by Darcy Burke
“Thank you, my lord,” she replied, a meager smile on her lips.
Andrew returned it with a smile of his own. He wasn’t a bad looking gent, she decided. Tall and lean, the viscount equaled her age of twenty and was not ready to truly court any lady, but it wouldn’t be long in coming. No doubt his father had hosted this event to introduce the young man to society and its conventions. But ice flowed through her veins at the prospect of being on the viscount’s list of possible brides. Not when even his friendly attempt to assist her game frightened her so. Granted, she hadn’t asked for his aid, but gentlemen sometimes assumed chaperoned events like this called for such chivalry.
But how would she find a suitable husband if she abhorred any man’s touch? She hoped she’d recovered from that night more than two years ago, but the longer she was in London, the more her nerves frayed. And now her father demanded she wed. But how could she? Her head throbbed. Marry or be married. Which was worse? Wed a man she chose or one her father did–both prospects made her ill.
Where was Richard? Why had he abandoned her? The thoughts whirled in her head, just as they always did when she allowed herself to think of him. Richard Reynard, son of the Earl of Brenwood, had been her friend and her intended for what seemed like years, but, in reality, it was only six months. They’d gotten along famously, or so it appeared. He was the second son and went into Her Majesty’s army, his first station being overseas. It was two years ago when he left. Before then, he’d asked her to wait for him. They’d marry when he returned. She remembered the words and his smile.
Her sister’s beau invited them for ices, to get Evelyn’s mind off Richard’s departure. That never happened.
Hell did.
The sound of fabric ripping carried across the breeze, reminding Evelyn of that night when her clothing was rent from her. Her heart skipped a beat before she saw a man near the refreshment table whose heel appeared to have caught on the linen tablecloth, tearing it. Despite having seen the source of the sound, she shuddered. However, Andrew was unaware of her reaction because he was laughing about something with Sarah and several others. Evelyn struggled to calm her nerves. This was not the time to dissolve into one of her tearful fits.
Stilling herself took so much effort she wasn’t sure how she’d survive the afternoon. That memory, of her dress being torn off, of being held against her will, flooded her mind. Suddenly that moment hit home, and Evelyn realized she needed a protector, one who would never leave her. Who’d keep her and Mary from harm. Their survival depended on it. Sarah was right. For herself and Mary’s sake, Evelyn needed a husband.
She had no idea why everyone was so merry, but Andrew’s eyes were locked on Sarah’s, and that made Evelyn happy. Her friend was exactly the right type for Andrew—and for most of the gentlemen present. Young, innocent, mannerly and pretty, Sarah would do well in any home of the ton.
Laughing hard, Sarah bent forward, her free hand grasping her corseted waist as she leaned on her mallet. “Oh, Evie, did you see that? What a truly crooked strike!”
Evelyn noticed the ball several feet off the playing field. She smiled. The nicely trimmed lawn hid the small divots that cradled the ball, a hidden aid that kept it from rolling too far away.
Andrew walked over behind Evelyn, his arms reaching around her again. “Let us see if fair Lady Evelyn can do better. Now take the mallet…”
Evelyn ceased to hear him the moment his body brushed hers. This is only Andrew! But the roaring in her ears threatened to deafen the voice of reason. She tried to concentrate on where his hands were directing her to hit the ball. She relaxed some but struggled to loosen her limbs.
“Pardon me, sir, I believe the lady is with me.”
The rich male voice interrupted their game. It startled Evelyn but quickly warmed her. She recognized the voice. Tristan. Her Adonis. Her stomach fluttered, as if she’d swallowed a hundred butterflies. It appeared he had surprised Andrew too. His body tensed as he stepped away from her.
“I’m sorry, Lord Wrenworth, I did not think she needed a chaperone today,” Huntington stated flatly, his tone guarded and unfriendly.
“Hardly. I am her fiancée.” The man’s voice hard, a challenge underlining his statement.
Evelyn’s breath caught in her throat. Others reacted with surprise as well. Sarah’s mouth dropped open, Andrew’s eyes widened, and behind Tristan, his friend Harry choked.
