for her.
So why did his hands curl at his sides at the thought of some faceless man daring to tread in his cousin’s footsteps?
Or was that the true reason?
The servant girl left the room, coin in hand.
Spencer dressed quickly, his movements angry. After a few moments, he admitted his anger was directed at himself. Because he was lying. To himself. To his cousin’s ghost.
He’d just fondled another woman . . . all the while thinking of Mrs. Cross. Linnie! The woman who had sat upon a gilded pedestal between him and Ian throughout the war, protected, revered. Today, he’d finally met her. And all he wanted to do was yank her down from that lofty pedestal and sample the woman’s charms for himself. He snorted, disgusted. He should possess more honor, more respect for Ian, than to think of her as he would any woman whose charms he itched to taste.
Striding from his room, his boots bit into the wood planks as he ventured downstairs into the taproom, ready to drown his guilt in drink. Tomorrow he would meet Ian’s son, content himself with the knowledge that he was safe and in good hands, and then he would leave, forgetting this awful infatuation for Mrs. Cross.
And go where?
He pushed the unwelcome question aside. He’d sold his commission. He couldn’t hide from the reality of his new situation forever. He must face his responsibilities. A sour taste coated his mouth. If he could only find some way to acquire the necessary bride and take up the reins as Viscount Winters without enduring Society and all its falseness. He would gladly suffer a battlefield and dine on cannon fire rather than walk the ballrooms of the ton where lily-handed aristocrats opined about a war they dared not fight in themselves.
The door to the inn flung open. A great gust of wind blew inside the establishment’s toasty confines. A man stomped within, shaking his greatcoat about him as if that would rid him of the wintry cold. The innkeeper rushed to greet him, waving at one of the many empty tables. A night like this, the villagers were likely warming themselves before their own hearths.
The gentleman handed his greatcoat off to a serving girl and sank down at a table.
Hands cupped around his tankard of ale, Spencer assessed the newcomer, thinking him familiar. But what were the odds that he should know anyone in this small corner of Yorkshire?
At that moment, the man’s gaze lifted and locked on him. “Lord Winters! Can it be I’ve actually found you?”
Spencer stiffened, recognizing him. Andrew Bagby, his late father’s man of affairs. He’d changed, aged, but his lilting, Scottish brogue had not.
“Mr. Bagby,” Spencer greeted as the older man settled his thin frame across the table from him.
Removing his gloves, Bagby chafed his hands together. “Frightful cold, is it not? Cannot tell you how relieved I am that I found you. This traipsing about the country is not for me. How you ever managed to do so the last few years—” Bagby paused to smile as a serving girl set a fresh tankard before him. “Do you have anything to recommend from the kitchens, my girl?”
“We’ve a tasty shepherd’s pie.”
“Brilliant.” Bagby nodded happily. “My lord?”
The serving girl’s eyes widened at the designation.
“I’m fine, thank you,” Spencer bit out, displeased to have his title bandied about when he himself had not seen fit to adopt it. It had yet to sink in and feel a part of him. The girl left and Spencer focused his ire at the man before him. “What are you doing here, Bagby?”
At the edge in Spencer’s voice, some of Bagby’s cheerfulness evaporated. “Your stepmother sent me to find you.”
“Of course.” The very woman who made certain he felt unwanted and unwelcome in his own home, among his own family, now clamored for his return.
“You’re the new viscount. She insists you return—”
“She’s in no position to insist anything.”
Bagby smiled almost pityingly. “Lady Winters is a formidable woman. She is not to be dissuaded.”
“How did you find me?”
“Your sister.”
“Ah,” he nodded. He’d visited his stepsister first. Rose had always been sweet and loving despite her mother’s influence. Rose gave a damn about him, unlike his father, half brothers, or the various Lady Winterses to pass through his life, all of whom had been happy to ignore him, a son no one deemed necessary, especially as he was a product of the viscount’s most unacceptable wife—a nobody from Northumberland.
