by Darcy Burke
“Yes, sir,” Grifton answered then shrugged. “Well, I hope so. Failed to formerly ask before I was shipped here.”
“If she’s waited for you this long, she’ll wait longer. Patience, Grif, patience. It’ll keep us all alive. Now go burn what you wrote. Can’t be caught with it.”
With a tight nod, Grifton held the sheet over the burning candle before him, letting it catch on fire.
As the flames ate the evidence of their Englishness, it made Tristan wonder how long before they all ended up like that sheet. To burn in the fire of hell…
***
London, 1869
The last two weeks had been a whirlwind of events for Evelyn. Since her father had given her hand to the Marquis of Wrenworth, she found little time for herself. After their initial outing as a couple, the ride to Hyde Park and the terror from her past that arose in her head, Wrenworth remained at her side. He continued to call on her almost daily. At times it seemed too much, bad and good. He made a point of being seen with her in public places, always chaperoned, though for an engaged couple that wasn’t necessary. For that matter, they’d be considered married by most, without a ceremony or scrap of paper to make it official. However, he maintained decorum although Evelyn wondered whether he knew about the memories that haunted her. No doubt someone had told him the story. If so, he kept it to himself.
He took her to the opera and a poetry salon, and escorted her shopping for novelty items and jewelry. There were two balls, two dinners, three soirees and last night, a private dinner held at his friend, Viscount Martinwood’s London home, with Sarah there. If it weren’t for Sarah, she wasn’t sure how well she’d do. She closed her eyes, remembering the four other couples and two gentlemen conversing avidly about Parliament, the Queen and India–subjects she knew little about. Wrenworth himself didn’t contribute much either, which she found interesting. After all, hadn’t he served?
That raised other questions such as, had he sold his position, or did he intend to leave her and return? Or worse, take her with him? The thought gnawed at her. As her husband, he could do whatever he chose.
However, what did he plan for their future?
Outside of marrying her?
Besides bedding her?
She wondered why, in all the time they spent together, she had learned so little about the man. He rarely spoke of himself, catered mostly to her, and was calm, cool, and sophisticated in his manners. And he never tried to touch her. Hadn’t even kissed her.
It was everything she wanted—because of her fear of intimacy, of male hands touching her. But why did this handsome man, with his confidence and swagger, not want anything but to marry her?
He needed a wife. She needed protection. She needed Mary’s future assured.
She didn’t want him. But the thread of desire that ignited in his presence argued otherwise. The whole situation made her want to scream in fear and frustration.
Evelyn’s vision blurred. If only… sorrow at the loss of her sister hit hard. Evelyn’s reputation was in tatters for one reason. Mary–the child borne after that night of terror. Yet, she wasn’t Evelyn’s. Mary was her sister’s child. Poor Madeline. The entire affair destroyed her, leaving the babe in Evelyn’s care. And though damaged herself, afraid of the darkness and its demons, Evelyn embraced Mary, taking her as her own, a compassion that helped Evelyn survive that terrible time.
Mary’s life was in Evelyn’s hands–the “hand” her father gave to Wrenworth. The Marquis needed to know about Mary, about the “incident.” But what would he do when he discovered her secret? She shut her eyes tight and prayed as a shudder passed through her.
Chapter Nine
Evelyn’s fingers pinched the draped overskirt, a nervous habit, one she couldn’t stop this afternoon. The banns were posted. Her marriage set at next week’s end if no one spoke against them. But who would speak ill of a woman like her? One who was damaged goods?
Everything else went like clockwork. The routine of packing her trousseau went smoothly. The ivory silk gown, with its matching Belgium lace, and all the fancy fine cotton undergarments with the satin-heeled shoes were tried on this morning for a final fitting. To actually wear the beautiful dress and see herself in the mirror was like a fairy tale. She didn’t recognize her own reflection. The woman looked like her, moved like her, but Evelyn thought of her as a stranger.