Swallowing rapidly, Evelyn’s mouth became dry so quickly, she was barely able to speak. Finally she stammered, “I-I beg your pardon?”
***
What made him say that, of all things? Fiancée? Engaged to the ice queen? Tristan noticed how pale Evelyn turned, and part of him tightened. When that fop moved away so quickly, it was obvious the man wasn’t really interested in Evelyn. But Tristan’s interest surely could have been expressed less dramatically.
“Tris.” Harry stood behind him. “What are you doing?” It was a low whisper.
Tristan forced a smile, concentrating to make it more of a devil-may-care grin. “It wasn’t to be announced just yet,” he replied, his gaze on Evelyn. She still looked a bit shocked. “Come, my sweet.” He held his hand up for her to take.
Her eyes still wide, but her mouth now shut, Evelyn gently laid her hand on his, like a butterfly landing on a flower, fragile as spun glass. She blinked and managed to return a timid smile as he led her away.
Several feet from the croquet game, she stopped, withdrawing her hand, as if he had stung her.
“Do you care to explain yourself, captain? Wait, no, my lord?”
He wanted to laugh at her attempt to guess his rank but heard the anger in her tone. Ah, so his ice queen wasn’t entirely frozen. Her anger melted that lovely aloof façade. Pity.
“I’ve come to a conclusion, my dear…”
“I am not your ‘dear’,” she snapped.
He snorted at her reaction. “But for all intents and purposes, you are. Now hear me out.” Tristan directed her to the oak tree near the edge of the grounds. They were in full view of everyone, so he figured she’d be calmer there than in the house. Evelyn reminded him of a skittish colt, on the verge of darting off if threatened.
“I need a wife. You are searching for a husband. That braggart there was too close for comfort. Therefore, I rescued you.” He chuckled. “And he won’t be bothering you again.”
Her gaze narrowed. Ah, the fire in her eyes lit to blazing. “Whose comfort?”
That question made his skin prickle, like being stabbed with a million pins. Surely she knew that fop’s “familiarity” with her was the stuff of scandal…right? Or was it really that it made Tristan uncomfortable? As if the man had tried to take what was his? And if so, when had that feeling formed?
“You had no right,” she continued, still fuming.
Oh, how he wanted to burn in her fire. “We suit each other perfectly.”
“I will not marry you,” she hissed.
His attraction to her, now his fire and ice queen, grew. As her breathing deepened in anger, he noticed her breasts swelling in the confines of the corset, barely contained. Her illusion tulle fiche was more decorative than concealing, and his cock hardened with each rise of her bosom. Blood racing through him, he struggled to maintain his composure. Despite the warning inside his head to give her sufficient space, he leaned toward her, his hand taking hers again. Evelyn hardened and tried to withdraw it, but he wouldn’t let her go.
To everyone else, they looked like a couple, enraptured with each other. Exactly what he wanted them to think.
She noticed it too. “And what will my father say?” She glared at him, challenging. “Andrew is his best friend’s son. Lord Huntington, I believe, has had an understanding with his ‘highness’ that a match was made for me and the ‘braggart.’”
Tristan wanted to howl out loud. He heard her snarl, especially when she uttered the royal title for the Baron. He understood that dislike of a parent. Heaven knows, he and his own sire rarely spoke
civilly. Particularly when Tristan was caught with the servant girl and a half empty bottle of the man’s best brandy.
“I shall talk to him shortly.”
Evelyn raised her brows, eyeing over his shoulder. “Shortly may be now, my lord.”
Tristan turned. Barreling down the lawn, creating a wake in in his path, Evelyn’s father stormed toward them. Not far behind him was Huntington and his son. Tristan gauged their pace and the distance. He had a few seconds and could hear Evelyn’s foot tapping against the grass. Frankly, he was surprised she hadn’t crossed her arms in anger or left him. With every second, her behavior and decision to stay put only made him more interested in her. Damn! Her dowry and position made her exactly what he needed his English bride to be like, with a ramrod backbone and a defiance of societal rules. As Evelyn’s father got closer, there was only one thing Tristan could think of to ensure she become his. In one swift move, he turned, pulled her close, bent her backward, and pressed his cheek to hers. She gasped.
