Very well. Desire mightn’t be lacking. At least on her part.

She would take what months they had together, share his bed until he either tired of her or she conceived. She would seize what pleasure she could from their arrangement and accept when it ended.

She couldn’t blame him for using her. Not when she was using him, too.

Not when she was less than honest with him.

She shivered and buried herself deeper inside her shawl, recognizing that she might be shivering for reasons other than the chill night.

Sighing, she walked on, wishing she were brave. Like Fallon. Composed like Marguerite. Her friends would not feel this stark terror that was shooting down her spine and settling in her stomach like a ton of bricks.

She wished she was a bit like her old self. The girl who had hopped on a ship bound for Barbados ready to conquer the world. That girl would embrace the notion of marriage to an exciting, enigmatic man . . . a man who made her toes curl inside her slippers.

Her gaze drifted to her bedroom window. A low light glowed there. She thought back to this evening’s dinner, to that indefinable tension on the air. To Lockhart . . . Spencer. A man who said little but spoke volumes with his watchful green eyes.

And she knew. Felt it in her core.

He had something—everything—to do with her desire to go back. To turn back the clock and return to her old self. A girl ready to embrace life and adventure. Him.

The chill in her bones faded, replaced with a simmering warmth as she contemplated that in mere days she would be sleeping in the same bed with Spencer Lockhart. Well. Perhaps not sleeping.

“Is it true?”

Evie spun around, feeling very much like Romeo caught in the act of gazing at Juliet’s window.

Dr. Sheffield stood before her, his thin chest rising and falling as though he had run a great distance. Noticing his lack of hat and his wild, windblown hair, she suspected he had in fact executed a mad dash from his home.

“Sheffield,” she murmured, slipping her hands beneath her shawl and chafing her arms briskly. “What are you doing here?” An inane question, voiced only to grant her time, a reprieve, however brief.

She knew why he was here.

Word had reached him that she was marrying Lockhart. Mrs. Murdoch had likely mentioned something in the village today. Gossip like that would spread with the speed of wildfire.

“Sheffield?” His head snapped back a fraction. “I thought we had dispensed with formality long ago, Evelyn.”

Her cheeks warmed. “Of course. Peter.”

“Is it true?” He punctuated each word, his voice a deep bite.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she lied. She blinked once, slowly, painfully, understanding perfectly what he was getting at, but still hoping to avoid the impending confrontation.

He moved swiftly, grasping her by the arm. “Don’t play daft,” he hissed in her face. “You owe me an answer. I’m the laughingstock of the entire village!”

She gasped at his cruel voice, his rough grasp. She had never seen him this way before. The sight of his red-mottled face shot alarm through her and brought back the bitter fear she had felt only one other time. But with that fear followed another emotion. Anger.

She would not be a victim again.

“Unhand me.” Her voice rang with authority, all politeness gone.

“Not until I have the explanation I deserve.”

His voice, his face . . . she did not know. All these years, she had thought Peter kind. A true friend. Yes, he deserved an explanation, but he had no right to treat her in this fashion.

She twisted her arm, trying to break free of his unrelenting grip. “You’re hurting me.”

Something akin to pain flashed in his eyes. “Not, I assure you, how you have hurt me.”

Hurt him? Surely he jested? Despite his attentions, she had never imagined he truly loved her. In three years, he had never pressed her for a declaration.

“I made you no promises, Peter. On the contrary, I urged you to find someone worthy—”

“Indeed. Perhaps you should have told me a bit more of him.” He motioned wildly toward the house. “Had you mentioned you were waiting for his return—”

“I was not waiting for him!” The truth, at least. How could she have known her sister’s past would come calling? She had not considered the possibility. As far as she knew, Ian Holcomb had abandoned Linnie. “Peter, please—”

“I’ve waited all these years for you—”

“No one asked you to,” she bit out, her temper flaring hotly.

“I thought you grieved! I did not wish to push you.”

She shook her head, helplessly frustrated. “What do you want from me, Peter?”

He loosened his grip on her arm, no longer hurting her. Emotion burned in his eyes, making her feel the veriest wretch. “The moment I saw you, I knew, Evelyn—” His voice stopped, strangled in his throat.

Good heavens. He truly cared for her? Had she been so blind? Or merely indifferent?

Shame ran prickly-hot inside her chest. “Peter,” she whispered, “I am sorry. I never intended to hurt you.”

His woeful gaze crawled over her face. “A little late for that, though, isn’t it?”

Her lips worked, searching for a suitable response. She brought her hand up between them, covering his where he grasped her. “I’m sorry. I wish I could give you back the time you’ve wasted on me, but I’ve no doubt a young lady of sterling quality waits you. You really are a most splendid catch.”

He nodded slowly, scratching one muttonchop sideburn and opening his mouth to reply, when another voice intruded, a dark growl that shattered the brief accord she had reached with Peter.

“Take your hands off her.”

Evie tore her gaze off Peter to gawk at her soon-to-be husband. With almost guilty haste, she slipped her hand off Peter’s. Unfortunately, he did not copy the gesture. If anything, his grasp on her arm tightened.

And that was the only place Lockhart seemed to stare.

