by Darcy Burke
“I had no choice.”
“How dare you?” she muttered.
“It was all in service to the Crown, your sovereign, and the Empire.”
He said all this as if it was everyday news, the type one would hear at tea, so blasé. She frowned. “You know what happened to him.”
He swallowed, the scar on his jaw visible in the motion. His fingers tugged at his collar. Obviously, he didn’t like being questioned. But she didn’t like the fact he’d kept this from her.
“Yes.”
Her jaw tightened. “I’m waiting.”
He looked away for a moment, the tension thick. “He’s dead, Evelyn. I’m sorry.”
No! Her heart skipped a beat. She’d prepared herself for the worst, or so she thought. Her vision blurred with tears, but she refused to cry. Not now. Numbness crept into her limbs, stretching to her heart, blanketing the pain.
“Why should I believe you?” Her voice croaked as she bit back the sob.
“Because I was his commanding officer,” he replied softly.
Her hands fisted. She needed to stay calm. This was Sarah’s night. “Well, I don’t like you now telling me. Why not before?”
He shrugged. “Unfortunately, I wasn’t at liberty to say. And your preference is indifferent to the powers in charge, my dear. War is a dangerous game, darling. But I will do the most I can not to leave you in a lurch.”
Furious at his tone, she could say nothing. Deep down, she knew he was right. Heavens, after years of fighting her father with his overbearing character, fighting tooth and nail for herself and Mary against his “wisdom” to get rid of the child and marry Evelyn off to the first fop from the ton who’d take her, she was tired. Her gaze narrowed at Tristan. This man, this handsome lord, would aid her just by a simple exchange of vows in a church. He never mentioned love for her. Nor had she heard of him being with her much—except for getting her with child, but even that she might be able to avoid. One did not have to consummate the marriage for it to be real.
Of course, the fact he kept the information about Richard from her set off warnings inside her, but once more, his argument seemed reasonable. It was the first time she’d heard what she had been convinced happened to him. Dead. And the man seemed upset about it as well. There was something he wasn’t saying, she knew.
As to the issue of her assault years ago, Tristan knew about it through Mary. Richard left her a virgin. He might have rejected her once he learned of her deflowering or maybe not. Perhaps she was happier she never had to find out.
If she married Tristan, she could have protection for her and Mary, knowing he could be sent off again.
But did she really want him to leave?
And what about Dunsford? Charles had been so attentive to her, sensitive or so she gathered, to entertain her without asking for personal gain in the form of physical touch. The one opportunity paled in comparison to the fire Tristan started, but still…
Her head thudded, as if a small hammer banged at her temple. It must be the gas from the new lights, she decided, though she knew better. No, it was the indecision, the bickering about the two men inside her head causing it. Her emotions were taut, tight, constricting like her corset. But Tristan was correct. The banns were read. No one said a word against them, though that amazed her too. She was soiled goods. He was a prime bachelor. It made no sense.
“Evelyn, come.” Tristan held his hand out for her, his tone low and soothing. It called to her softly. “I have something for you.”
Slowly she took his hand and frowned at his smile. The man truly puzzled her.
“Where are we going?” she asked as he led her to the staircase and started down it.
“Have no worries, dear Evelyn. Trust me.”
Trust? An impossibility when it came to men, even more perilous with soldiers. She fought the shiver that threatened. Surely she was safe here at Lord Martinwood’s place. Wrenworth, Tristan, she reminded herself, behaved up to now. Well, except for those two times he’d kissed her. The memory of the touch of his mouth on hers, his tongue playing with hers made her hot, the heat pooling in her lower abdomen, and her feet stumbled.
He turned to her. “Are you all right?” The question was filled with concern, but his eyes quickly changed from worry to seductive warmth, as if he knew what his touch did to her.
“I’m fine,” she stated, straightening her back.
He nodded and continued walking. He led her around the periphery of the grand hall, past the guests and toward the doors in the back. As he strode into the room, she looked around and found the oak paneled room was Martinwood’s library. And near the fireplace stood Sarah, Harry, her father and a clergyman.