Bagby’s gaze flicked about him with distaste. “Provincial little backwater, isn’t it?”
“Better than the Crimea.”
Bagby’s food arrived and he dug in, murmuring his approval as he speared a greasy cube of potato into his mouth. “At least the food is palatable.”
“Go home, Bagby,” Spencer announced. “I’ll put in an appearance soon enough.”
Bagby shook his head. “Your stepmother won’t accept that. She’s determined you wed before the year is out and secure an heir. She sees it as her duty. In the last five years, she watched both your brothers die. One after the other.” He tsked and shook his head at the tragedy of it.
Two young men struck down in the prime of their youth might seem astounding had they not been Winterses. The very nature of their existence had put them at risk. They’d expired as Society would have expected. Frederick shot dead in a duel, and Cullen when the brothel he’d frequented had caught fire.
“She counts herself fortunate that you did not die at Balaclava. When word reached us that you did not fall with your regiment in the charge, she wept with joy.”
Spencer snorted. “Hard to imagine that.”
“Not so much. She’d rather her fate rest with you than some distant cousin who would toss her and Lady Adara to the streets.”
“And how are they so certain I won’t?”
Bagby laughed. The sound grated. “You’ve a noble heart, ever since you were a lad. Always saving birds and stray mongrels. Remember the bag of kittens Cullen tossed into the river? We thought you dead when you jumped off the bridge after them.”
Spencer grimaced. If a farmer hadn’t pulled him to shore several miles downriver, he would likely be dead.
“Your stepmother knows you’ll do right by her. Your honor would permit nothing less.” Bagby dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “She and Lady Adara are already working on the guest list and planning a grand gala for your return. The hope is for you to sign a betrothal contract that very night.”
Nothing correct about the tightness in her belly when he stood within five feet of her.
Spencer made short work of shedding his clothes. The serving girl waited for him on the bed, undressed, ready, her head cocked to the side and eyes gleaming with lusty approval as she watched him discard the last of his garments.
“You’re a finely made fellow.” Her hands stretched out to touch him as he came down on the bed.
Spencer was no saint, even if he wasn’t quite the Lothario his pedigree demanded. His father, his half brothers, even Ian . . . scoundrels each, a score of peccadilloes to each their credit. In comparison, his sexual habits ran tame.
All the same, he’d taken his pleasure with women over the years. Faceless females. Usually camp followers or village women trying to earn money to survive the ravages of war.
They would come to the soldiers’ tents in the dark of night and offer their services, so no one in their community would learn of their shame—or the means they took to support their families.
Such arrangements suited him best. No entanglements. No emotional involvements. Not since Adara, not since he’d borne witness to the horror of war, had he involved his heart with a woman. He doubted he ever could be that boy again. So trusting. A young fool who believed in the love poets spouted.
As he sank down beside the copper-haired maid, the wan, narrow face of Linnie Cosgrove—Cross, he supposed he should think of her—materialized in his head. Those impossibly blue eyes of hers watched him—glared at him. As though she stood witness to his cavorting.
Instantly, his ardor cooled. At least his ardor for the willing wench in his bed.
Thoughts of Linnie, however, consumed him.
He growled low in his throat. Why should thoughts of one colorless slip of a girl plague him when a well-rounded female kissed upon his neck? It was all Ian’s fault. His cousin had imprinted her on his soul, it would seem. A tattoo etched for eternity in his head.
Squeezing his eyes tightly closed, he kissed the maid hard, deep. Desperate to rouse himself, his hands caressed her plump br**sts. She moaned, her n**ed body arching beneath him.
Still, she remained firmly embedded there. In his head. Miss Cosgrove . . . bloody hell, Cross. Linnie.
The maid scored her nails down his back, pulling him closer, urging him to claim her. In a move that likely sent every Winters male turning in his grave, he tore free from her.
Collapsing on his side, he flung an arm across his forehead. The satisfaction he had hoped to achieve in a quick romp eluded him. His chest felt as hollow as ever, his body achingly unsatisfied.
