You, she thought, but held her tongue.

After a tense moment in which neither spoke a word, he dropped her leg and stood away from her. She quickly snatched her nightrail from the floor and wrestled it over her head. With her face burning at the eyeful he viewed, she smoothed the fabric down her body, grateful to feel the worn cambric covering her again.

Tying his belt back in place, he turned, granting her only a glimpse of his profile, the strong line of his jaw a bristly shadow.

He dragged both hands through his dark hair, declaring, “I’ll give you until we’re married. Then, my patience runs out.” He looked at her then, his eyes hard as polished malachite.

She inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring at the forbidding sight of him.

He hated liars. She’d gathered that much when he’d talked about his father. And she was one colossal lie. She shivered to think how he would react to the fact.

For a moment, she considered demanding that he leave her alone, that he renounce all demands on her—on her body. But then she recalled how he’d reacted when she’d tossed down the gauntlet a few moments before.

Her nightrail had ended up on the floor.

Simply eager to escape, she snatched up her book. “I think I should be able to sleep now.” Her voice rang tight and clipped, as proper as a schoolmistress’s despite her thundering heart. “Good night.”

“Good night, Linnie.” The moment the name slipped out, he knew his mistake.

Halfway to the library’s door, she froze. “Don’t,” she bit out, slowly turning.

He hadn’t meant to call her by the name. It was simply habit. Years of thinking of her as Linnie, Ian’s Linnie. Imagining what she would look like, be like . . . and finding she was none of that.

She was more.

He cocked his head, watching her, slightly puzzled over her extreme reaction at his slip.

“I’m not that girl.” An emotion he couldn’t name washed over her face. “Not anymore.”

He nodded, studying her . . . wondering if he would ever understand her. If she would always be this mystery. A woman who tightly clung to her barriers even as she responded to his touch. “It was a slip.”

She looked away, blinking, almost as though battling tears.

“Evie,” he drawled, saying her name firmly, wanting to give her that, to appease her. Because, for whatever reason, it mattered to her. “Good night.”

“Good night.” As she stepped from the room, he couldn’t be certain, but he thought he heard her whisper his name.

Evie blinked back stinging tears as she fled the library, rubbing her knuckles in each burning eye. Foolish, stupid tears.

She didn’t cry.

Ever.

She had not cried since Barbados.

Nor during those wretched years when Papa had abandoned her at Penwich to suffer hunger, fend off bully girls, and, on occasion, endure Master Brocklehurst’s strap on her back.

She had not even wept when word had reached her of Linnie’s death. Her sister had never fully regained her strength after Nicholas’s birth, and she’d fallen even weaker within the misery of her marriage.

Linnie’s death had devastated Evie. It was Linnie who’d written her at Penwich after all. Only ever Linnie. And still, Evie had not wept; she had stoically borne it all.

Why now must she feel the need to shatter into sobs?

The answer skittered across her mind, plain as day. Because after tomorrow, your safe world will be ripped from your fingers.

The Harbour had never seemed so far away as it did now. Even when she’d spent time in London and the country with Fallon and Marguerite, home had felt close. Always within reach.

Nicholas, Amy, Aunt Gertie, the Murdochs—she missed them. Missed them all. Already she felt adrift without them.

Spencer would take her from all that, keeping her with him until he finished with her and then return her as if nothing had happened.

Ascending the winding stairs, she slid her fingers over the railing, polish-smooth and warm beneath her palm. Once in her room, she stopped and flexed her chilled toes on the plush rug beneath her feet.

A knot formed in the pit of her belly. Ian’s son. That’s what mattered to him. And a future heir. Not her. She was only a peripheral concern. Any courtesy given to her merely extended from his obligation to Nicholas.

It wasn’t as though he wanted her. Cared for her.

He would bed her simply because he was her husband—a man. She’d long understood the nature of men. She would do well to remember all the hard lessons of her life and not lose her head with fanciful thoughts.

Spencer stared at the open doorway where Evie had vanished as though a pack of hounds chased her. He did that to her. Sent her running. His stomach twisted at the unwelcome notion. His wife-to-be couldn’t escape him fast enough. Brilliant. Precisely what every groom hoped for in his bride.

The whisper of his name still trembled on the air. As did his last glimpse of her, bare feet peeping beneath the flash of her white hem.

He’d struggled not to stare at those bare feet as she’d sat across from him, hugging her glass of brandy as though she’d clutched the Holy Grail. He had struggled and failed. Those slim feet, so feminine, so bare, had made it hard for him to remember that he should wait until they were properly wed. The flash of her lithe, n**ed body had made it impossible. If she had not stopped him, he would have taken her on the library floor.

She was to be his wife. His. Not Ian’s. Whether or not Ian had her first, in the eyes of God and law, she would only ever belong to him. The fact gave him a dark, primitive satisfaction, chased by another feeling. A niggle of guilt. What would Ian think?

Shaking his head, he reminded himself that his cousin was gone. If it wasn’t him, some other man, likely Sheffield, would eventually claim her. His gut twisted at the thought.

And there was the matter of doing right by Nicholas. He rubbed his fingertips together, imagining he still felt the silkiness of her skin. She was no monument to a dead man. He realized that. Perhaps that’s what she needed to realize, too.