She stopped abruptly, her eyes widening as her jaw dropped.
“Come, dearest,” Tristan urged.
Instead, she pulled her hand from his grasp and glared at him. A priest. Her father. Sarah and Harry…her mind whirled. Immediately, she hoped this was a surprise exchange of vows for Sarah and Harry, but no, they were honorable members of the ton, with her being pure, unlike Evelyn. And she did recall vague comments about the Marquis of Wrenworth being a bit touched in the head, though she considered that a normal state for any officer of the Army, based on her deflowering by that set she had the horror of meeting two years ago. But the dead ringer sign that it wasn’t for them was her father.
Visions of Charles danced before her eyes. Lord Dunsford had been nothing but a gentleman to her, polite, kind, respectably distant, never pushing himself on her. His gentle laugh came to mind as she remembered their shared memories of Richard…
“Evelyn, love.” Tristan pivoted to face her. She heard Harry utter some agreement. Her ears began to buzz.
Slowly, she gazed at Tristan but it was like she was fighting water, her ability to move hampered, her eyes blurring. She couldn’t make out his expression.
“Since your friends are here tonight, I thought you might like for us to exchange vows here, in private.” He chuckled. “As small as, what is it Harry?” he voiced over his shoulder to his friend. “Sixty, you told me?”
She heard Harry utter some agreement. Her ears began to buzz.
“But how can we?” Did she say that? Her voice sounded muddled. If he answered her, she didn’t hear it. She blinked and he was gone.
“Evie,” Sarah murmured, quickly stepping to her and taking her hands. “Isn’t it a wonderful surprise?” she encouraged and put her arms around her. “I’m so happy to share my celebration with you.” She hugged her, but Evelyn froze, unable to return the affection.
Oh dear Lord, they planned to force her into marrying him now! What of Charles?
“Evelyn Hurstine, now is not the time to spill tears,” her father snapped.
Sarah took her to the side as Tristan directed the Baron over to the priest and Harry.
Evelyn bit her bottom lip. “Marry him? Now? I’m not ready,” she whispered.
Her friend gave her a sympathetic smile. “Oh Evie, he planned this, hoping it’d make you happy, knowing you and Mary were taken care of. He truly cares for you. Now, don’t cry.”
“But what, what of…”
Sarah shook her head, reading her thoughts. “Lord Dunsford should not be on your mind. You’ve been engaged to Tristan, banns read and all was set.”
“Yes, it was,” she interrupted, panic at the edge of her tongue. “Then he left me.”
Her friend bit her lower lip. “True,” she stated after a moment. “But he returned for you. Harry told me he went directly to get a special license, hoping you’d take that as his apology. And I know Harry wouldn’t lie to me.” She smiled. “Come, let us not make a scene,” she tucked Evelyn’s hand into her arm and squeezed it with her other. She bent closer. “I really believe he loves you.”
Loves her? All this was his form of an apology? For leaving her? For not telling her about Richard? Did she appear that shallow? Emotions whirled inside her, anger taking the lead. Evelyn blinked back the tears and stee
led her back, the stay in her corset pressing into her skin, as if to reinforce her stance. A brief glance toward the men, she discovered the handsome marquis, her soon-to-be husband, standing next to the cleric, a seductive grin on his face. His green eyes pierced her soul, claiming her. Heat and cold shot through her. Desire and fear battled with the anger. She swallowed.
Tristan stood at the door to the main room. “Ladies and gents! I have some fantastic news!” he called to the guests, his booming voice silencing the room instantly. “My darling, Miss Evelyn Hurstine, and I beg your attention. She has given me the greatest of news by agreeing to marry me here, this evening. Truly to stop my begging, I assure you.” The room rippled with low chuckles by the men. Tristan grinned. “We’d enjoy having you witness us exchange our vows and celebrate with us and the newly engaged couple on this night of love and happiness!”
The crowd applauded. The ladies sighed and ahh’d, the men raised their huzzahs, and someone mentioned a toast. As they raised their glasses in cheer, the priest took his place on the stairs, three up from the floor. Tristan stood before him on the parquet, smiling at Evelyn, Harry at his side.