“Considering the situation, you need me as much as I need you. We are the perfect match,” he whispered, smiling and gesturing as if to kiss her.
They both knew in that moment she became his forever. The compromising position between two single people in a public setting was shocking to the ton.
Tristan heard the grass crunching under the footsteps of the Baron and his party. He didn’t look in their direction but eased back from Evelyn, watching her reaction. Suppressed fury blazed in her eyes, and her body was rigid.
“Naught, naught, naught,” he murmured. “To slap me would be appropriate but would serve you no purpose.”
Despite the fire in her gaze, she relaxed a little within his arms. “But it would give me satisfaction nevertheless,” she whispered defiantly, although she didn’t move.
Her defeat was evident. In many ways, he hated doing this to her, but he needed a wife and her dowry. The lives of his men depended upon his return. And his own demons would not rest until he did.
“Lord Wrenworth! What in the name of all that is holy do you think you are doing?”
Tristan tensed. Evelyn cocked one eyebrow at him, her own unspoken question evident, but, fortunately, her outward animosity seemed waylaid. He quirked a smile at her as he stood, bringing her upright next to him.
“Baron Brimridge, I believe I need to talk with you.” The declaration rolled off his tongue with ease.
Hurstine bristled. “Yes, I’d say you do.” He huffed indignantly.
The man must have noticed the gathering crowd, as Tristan had. Damn flock of birds, Tristan muttered to himself. The look on Evelyn’s face, though, was a combination of mortification and enjoyment. How very odd…
“Talk? No, I think there should be pistols,” declared the skinny creature who had touched Tristan’s Evelyn earlier.
“Andrew, that’s enough,” the other man said. Tristan watched Evelyn’s father. The man’s face was contorted with emotion, though none here would read anything beyond a father coming to his daughter’s defense. No, there was more at play in the man’s eyes. Anger mixed with confusion and disbelief. Tristan thought if nothing else, he should be pleased. After all, a marquis had claimed her. But there was something else. It irritated Tristan.
Months among the Afghanis, Indians and British military had taught him many things, mostly how to read people and discern the truth. Here, there was no warfare, no territory to retain or gain from a foreign enemy. No, the problem was something else–deep, dark, vast. He gazed toward Evelyn. She stood straight, poised to fight but knowing it wasn’t proper in this setting.
God, he needed a drink.
Hurstine glared, his look flashing back and forth between his daughter and Tristan. “This is not the time nor the place for discussions of this nature. Evelyn, I think it is time to return home. You and I, Lord Wrenworth, shall have words.”
“At your service, sir,” Tristan replied. The man would take her from here now? The thought rubbed him wrong, but he had no say in the matter. Not yet… To Tristan: “I expect you within the hour.” His tone was curt as he nodded to his daughter and turned to leave.
A rustle of silk approached, the scent of roses growing stronger.
Tristan inhaled the fragrance, bathing in it. Evelyn…
“Why did you do that?” she whispered faintly as she walked past him. She was behind her father as he walked away. After a few steps, she glanced over her shoulder, a puzzled expression on her face.
Why would you want me?
He watched her, unblinking. Even as he heard the lawn crunch under her heels, the sway of her bustle, the bounce of a curl above her shoulder, the disappearing scent all wrapped themselves around him, increasing his desire but also his resistance.
“Tristan,” Harry said, his voice warbling in disbelief. “What have you done?”
He couldn’t look his friend in the eye for he had no excuse except the need for a dowry and an heir and the insistence of a throbbing cock. But he couldn’t say that, not with spectators near, not with the gossip he overheard. He did hear one mention of him being besotted by a magic potion. Another said he wasn’t behaving normally because he lacked his usual “poison”–brandy. He chuckled to himself. Perhaps it was the tea after all.
Something from the corner of his mind teased him. Dark brown eyes fringed in black lashes beckoned him from above a veil—fading as he tried to focus.
But Harry’s question required an answer, the only one he had—India, Afghanistan and his men. He’d damn Evelyn to marriage hell for a job he needed to complete. England could go rot, but he couldn’t say that!
Other words spilled from his mouth, “Doing my duty, Harry. I’m going to marry.”