Sarah, who stood to the side, smiled. “Evie, you are beautiful.”
For a moment, she enjoyed the self-indulgence of agreeing with Sarah until a thought came to her. Richard. A vision of him filled her mind, with his tarnished rust-colored hair, his amber eyes and wide quirky smile. He called her name–she swore she could hear his deep voice even now. Her heart skipped a beat. But she blinked and in doing so, erased his face and everything blurred. She bit her bottom lip as her gut twisted.
The bow-street runner had reported to her today. Her love, her darling Richard, was never coming home…
A lace handkerchief was placed into her hand.
“Oh Evie,” Sarah said softly. “I’m so sorry.”
A tear fell from her eye as her friend whispered, “Richard wouldn’t want you to cry…he’d want you to be happy.”
Happy. Her tears of that morning had dried, but the emptiness remained. A strange feeling, not quite tangible. She believed Richard loved her and they would marry after he returned from fulfilling his obligation to serve his queen. Why he felt this sense of service she’d never understood, but he had left. Even after the attack, she believed her own lies that he’d still accept her, comfort her. She chided herself. It wasn’t a lie, he would have. Perhaps that is why she couldn’t believe he was dead. His own family must have known and failed to say anything, unless they, too, just found out. Her head pounded from the questions, the pain.
Evelyn paced the floor of the front parlor, still grappling with the notion. Happy because the man she thought she would wed died in another land, never knowing why she needed comforting. But would she have told him? Probably, if they wed, she’d have to. God, though, intervened and took him from her, leaving her to marry another man.
Sarah tried to console her but finally stopped, grabbed her hand and stated plainly that Evelyn’s betrothed was coming this afternoon. “He is a good man, Evie. Give him a chance. He could make you very happy.”
Alone now, with only the tick of the hallway grandfather clock making a sound, Evelyn’s nerves were on edge. A giggle escaped her lips. This will be a disaster, she thought. Tristan, as he wanted her to call him, would be here soon, to see her. She truly didn’t know him. And now she’d have to find out where her future lay because he would meet Mary today. Not that he knew that, or the fact she had a child.
Oh, God. She slumped onto the settee. Mary might as well have been her daughter, since Madeline wouldn’t raise the girl, leaving her in Evelyn’s hands. Perhaps it was just as well…when she’d turn him from the marriage bed, he’d press his husbandly rights, leaving her no choice. But when he discovered she wasn’t a virgin, that those vile creatures had taken her innocence, it’d be too late. He’d hate her, like all men would have, no doubt believing her wanton. That she wanted it. Wasn’t that what that sinister man said to her as he and the other villains accosted her? Even now, her heart thudded frantically and her skin turned clammy.
But a thought lingered in the back of her mind, that he wasn’t marrying her for her. No, he mentioned they needed each other. She’d get protection for her and Mary as his wife. What would he want? Her thoughts raced. A wife and an heir–always the reason. Was that it? Just her carrying that title and a child of his own? Could she submit to him for that? How could she not? Her mind strayed. Had to be more than that, especially as he’d never been close to her other than to offer his hand or arm, a chaste kiss—except for the episode at the Huntington lawn party, where he pressed further.
“The Marquis of Wrenworth.”
Startled, Evelyn leaped off the settee and turned. Tristan walked through the
doorway, right past the butler straight for her. A playful smile on his face, his eyes sparkled in merriment. He looked quite the role of young nobleman, but his jovial expression gave him the look of a rascal, one in search of mischief.
“My lord, Tristan,” she mumbled just as he reached her, took her arms and his lips locked onto hers. She would have gasped, but he gave her no time.
The kiss was warm even if it was a surprise. He took possession of her mouth. His tongue traced the seam between the soft petals he kissed, tempting her to open and let him in. Dare she? She had so much to tell him, to confess, but at the moment, all such thoughts escaped her. She was in his arms, held against his taut chest. The muscles in his arms tensed as he held her close. One hand moved up her back to her neck and his fingers buried themselves in her hair. With a slight pressure, he moved her head and demanded her lips part. She did. A growl came from him as he invaded her mouth, searching for and tasting her tongue.