In a daze, she saw Sarah walk to the stairs as her maid of honor right as the string quartet played a tune in accompaniment. Her father took her arm, a bit harshly, as it registered in the back of her stunned thoughts.
“Come, child.” He escorted her to the groom, his mouth tight, Evelyn noticed. What was she? A piece of goods to be rid of? She bit the inside of her lip, struggling to keep her face clear of any of the growing anxiety.
So today was her wedding day. Like everything else in her life, why would it be a shock to find out that all proper conventions, like a fancy wedding, be denied her? She sighed and took a step forward.
In a flash, an image of Richard, smiling, appeared before her and then vanished. Gritting her teeth, she closed her eyes, willing her mind to clear. No, Sarah was somewhat correct. Tristan cared enough about her to marry her and keep her and Mary secure. Her stomach flipped. He was dangerous man—handsome, devilishly so, wealthy and he wanted her. She took a deep breath, pasting a smile on her face and willing herself to move.
With the first step, she heard the vile laughter lurking in her mind of the demons that haunted her.
Chapter Thirteen
The next bump in the cobblestone made the carriage lurch, landing Tristan on his arse so hard he wanted to growl. Damn contraption needed to be adjusted–another in a long list of repairs the estate needed. Repairs he frankly didn’t care much about, but if he planned to leave his newly acquired wife with all the accoutrements of his “wealth,” well, he couldn’t abandon her to such an unseemly state.
His wife.
He glanced at the seat across from him. Evelyn sat, her shawl tightly wrapped around her shoulders, concealing her décolleté from his view. He scowled, wishing to see her ivory skin against the lace fiche and yellow silk bodice. She wasn’t paying attention to him. She hadn’t since they had exchanged vows. Perhaps the marriage was ill timed. It had the rarity of being held in the evening versus the convention of morning. Their “wedding breakfast” was an engagement evening soiree buffet. He sighed. Maybe because he muddled the practices of the ton, she was upset. Women seemed to enjoy all the mess of planning these events and dragging out the ten minutes of shackling their husbands to an eternity.
For a brief moment, she looked at him. Her liquid blue eyes, glistening with tears she refused to blink away, danced in the passing evening gaslights. As one pooled at the corner of her left eye, she turned so he couldn’t see it fall down her cheek. She was mad, upset, and it ate at him.
He did what he had to do. She was Grifton’s lady and he owed the man, his friend, this last wish—to take care of her. A rumble of hysterical laughter formed in his chest. His friend–yes, obviously that played well for the man. Tristan had been forced to kill him. The fact that Grifton helped him do it, by shoving the blade into his own body, only damned Tristan. And the man’s dying breath, to protect “her” probably didn’t include marriage. He worked to keep from shifting on the seat. Nor was he going to tell her the details of Grifton’s death. How well that’d sit with her, knowing she married her previous fiancé’s killer. Double damn!
But the man who manipulated Tristan’s hand in reality was still out there, somewhere. Able to do more damage, kill more British agents, Tristan’s men. The gnawing in his gut told him the bastard wouldn’t stop. And if that traitor found Evelyn, Tristan feared what he’d do to her. As his marchioness, she was protected.
But was she?
He squashed the tiny voice inside him.
No, he had her, and she’d be safe. A chill unfurled down his spine when she glanced back at him, her cheeks damp, but her eyes held a flame, showing her inner strength. A resistance. It made her beautiful, alluring and dangerous. And he was drawn to it, like a moth to the flame.
The road to Hell spread before him, beckoning him. The blackness crept into the edge of his vision, the rolling of the carriage wheels harkening memories of caisson wheels. The evening air filled his nostrils, the hints of gas as the man on stilts plodded to the next streetlight, flame in hand to ignite the wick in the glass lantern. But the odor of the natural fumes, mixed with the stench of the Thames and manure turned acrid in his mind. Too close to the smell of cannons, gunpowder and camel dung. He gripped the edge of his seat, fighting to block the memories, the demons and ghosts that banged at the doors to his mind. Not now!