A slow smile curved his lips. Tomorrow, he would resume his seduction. He would use every method he possessed in his arsenal to bring her to his bed. Like it or not, he was a Winters. He knew a thing or two about talking reluctant ladies out of their gowns. It was his birthright.

Although she didn’t realize it, Evelyn Cross’s life was about to change.

Tomorrow they would marry.

And she would be his.

Chapter 14

Sitting in the small parlor at the back of The Black Boar, Evie nibbled her way through her dinner. The savory lamb and parsnips would have more than satisfied her appetite on any other occasion, but given the circumstances, she could scarcely choke down a mouthful.

Chasing a pea with her fork, she stared at the frosted panes of the window, where snow fell in a hazy blur of white. As good a place to look as any; certainly better than staring across from her, where Spencer sat. The journey north had been bad enough. She’d endured his close proximity for hours, feeling his intense stare as she’d constantly struggled to keep her feet from tangling with his boots.

Giving up on her pea, she reached for her glass and took a healthy swig of sherry.

Would she ever be comfortable in his presence? His nearness, his utter maleness, swirled around her like a heady fog of perfume. The quick little fluttering in her belly whenever she broke down and feasted her gaze on him mortified her. Considering the lie that stood between them—that he would forever believe her to be her sister—the situation was nothing short of misery; all in all, untenable considering they were about to be married.

“How much longer, do you think?” she inquired, mostly from a need to fill the uneasy silence.

When the innkeeper’s wife had offered them the parlor, she had informed them that a good many couples were marrying today, no doubt choosing wintertime to elope in the hopes that the abysmal weather would slow down irate papas in their pursuit. She would fetch them the first available reverend.

He shrugged one broad shoulder. “Can’t say.”

A clock ticked on the mantel, a lonely sound in the silence. Her gaze fell on his large, masculine hand resting casually on top of the small table. He sat at an angle, his knee peeking out the side. A very muscled knee. She hadn’t known a man’s knee could be so well shaped. Heat crawled up her face, and she hastily moved her gaze back to the window. The wind howled a desperate song, shaking snow-spotted branches outside.

“Nasty bit of weather,” he murmured. “Fortunate we arrived when we did. Looks as though it’s worsening.”

Her gaze snapped back to his. “Will this delay us from returning home?”

He shrugged. “Depends if the roads are passable.”

Nodding, she tugged on her bottom lip, her legs shaking beneath the table at the prospect of being stuck at this inn with him. For how long? She’d braced herself to endure one night. But two? Three?

“It wouldn’t be so terrible. Since we’re not having a proper honeymoon, this might at least give us the time you wanted.”

She shook her head, confused, unable to recall wishing for time alone with him, time for him to rattle her senses and rob her of her composure. She would hardly wish for that.

He cocked a brow, smiling harshly. “You expressed a desire to become better acquainted.”

“I never—”

“You did. In fact, you cited that as the reason we should wait before consummating our marriage. Now we shall have that time.” His smile deepened. He waved a hand airily. “In idyllic solitude.”

“Oh.” She pulled at her sleeve, suddenly feeling like she couldn’t draw air deep enough into her lungs.

“Are you well?” He frowned. “You look pale.”

“I don’t know if I can do this.” Her gaze darted to the door. She rose to her feet in a swift motion, jostling the table. Dishes rattled a protest. She hated this. Hated the compulsion to run. Nonetheless, she heard herself say, “Perhaps I have not thought this through enough. It is all happening too quickly. Marriage is so very . . . permanent.”

She loathed the tremor in her voice. Loathed feeling fear. Since that long-ago night in Barbados, she had worked so very hard to rid her life of fear. Perhaps impossible to completely prevent, but she had managed thus far.

Then this man had arrived and shaken everything up. She stared down at him. Suddenly something else warred with the fear clawing her throat.

“I can’t do this,” she repeated, her voice stronger as she moved for the door.

He was on his feet. Grabbing her arm, he swung her around. “Linnie—”

“No!” She blinked hard and hissed, “I told you not to call me that!”

Every time he said her sister’s name it was a knife in her heart. A reminder of the lie she lived . . . the lie she must always live with him. A lifetime of never dropping her guard, never relaxing her breath—it would send her to an early grave.

She tried to twist her arm free, but it did no good. He grabbed her other arm, pulled her close, shook her a little. His hands on her arms felt like manacles.

“Stop! Let me go!”

“What are you so afraid of?” he hissed, his glittering gaze darting sharply over her face, achingly close. The strong, square jaw, the well-cut lips, the deep grooves on either side of his mouth—all combined to overwhelm her senses.

This. You.

His voice gentled. “I’ll not hurt you, Evie.”

“You keep calling me Linnie,” she accused, the connection so easy, so clear to her. Calling her Linnie hurt, wounded her in a way that would only strike him as irrational. As it should. Ignorant of the truth, it should.

“It is your name,” he reminded. “In a manner. Short for Evelyn. It’s all Ian ever called you. How I first came to know you.” His stare drilled into her, stripping everything bare. She quivered deep in her belly, wishing he stared at her in such a hungry, visceral way but knowing that he was not. He was staring at Linnie . . . at whatever extraordinary pillar of womanhood he believed her to be, courtesy of Ian. “Forgive the slip. Evie will take getting accustomed to.”