Without questioning, she responded to him. Her tongue met his and the two wrangled for possession of the other. The taste of him was overwhelming–a mixture of maple and tobacco with a hint of brandy. A whiff of sandalwood and male filled her nostrils. The very essence spoke of masculine power and strength. She should be angry. He didn’t even utter a greeting but took her lips immediately.
His arms tightened around her, almost too much as every corset stay poked her. It made her struggle for her freedom, chasing any worries or fears about exposing her daughter to vanish. She pushed against his chest, she pushed against the granite hardness with all her might. But he barely moved, so she tore her lips away and gasped. “Let me go!”
Her fear seemed to break the spell they were under, and he released her. Evelyn caught her balance and stepped back. He stared at her, inhaling air as if it was food and he a starving man.
Thoughts flew through Evelyn’s mind. He’d walked into the room, nary a word spoken, took her into his arms and kissed her thoroughly. She’d made no protest but fell prey to his attention. Was she this morally corrupt? A craving creature desiring to be mauled by him? Her mouth ravished, as if it was an everyday occurrence. But she’d liked it. To feel his lips sealed on hers, his tongue dancing with hers as if it had every right to.
According to all the proper standards, she was his and he hers. The legal ramifications to be tied in a fortnight, if no one opposed the banns. But why? Why would he want her? She was close to being left on the shelf–a place she would have gladly occupied if she’d had a choice. She was still viewed as damaged goods. A ruined woman. Something she could have fought against, but why?
***
Tristan breathed heavily, trying desperately to get a grip on himself. Most disconcerting–he saw her and it was like his mind went blank. She looked like a statue, beautiful, alluring yet cast adrift, seeking something or someone to rescue her, and he wanted to be that person. When her rosebud lips trembled, all was lost for him. He wanted her. Wanted her in the worst way. Whatever had seized control of him, he didn’t know, but it conquered any rational thoughts in his head. He strode straight to her, pulled her into his embrace, and his mouth was on hers. His tongue demanded entrance to her, pleaded actually, and she fell to its begging. Had he been without a woman for so long that all propriety fled out the window? Or could he blame living among the Afghanis for this change in all semblance of being a gentlemen? He ran his fingers through his hair in utter frustration and bit back the colorful metaphor on the tip of his tongue.
They might be engaged, but still…he hadn’t pressed for any sort of intimacy. None. Her semi-flighty disposition around him when they weren’t alone steered him clear of it. The reports he’d ascertained out of the War Office told him what he didn’t want to hear. Livingston’s assistant found documents indicating she was involved with the virgin seekers, her name in the filed pages, that she’d been at their meeting “hall” in Farnsworth Ward the night of the arrests. The details of what the detectives saw made his blood boil. Five ladies, mostly drugged with opium, wearing next to nothing as these noblemen went to them. Disgusting in the very least. But was his present action any better? To just take her like that?
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed her hand pressed on her stomach and she inhaled deeply. The gulps of air poured into her lungs, her breasts rose and fell at each breath. In fact, it looked like her nipples would escape the confines of the bodice. Oh, how he hoped they would for he so wanted to suckle on them, the tight buds in his mouth.
Then his thoughts ran into a wall of moral righteousness–something he thought no longer existed inside him. If a vast amount of brandy and willing ladies hadn’t destroyed it years ago, surely the Army, the War Office and the Russians had. He’d lived too close to the edge of civilized behavior, especially these last few years. Espionage and all the trappings of a false life had shredded much of Tristan, who gambled and whored his way through London’s fine establishments. No, any decency he possessed died with the first agents killed for the Empire. The last one, destroyed by his own hand, buried it for good.
