In Scandal They Wed
Page 8
“Naturally,” Spencer ground out.
“You can understand how I would do anything to protect her.”
Spencer detected the threat, heard what Sheffield wasn’t saying; the doctor wanted him gone.
“I pose no—”
“You’re a stranger, no matter your weak connection to her late husband.” So, she’d apprised him of that much, had she? “A stranger. A man. Bleeding upon Evelyn’s bed.”
Spencer snorted. Did Sheffield think he’d manipulated himself into these circumstances?
The doctor tugged roughly on Spencer’s torn skin, tying off the thread. Moving to his bag again, Sheffield rustled the contents within. “I trust you’ve finished your business here and will be on your way.” He pronounced the word business with great skepticism.
An acerbic retort rose to Spencer’s lips. Instead of replying that he would leave only when he was damn well ready, he shifted on the bed and inhaled, catching the faint scent of her on the pillow beneath his cheek. Lemons? Bergamot? Whatever the combination, it was a heady thing.
A smile touched his lips. The idea that he reclined in the bed where she spent her nights made his stomach tighten.
Sheffield finished bandaging his wound.
With a grunt, Spencer struggled to his side.
“Careful not to tear out my stitch work,” Sheffield advised, slowly gathering his things. “So. You’re the late Mr. Cross’s cousin.”
Spencer frowned. He already knew as much. “Yes,” he replied, deliberately vague.
“And how did he die again? This . . . cousin of yours?”
Spencer’s gaze narrowed. Was Sheffield nosing about for the truth? Did he suspect that Linnie fabricated a husband? Had his arrival cast her into suspicion? She had feared as much could happen, but he didn’t let it dissuade him. He’d resolved to meet Nicholas. To know her better.
“Does Mrs. Cross never speak of him?” He tsked. “Given your relationship, I thought for certain she would have.”
The doctor stiffened, acrimony writ on his pale countenance.
At that moment, the door opened and Mrs. Cross stuck her head inside. Her eyes locked with his, the blue bright with determination, daring him to try and banish her again. “Need anything, gentlemen?”
“I’m all done here.” Sheffield stood, his movements stiff and jerky. “Your patient is on the mend. I don’t see why he can’t travel and be on his way—”
“Indeed not.” She blinked, striding fully into the chamber. “How shall he ride?”
Sheffield’s face colored. “He could take the post in the village—”
“And leave my mount?” Spencer shook his head.
“Of course not.” Mrs. Cross looked at her beau as if he’d taken leave of his senses. “Travel is not possible in his condition. Not for days yet.”
Sheffield exhaled heavily and leaned close to her, whispering indiscreetly, “You cannot mean for him to stay here, Evelyn. A veritable stranger in the house with you, a lone woman . . . what will people say?”
She pulled back her shoulders. “I’m not alone. I’ve the Murdochs and Amy and Aunt—”
“Hardly appropriate chaperones.” He gestured to Spencer. “After this day’s work, you should begin considering asylums for your aunt.”
“Oh!” Hot color washed her cheeks.
Spencer frowned at the doctor, wondering why she tolerated his interference, much less his courtship. She should toss him out on his bloody ass.
The dim-witted man continued, either oblivious or indifferent to her outrage. “As to this . . . man, housing him in your home will only start tongues wagging.”
Her eyes glinted. “I thank you for your concern on my behalf, but he stays.”
“Very well. If you won’t listen to reason and respect my infallible judgment, then think of Nicholas.” Clearly the doctor was not yet willing to admit defeat.
Her head cocked at a dangerous angle. “I am thinking of Nicholas.” Her next words astonished Spencer, considering her earlier eagerness for him to depart. “Mr. Lockhart is my late husband’s cousin—he’s Nicholas’s remaining link to his father. He’s welcome here as long as he likes.”
“Indeed? Mr. Lockhart is your late husband’s cousin?” Sheffield gathered up his bag, his spine poker-straight. “You are quite sure of that?”
Spencer’s nape tingled in forewarning. Just like before the initial charge. The still before the first whistle of cannon across a battlefield.
Her blue eyes narrowed. “Whatever do you mean?”
“I only want to be certain on the matter. I have a right, after all.”
With the color still high in her cheeks and her blue eyes sparking, she perched a fist on her hip and demanded, “Then by all means, be clear.” She was a sight to admire, and suddenly he could see why Ian never shook free of her.
“I demand the truth, Evelyn! You owe me that much.”
She tossed her head. “What in heavens are you talking about?”
Sheffield swung an accusing finger at Spencer. “Is this man Nicholas’s father?”
Chapter 8
The stab of satisfaction Spencer felt was wholly inappropriate. He knew that—knew he should not relish Sheffield’s accusation. But damn if he didn’t relish the hot flash of jealousy in her suitor’s eyes.
Yet as her wide blue eyes filled with horror, his satisfaction was quick to fade.
Why should she look so appalled? Did the notion of him—of them—repulse her so greatly?
She stared, gaping like a fish, looking back and forth between him and Sheffield.
“Nicholas is the very image of this man,” Sheffield charged, still wagging a finger. “Any fool can see that!”