The female beside him gasped for breath. “What’s wrong? Did I do something—”
“No, I’ve simply had a change of . . . heart.” He felt his lip curl in a grimace as an image of the disagreeable Mrs. Cross rose up in his mind.
“Oh.” She lifted up on one elbow to trail a finger down his chest. “Pity. It happens.”
His mouth twisted. She thought him incapable. He didn’t feel compelled to correct the misapprehension. Easier than explaining that thoughts of another woman drove him to distraction.
“We can try again. Later perhaps?”
“Perhaps,” he replied vaguely, wondering how to kindly request that she depart his room.
“You called on The Harbour today, I hear tell.”
He grunted, idly wondering how he was to cope with Society when he could scarcely tolerate one maid’s aimless chatter. How would he endure the dames of the ton?
The girl wiggled into a sitting position, brazen and comfortable in her nudity. “What business does a fine gentleman like you have with those there?”
“None of your affair.” Didn’t she have chores to attend to?
“You know the Cosgroves then? Widow Cross is an uppity prig. Not at all friendly.”
A smile twitched his lips. The description was not amiss. “Indeed?” He imagined that she had built a certain distance between herself and the outside world. The better to protect her house of cards.
The girl continued, “Not that she has any right to such airs, given she’s practically destitute. And she has no looks to speak of—”
“You may go,” he broke in, beyond caring for her feelings.
Her cheeks reddened. She leaned forward, brushing a heavy, swaying breast against his arm. “Would you not like to try again—”
“Sadly, no.” He did not smile, did not bother injecting kindness into his voice. His words rang out coldly.
“Very well.” Snapping her mouth into a hard line, she hopped from the bed. “Is it what I said about the Widow Cross? Didn’t mean no insult. You’ve no cause to feel protective over her. Everyone in these parts likes her well enough. Sour ways and all, she’s made do.” Her eyes snapped hotly. “Has a fine gentleman like Peter Sheffield faithfully trotting after her—”
“She has a suitor?”
“A lovesick puppy more like it,” she sneered.
The notion shouldn’t have bothered him, shouldn’t have lodged like a rock in his chest. Ian himself had often wondered if Linnie had married another . . . if that explained the unanswered letters. A suitor shouldn’t give him pause. On the contrary, Spencer should be relieved she’d found a gentleman to care for her.
So why did his hands curl at his sides at the thought of some faceless man daring to tread in his cousin’s footsteps?
Or was that the true reason?
The servant girl left the room, coin in hand.
Spencer dressed quickly, his movements angry. After a few moments, he admitted his anger was directed at himself. Because he was lying. To himself. To his cousin’s ghost.
He’d just fondled another woman . . . all the while thinking of Mrs. Cross. Linnie! The woman who had sat upon a gilded pedestal between him and Ian throughout the war, protected, revered. Today, he’d finally met her. And all he wanted to do was yank her down from that lofty pedestal and sample the woman’s charms for himself. He snorted, disgusted. He should possess more honor, more respect for Ian, than to think of her as he would any woman whose charms he itched to taste.
Striding from his room, his boots bit into the wood planks as he ventured downstairs into the taproom, ready to drown his guilt in drink. Tomorrow he would meet Ian’s son, content himself with the knowledge that he was safe and in good hands, and then he would leave, forgetting this awful infatuation for Mrs. Cross.
And go where?
He pushed the unwelcome question aside. He’d sold his commission. He couldn’t hide from the reality of his new situation forever. He must face his responsibilities. A sour taste coated his mouth. If he could only find some way to acquire the necessary bride and take up the reins as Viscount Winters without enduring Society and all its falseness. He would gladly suffer a battlefield and dine on cannon fire rather than walk the ballrooms of the ton where lily-handed aristocrats opined about a war they dared not fight in themselves.
The door to the inn flung open. A great gust of wind blew inside the establishment’s toasty confines. A man stomped within, shaking his greatcoat about him as if that would rid him of the wintry cold. The innkeeper rushed to greet him, waving at one of the many empty tables. A night like this, the villagers were likely warming themselves before their own hearths.