To think for one moment he deserved Evelyn was wrong. But the demons wouldn’t let him rest–not until he fulfilled Grifton’s dying request. And find the man who found Tristan, Grifton and the two other Englishmen deployed to that area and placed their lives in jeopardy. Two Russians were in the crowd of Afghanis, watching the disaster unfurl. Spies were needed but entirely expendable to the Crown and the War Office. Though he’d have a hard time describing to anyone how he knew. But the narrow straight noses, the pale skin, barely visible through the sunburn and laugh lines revealing white at the corners of the eyes gave them away. The men also walked like Westerners, not like desert folk who inhabited the area. Vague hints of their nationality but obvious to a man like Tristan. They disappeared after Grifton breathed his last, a bloody, lifeless mass on the ground.
Oh, he’d find the true killer soon. His gut tightened at the thought…
It dawned on him that Evelyn stood quietly before him. Her eyes held a myriad of emotions–curiosity, fear, longing, and a burning sensation swept over him. Desire. That one he understood. But with her, the hardening of his cock was simply due to lust. For it to be more surely wasn’t right. Other priorities needed his attention. He shut his eyes tightly for a moment. Unfortunately, though, bedding her went hand in hand with marrying her. She’d have his name and title to keep her safe. But she’d have to fulfill her end of the bargain and submit to carrying his heir.
Christ, that sounded awful even to his own ears.
“Miss Hurstine. Evelyn,” he began, trying to organize his scattered thoughts. “I can’t truly explain myself. I,” he stumbled. And he was one of the best in the War Office? He shook off the thought. “I’ve had a longing to kiss you. With our banns read, I believed it was time to finally kiss my future marchioness.” He gave her a crooked grin.
***
Evelyn stood there, mentally agape. Her mind reeled as emotions raced through her. Their intimacy was unexpected, and she should have been appalled but, instead, found herself hot inside. A delightful wave of desire coiled around her lower abdomen, pooling deep, a molten pot of longing for him.
She wanted him, and it disgusted her. But she was to marry him. And that would lead to him claiming his husbandly rights. Her mind rebelled.
Another man to poke at her privates and tell her she wanted him to. Bile rose.
Richard’s face flashed in her mind.
She was a ruined woman who still loved another. She must be mad, she decided. Yet the look in Tristan’s dark eyes showed he desired her, at least physically. The pinched expression of remorse also demonstrated he was either dismayed his wolfish side came out or he truly regretted kissing her. If she could understand him, then perhaps she’d not hate herself for her lecherous body calling out for him.
The pattering of feet across the floors above them echoed through the ceiling. Mary. Evelyn’s mind tumbled. Focus. She needed the marquis to save her and her darling girl. That tho
ught reminded her of the need for this marriage, so she smiled at him.
“Yes, perhaps you are right,” she managed to say and prayed it sounded sincere.
He pulled her closer. A shiver snaked down her spine. Her panic rose when his lips lightly touched hers again. Despite the heat of his body, she froze as his desire, in the shape of his hardened shaft, pushed into her skirts, against her abdomen. Surely he wouldn’t force himself on her. But the thought didn’t escape her mind. Memories of groping hands and other vile actions flooded her head despite the response of her body against him. How could this be, to have her mind and body at odds?
The tapping of little feet above caught her attention again. She broke the kiss, struggling for breath as she tamped down the tempest inside her. She blinked and gazed at him, the heat of a blush warm on her cheeks.
“My lord,” she began. “Tristan. I’m so glad you are here.” No, she really wasn’t, but he stood before her, hence she continued. Taking a step away from him, she clasped her hands. “I have something I must explain to you.”
Silence filled the air.
Tristan’s eyebrows arched. “I await patiently for this new development.”
Straightening her shoulders, she inhaled to gather her strength as she walked to the bell cord at the side of the wall, near the sideboard. “I must introduce you to someone very dear to me,” she stated, hoping her voice sounded steadier than her wits felt. With a tug at the tapestry cord, she continued, “One I hope you will also find endearing.”