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.
“You can understand how I would do anything to protect her.”
Spencer detected the threat, heard what Sheffield wasn’t saying; the doctor wanted him gone.
“I pose no—”
“You’re a stranger, no matter your weak connection to her late husband.” So, she’d apprised him of that much, had she? “A stranger. A man. Bleeding upon Evelyn’s bed.”
Spencer snorted. Did Sheffield think he’d manipulated himself into these circumstances?
The doctor tugged roughly on Spencer’s torn skin, tying off the thread. Moving to his bag again, Sheffield rustled the contents within. “I trust you’ve finished your business here and will be on your way.” He pronounced the word business with great skepticism.
An acerbic retort rose to Spencer’s lips. Instead of replying that he would leave only when he was damn well ready, he shifted on the bed and inhaled, catching the faint scent of her on the pillow beneath his cheek. Lemons? Bergamot? Whatever the combination, it was a heady thing.
A smile touched his lips. The idea that he reclined in the bed where she spent her nights made his stomach tighten.
Sheffield finished bandaging his wound.
With a grunt, Spencer struggled to his side.
“Careful not to tear out my stitch work,” Sheffield advised, slowly gathering his things. “So. You’re the late Mr. Cross’s cousin.”
Spencer frowned. He already knew as much. “Yes,” he replied, deliberately vague.
“And how did he die again? This . . . cousin of yours?”
Spencer’s gaze narrowed. Was Sheffield nosing about for the truth? Did he suspect that Linnie fabricated a husband? Had his arrival cast her into suspicion? She had feared as much could happen, but he didn’t let it dissuade him. He’d resolved to meet Nicholas. To know her better.
“Does Mrs. Cross never speak of him?” He tsked. “Given your relationship, I thought for certain she would have.”
The doctor stiffened, acrimony writ on his pale countenance.
At that moment, the door opened and Mrs. Cross stuck her head inside. Her eyes locked with his, the blue bright with determination, daring him to try and banish her again. “Need anything, gentlemen?”
“I’m all done here.” Sheffield stood, his movements stiff and jerky. “Your patient is on the mend. I don’t see why he can’t travel and be on his way—”
“Indeed not.” She blinked, striding fully into the chamber. “How shall he ride?”
Sheffield’s face colored. “He could take the post in the village—”
“And leave my mount?” Spencer shook his head.
“Of course not.” Mrs. Cross looked at her beau as if he’d taken leave of his senses. “Travel is not possible in his condition. Not for days yet.”
Sheffield exhaled heavily and leaned close to her, whispering indiscreetly, “You cannot mean for him to stay here, Evelyn. A veritable stranger in the house with you, a lone woman . . . what will people say?”
She pulled back her shoulders. “I’m not alone. I’ve the Murdochs and Amy and Aunt—”
“Hardly appropriate chaperones.” He gestured to Spencer. “After this day’s work, you should begin considering asylums for your aunt.”
“Oh!” Hot color washed her cheeks.
Spencer frowned at the doctor, wondering why she tolerated his interference, much less his courtship. She should toss him out on his bloody ass.
The dim-witted man continued, either oblivious or indifferent to her outrage. “As to this . . . man, housing him in your home will only start tongues wagging.”
Her eyes glinted. “I thank you for your concern on my behalf, but he stays.”
“Very well. If you won’t listen to reason and respect my infallible judgment, then think of Nicholas.” Clearly the doctor was not yet willing to admit defeat.
Her head cocked at a dangerous angle. “I am thinking of Nicholas.” Her next words astonished Spencer, considering her earlier eagerness for him to depart. “Mr. Lockhart is my late husband’s cousin—he’s Nicholas’s remaining link to his father. He’s welcome here as long as he likes.”
“Indeed? Mr. Lockhart is your late husband’s cousin?” Sheffield gathered up his bag, his spine poker-straight. “You are quite sure of that?”
Spencer’s nape tingled in forewarning. Just like before the initial charge. The still before the first whistle of cannon across a battlefield.
Her blue eyes narrowed. “Whatever do you mean?”
“I only want to be certain on the matter. I have a right, after all.”
With the color still high in her cheeks and her blue eyes sparking, she perched a fist on her hip and demanded, “Then by all means, be clear.” She was a sight to admire, and suddenly he could see why Ian never shook free of her.
“I demand the truth, Evelyn! You owe me that much.”
She tossed her head. “What in heavens are you talking about?”
Sheffield swung an accusing finger at Spencer. “Is this man Nicholas’s father?”
Chapter 8
The stab of satisfaction Spencer felt was wholly inappropriate. He knew that—knew he should not relish Sheffield’s accusation. But damn if he didn’t relish the hot flash of jealousy in her suitor’s eyes.
Yet as her wide blue eyes filled with horror, his satisfaction was quick to fade.
Why should she look so appalled? Did the notion of him—of them—repulse her so greatly?
She stared, gaping like a fish, looking back and forth between him and Sheffield.
“Nicholas is the very image of this man,” Sheffield charged, still wagging a finger. “Any fool can see that!”
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.