The carriage came to a halt, as if God heard his plea. God. Mentally he chided himself. God had discarded him years ago, only seeming to keep him on this Earth to amuse Himself. No doubt Tristan was nothing better than cannon fodder…
The door opened and a footman lowered the step, the snap of the metal returning him to now. Tristan leapt from the conveyance and turned. “My dear,” he offered her his hand.
Evelyn stared at him, but she took his aid and stepped from the carriage. She seemed leery of him and the three-storied townhouse behind him. Wrenworth Hall didn’t appear as opulent as the others in Grosvenor Square, but what it lacked on the exterior was well made up inside. Without another word, he escorted her up the stairs.
Suddenly, at the top step, she stopped him. “What of Mary? We need to get her.”
His gaze narrowed. She sounded frantic. “No worry, my dear. She is fine.”
She opened her mouth, but the front door opened before she could speak. Even if she gathered herself, he wouldn’t have it. He took her inside.
Stanfill stood to the side of the doorman. “Sir,” he stated. Then he turned to Evelyn. “My lady,” he greeted and bowed as did the rest of the house staff behind him.
Tristan smiled. “Your new mistress, Marchioness of Wrenworth.”
***
Evelyn stood, her spine stiff, her nerves awry, still trying to comprehend what had happened in the last couple of hours. But most of it was a blur except for her stated “I do” before a plethora of her friends, acquaintances and her father.
And now this. Tristan’s house staff greeting her, their new marchioness. With her one hand still on the palm of his, her freehand clenched as anger raced through her. He’d married her. She didn’t know what to do. Except the maids and servants in front of her presented themselves and though she was to do something. But what?
The staff bowed and curtsied, all murmuring welcome. She swallowed the fear, ready to say something when she heard a familiar sound. The pitter-patter of tiny feet hurrying down the hall to her.
“Mama!”
As Mary barreled toward her, her little legs moving faster, a wave of relief washed through Evelyn. Her daughter was here. Safe. The fact made her almost woozy, and her lips trembled in a smile she knew had to look terrible. Over her shoulder, she mouthed “thank you” to her husband and quickly braced herself for the little girl to throw herself into her arms.
Instantly, another servant appeared. Dressed in navy wool with a white apron, the woman’s black
hair was pulled off her face in a tight bun. She curtsied but quickly stated, “Sorry, my lady. She saw you and was off, quick as a cat.”
Evelyn smiled, trying to hold onto the squirming child. The little girl was fidgeting in her excitement as she played with Evelyn’s earbobs. “It’s all right, Miss?”
“Lillian Mills, ma’am.”
Tristan chuckled. Evelyn caught the quick nod the nursemaid gave him. That irked her, but the why escaped her as Mary wiggled again in her arms. As Lillian offered to take the child, out of the corner of her eye, she saw her new butler, Stanfill, say something to Tristan.
“…Smyth, sir.”
Her husband nodded. “Why don’t you take Mary up, and I’ll see you shortly?”
With a bite of her lower lip, she whispered her agreement but wondered why, on her wedding night, he took company. She continued to worry as she followed Lillian up the stairs to the nursery, kissed Mary good night and then went down to the second floor, where a maid met her and took her to her room.
The fire burned a low, steady flame in the white marble-framed fireplace. The room was impressive–impressively large, she thought. The white walls and drawn rose silk curtains glowed by the fire. A cherry wood armoire stood on one wall, a matching vanity with a looking glass with a cheval next to it also aligned to the wall, close to the windows. In the center of the room sat the bed. Evelyn remained still, and the maid chattered on as she placed the white cotton nightgown, trimmed with lace, on the bed. Evelyn watched without hearing a word until the gown came out.
“That isn’t mine.”
The maid stopped talking and turned. She smiled. “Yes, my lady, it is. All of your clothing and belongings along with Miss Mary’s was brought here this evening.” A blush came to her youthful face. “Lord Tristan, I mean, Lord Wrenworth, got the nightgown for you.”