Chapter Six
Evelyn sat at her vanity, staring mutely at the mirror, not truly focusing on her image in it. She felt nothing except the occasional tug of a hairpin as her maid, Missy, unraveled her coiffure following the afternoon’s event.
“I’m sorry, miss,” the maid said, plucking another pin free.
Evelyn blinked. “It’s fine, Missy. I’m afraid I made it more difficult for you.” That was an understatement. The ride home with her father had been torturous, mostly because he sat, steaming, across from her. Tristan’s fingers apparently wove into her curls when he bent her back, a position that compromised her at the lawn party. With a snarl, her father pointed out her dishevelment, as if the marquis had “taken” her right there, in front of everyone. She cringed. Afer all, it was only a curl or two pulled from their pins, not her clothing askew, but she knew better than to say a word.
The question neither asked of the other was why. Why had the Marquis of Wrenworth, a wealthy young man looking for a respectable lady to wed, chosen her, the ruined Evelyn? Surely, he’d heard of her social demise. It had been the talk of the ton back then. Even now, her re-entry into proper society was much discussed. Being Sarah’s chaperone, at the request of Sarah’s father, was a way to return and find a husband. It should have been easier that way, but it wasn’t.
And now, one of the most eligible bachelors had claimed her.
It was rumored he was a war hero. And some circles suggested he was mad. Now, all would believe that, for who else but one tainted with madness would choose a fallen woman?
Evelyn shuddered. He was coming here to discuss matters with her father.
When he saw Mary, would he turn spiteful? Force her to beg off? A chill raced down her spine. She’d never give the child up. Mary was the only thing that kept her going. Her lifeline. Having the little girl made Evelyn realize no man, no proper man, would ever want her, or ever respect her. She accepted that. Even suffered her father’s cruelty because all it took was a smile from the child for her to know it was all right.
Now, her world was subjected again to society’s rules and morals. And her heart sank.
Missy hummed as she pinned the final tress back into place.
“All pretty again, Miss Evelyn.”
Evelyn snapped ba
ck to attention. With a glance in the looking glass, she breathed deeply. “Missy, you are a treasure.”
“Ah, ma’am, thank ye,” the young maid murmured, pinning another pearl-tipped hairpin into place as decoration. Her cheeks reddened, pleased with the compliment. “There, now, you see? Already to go meet his lordship.”
Standing, Evelyn lost her ability to breath for a second. “The marquis is here?”
“I think so, yes. Didn’t you hear all that carriage noise through the window?”
The sound of wheels on the drive hadn’t registered with her. The time had come for her “beau” to meet with her father. She walked to the window and looked down.
The ornate black-lacquered coach with the Wrenworth seal in relief on the sides gleamed as the late afternoon sun hit the gold medallion. Two horses, black as sin with manes that matched, snorted and tossed their heads. The footman opened the door.
From high above, Evelyn saw Tristan step out of the coach. His dark hair gleamed in the sunlight. He had massive shoulders under his brown jacket, long legs in tan trousers and dark brown boots. As they touched the ground and he stood next to the conveyance, he seemed to tower over the footman.
Unexpectedly, he glanced upward, as if searching for her. She gasped as his brown eyes found her at the window gazing down at him. His lips curled into a lopsided grin.
Evelyn backed into the room, her heart racing. That man, that soldier had arrived to discuss marrying her. Her thoughts were jumbled, images and ideas flashing through her mind. Tristan, Marquis of Wrenworth, was a handsome man. She’d realized that the first time she saw him–as did all the debutantes. He stood as though expecting to be admired, and he was. When he walked, it was not stiff and fast as other military men she’d seen. No, Tristan had a swagger and exuded confidence.
And that smile. As though he knew he’d have her at his side now.
She swallowed hard, clenching her hands into fists. What about Richard? He was her love. The man she’d promised herself to. She struggled to remember what he looked like and was dismayed at the indistinct vision. Spinning on her heels, she strode to her writing desk and retrieved the last letter from him. His sprawl on the paper was almost unreadable as her eyes blurred. Afraid a tear would smear the ink, she clutched the paper to her chest. She knew the words by heart.