Chapter 11

Spencer’s fists curled and uncurled at his sides as he gazed at his future wife in another man’s arms. With a grim press of his lips, he wondered if he had not made a colossal mistake.

It was one thing to contend with a ghost, a cousin he loved and for whom he himself still grieved, but it was quite another thing to contend with a flesh-and-blood man who appeared to have a firm footing in his future wife’s affections.

Affections, hell. Since when did he require that? He’d thought loyalty and the necessary heir were his only requirements in a wife.

A feeling that he had never experienced before burned down his throat, settling in his gut in an angry, roiling froth. The longer he stared at her—at them, together—the feeling only intensified.

There had been no mistaking the tender look on her face, or the gentle tenor of her voice when she’d spoken to Sheffield. Just as there was no mistaking the scalding anger in his veins.

Did she love him? A foul taste filled his mouth. The good physician who had attended her so faithfully these last years? Whilst his cousin had dodged bullets and choked on cannon smoke and thought only of her, talked only of her and filled Spencer’s ears with stories of her, her, her?

If she cared for him, why did she not wed him? Did his pockets not run deep enough?

He locked gazes with Sheffield, his stare unblinking, hard and intent, hopefully conveying what he would do to the man if he did not take his hand off her. Understanding flickered in Sheffield’s eyes. Defeat.

At last, Sheffield looked away, his hand slipping from her arm. “I’ll go now, Evelyn.” He nodded with tight courtesy, his face drawn, eyes flat. Lifeless. “Happy wishes on your nuptials.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice scarcely audible. And why was that? Shame? Or sorrow? Grief for this man she released from her life?

Alone now, she studied him, her gaze cautious.

“Impressive,” he bit out.

She shook her head. “What is?”

“To have won the utter devotion of two men. And still so young. At this rate, you’ll have quite a collection of men before you reach thirty.”

She pulled her shawl tightly about her shoulders. “You speak of Ian and Peter.”

His lips twisted. “Are there others yet I don’t know of?”

Her chin jerked. “Of course not.” She motioned in the direction Sheffield had taken. “I did nothing to encourage Peter. I gave him no promises—”

“That did not stop him from falling in love with you, did it? Tell me, what is it about you that so thoroughly beguiles men?”

He cocked his head and ran his gaze over her. Even in the twilight, he made out the bloom of color in her cheeks and the wild pulse thrumming at her throat. The insane urge to press his mouth there and suck seized him. He closed his eyes in a long blink and looked away. He really was mad to want his future wife this much. Especially as he only intended to keep her around for the time it took to conceive an heir.

The last thing he needed was to form an attachment to her. Wives meant domesticity and seasons in Town. Balls and routs and shopping excursions to Bond Street. He had no intention of being dragged into Society, where nosey busybodies would clap him on the back and pronounce him a hero and ask him to speak to their garden club. He only wanted solitude—to manage his properties and retire to Northumberland, where he could find a measure of peace. Where dreams of dying men and exploding artillery did not fill his nights.

“I haven’t beguiled Peter. We are good friends. Nothing more.”

Nothing more. There was everything more. There was the fact that she drew men like bees to the honey pot.

And in that moment, he vowed he wouldn’t be another man on her list—another fool to fall at her feet.

He might marry her, but he would stand strong. He would not love her. Would not let those blue eyes ensnare him.

“You’re so certain of that?” he demanded.

She angled her head, the gold-brown strands drowned black in the shadows. “Can one truly love someone who can’t love them back? I would not call that love. I would call that infatuation.”

She was clever. He wondered why Ian had never mentioned that. He had extolled her beauty, her grace, her sweetness and delicacy. Never her wit. Had she changed so much? Or did Ian never really know her?

“What of Ian then?” he demanded, his words carrying an unintended bite. “He loved you. I can attest to that. Did you return the sentiment, or was it a mere fancy of youth?”

A stillness came over her, and he held his breath, marveling at why he would ask when he knew the answer. Of course she loved Ian. Why else had she remained unwed these many years?

“I—” Her mouth parted, worked for speech. “Yes,” she finally answered. “That was love. Real and true. Once in a lifetime.”

Brilliant. Her heart was irrevocably bound to the past. To Ian. It rooted their marriage even more in cold practicality. She would not pine for his love and affection. It wouldn’t disappoint her that he could do no more than offer fleeting passion. He could not offer himself. He was but a dead shell of a man, his heart, his spirit lost somewhere on a battlefield in the Crimea.

Even so, his hollow chest ached as he stood there in the gloom of the garden, gazing down at the woman that should have been his cousin’s wife but was to be his. Even as he determined to let her go in a few months’ time, he wanted to leave his mark on her. Brand her as his.

He felt like a thief. A wretch for plotting how quickly he could seduce her into his bed and make her forget Ian. Ian and any other man—Sheffield included.

“I trust you’ll behave yourself in the future with your overly solicitous doctor.”

“Behave myself?” Her blue gaze snapped fire in the night. “What are you accusing me of?”

“It was quite the loving scene that I interrupted. For all that you claim not to love him, you clearly have tender feelings for the man.” He moved, circling her. “Once we decide to part ways, you may wish to return here, no?”