The gentleman handed his greatcoat off to a serving girl and sank down at a table.
Hands cupped around his tankard of ale, Spencer assessed the newcomer, thinking him familiar. But what were the odds that he should know anyone in this small corner of Yorkshire?
At that moment, the man’s gaze lifted and locked on him. “Lord Winters! Can it be I’ve actually found you?”
Spencer stiffened, recognizing him. Andrew Bagby, his late father’s man of affairs. He’d changed, aged, but his lilting, Scottish brogue had not.
“Mr. Bagby,” Spencer greeted as the older man settled his thin frame across the table from him.
Removing his gloves, Bagby chafed his hands together. “Frightful cold, is it not? Cannot tell you how relieved I am that I found you. This traipsing about the country is not for me. How you ever managed to do so the last few years—” Bagby paused to smile as a serving girl set a fresh tankard before him. “Do you have anything to recommend from the kitchens, my girl?”
“We’ve a tasty shepherd’s pie.”
“Brilliant.” Bagby nodded happily. “My lord?”
The serving girl’s eyes widened at the designation.
“I’m fine, thank you,” Spencer bit out, displeased to have his title bandied about when he himself had not seen fit to adopt it. It had yet to sink in and feel a part of him. The girl left and Spencer focused his ire at the man before him. “What are you doing here, Bagby?”
At the edge in Spencer’s voice, some of Bagby’s cheerfulness evaporated. “Your stepmother sent me to find you.”
“Of course.” The very woman who made certain he felt unwanted and unwelcome in his own home, among his own family, now clamored for his return.
“You’re the new viscount. She insists you return—”
“She’s in no position to insist anything.”
Bagby smiled almost pityingly. “Lady Winters is a formidable woman. She is not to be dissuaded.”
“How did you find me?”
“Your sister.”
“Ah,” he nodded. He’d visited his stepsister first. Rose had always been sweet and loving despite her mother’s influence. Rose gave a damn about him, unlike his father, half brothers, or the various Lady Winterses to pass through his life, all of whom had been happy to ignore him, a son no one deemed necessary, especially as he was a product of the viscount’s most unacceptable wife—a nobody from Northumberland.
Bagby’s gaze flicked about him with distaste. “Provincial little backwater, isn’t it?”
“Better than the Crimea.”
Bagby’s food arrived and he dug in, murmuring his approval as he speared a greasy cube of potato into his mouth. “At least the food is palatable.”
“Go home, Bagby,” Spencer announced. “I’ll put in an appearance soon enough.”
Bagby shook his head. “Your stepmother won’t accept that. She’s determined you wed before the year is out and secure an heir. She sees it as her duty. In the last five years, she watched both your brothers die. One after the other.” He tsked and shook his head at the tragedy of it.
Two young men struck down in the prime of their youth might seem astounding had they not been Winterses. The very nature of their existence had put them at risk. They’d expired as Society would have expected. Frederick shot dead in a duel, and Cullen when the brothel he’d frequented had caught fire.
“She counts herself fortunate that you did not die at Balaclava. When word reached us that you did not fall with your regiment in the charge, she wept with joy.”
Spencer snorted. “Hard to imagine that.”
“Not so much. She’d rather her fate rest with you than some distant cousin who would toss her and Lady Adara to the streets.”
“And how are they so certain I won’t?”
Bagby laughed. The sound grated. “You’ve a noble heart, ever since you were a lad. Always saving birds and stray mongrels. Remember the bag of kittens Cullen tossed into the river? We thought you dead when you jumped off the bridge after them.”
Spencer grimaced. If a farmer hadn’t pulled him to shore several miles downriver, he would likely be dead.
“Your stepmother knows you’ll do right by her. Your honor would permit nothing less.” Bagby dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “She and Lady Adara are already working on the guest list and planning a grand gala for your return. The hope is for you to sign a betrothal contract that very night.”
