When exactly had he fallen in love?
Evie’s steps slowed as she neared the kitchen, Adara’s peevish tones a grating grind on her ears. She stopped in the threshold, observing Adara wag a paper before Cook, hostility emanating from the gesture.
“Pray explain. I don’t understand why we cannot serve the lamb tonight.”
“My lady,” Cook began, the worn lines of her face looking especially haggard.
Dressed in a purple velvet riding habit trimmed in ermine, Adara looked like something out of a fashion plate.
“Lamb isn’t to be had this time of year.”
Adara’s gold ringlets jiggled above her ears. “I am certain you are just trying to be difficult!”
With a slight clearing of her throat, Evie made her presence known and suggested, “Perhaps I should plan the evening’s menu and spare you the upset?”
Adara swerved to face her, her chocolate-brown eyes narrowing. “Evelyn,” she murmured silkily. “That won’t be necessary. I have a great deal of experience in such matters—”
“As do I,” Evie smoothly inserted. “And the task falls to me as the lady of the house, after all. I have no wish to impose on you. You’re our guest. It’s been unpardonably rude of me to allow you the chore for this long.”
The Cook looked back and forth between them, wide-eyed, lips slightly sagging.
Adara blinked her eyes in seeming innocence. “Oh, but I live to be obliging! And come, Evelyn—you’re a newlywed. Surely you have other things to occupy your time.” The little witch. She knew Evie had more time on her hands than she knew what to do with, that Spencer left her woefully alone. Evie had scarcely seen him long enough to exchange greetings in the last week.
His startling confession still rang in her head.
Because you’ve made me hate Ian. My own flesh and blood. Because he had you first. He has you still. I’m glad that he’s gone . . . glad that it’s my turn with you.
He wasn’t immune to her, wasn’t numb. No matter what Adara would have her think.
And yet, he still avoided her. Following such a confession, she thought he might try his hand at seducing her again. A seduction she might no longer resist.
She didn’t know what to think about him. She only knew she did. Constantly. From the moment she woke, to the minute she fell asleep every night.
With a polite smile, she turned her attention to Cook. “The lovely shepherd’s pie you prepared my first night here would be tasty on such a frigid day.”
Cook bobbed her head. “Yes, m’lady.”
Triumph swelled in Evie’s chest. A small skirmish to be sure, but she felt she had gained some leverage in her battle to assume her role as lady of the house. For as long as she was here at any rate.
“Shepherd’s pie?” Adara’s lip curled in scorn. “Peasant fare?”
“It’s Spencer’s favorite dish.”
Adara’s face mottled, but she possessed the good sense to hold her tongue.
Evie stepped beside Cook, and together they arrived at the rest of the menu. Adara watched silently. From the corner of her eye, Evie noticed her white-knuckled fist.
“Might I suggest a claret to complement the evening? The cellar boasts a fine assortment.” Adara’s voice was silk.
Evie blinked at the unexpected kindness, uncertain. Still, it was not an olive branch she could ignore. “That would be lovely.”
“Come then.” Turning, Adara floated from the kitchen. Evie followed her down the steps and into another corridor, this one narrower and lined with several pantries and closets. A door loomed at the far end.
Adara unlatched it. “I believe the clarets line the right wall.” She held the door wide with her body and motioned Evie ahead of her. “Go on. Choose whatever suits you.”
Evie peered down the shadowy stairwell. A great clamminess rose up from the deep interior to caress her cheeks. “Perhaps you would like to select—”
“Of course not. As you said, the task falls to the lady of the house.”
Evie descended the first stone-slick step. The light from behind her illuminated her path to the bottom of the stairs and the first few racks of wine and large vats. Beyond that, swirling darkness. Her throat thickened. “I really would not mind if you—”
“Don’t be silly. I’ll wait here. One of us has to prop up the door.” An impatient look crossed over her face. “Will you hurry? I’m supposed to meet the others on the back lawn for croquet.”
Nodding, Evie lifted her skirts and descended the rest of the steps. She moved quickly, avoided looking into the deep clawing stretch of darkness. She shivered, her skin puckering to gooseflesh as she surveyed the first rack, determined to snatch the first claret she came across. Finding one, she turned and started up the well-lit steps.
The sound of the door slamming shut reverberated on the air, shuddering through her.
She froze, swallowed up in relentless black. “Adara?” She rushed up the steps, telling herself the door had slipped shut accidentally, that she was not lost to darkness.
At the top, she tried the door’s latch. “Adara!”
Nothing.
She pounded the wood with her fists. Her heart seized in her throat at the door’s solid immobility. She pushed harder, rattling the latch.
“Adara!” She beat on the door until she could no longer feel her hands. “Adara!”
Fear closed in, choking her. Spinning around, she flattened herself against the door, breathing hard, staring blind into the swelling darkness.
“It’s just a cellar,” she muttered, breathing slow, careful sips and sinking down onto the top step, wincing at the terrible creak beneath her. Just a cellar. Not Barbados. No Hiram Stirling lurked, waiting to pounce.
Someone would come. Spencer would come.
A strangled laugh rose up in her throat. Why should he come? He wouldn’t miss her. He wouldn’t even note her disappearance.
She doubted anyone would notice. Especially her husband. She was stuck here with no salvation in sight.
Spencer strode into the dining room, bracing himself for the sight of Evie and the desire that slammed its fist into him every time he faced her.
Even though he’d managed to avoid her, he had thought of little else but the moment he’d confessed his desire for her, his shame. Her singular reaction—the demand for him to send her home—stuck bitterly in his throat.
Clearly, he had horrified her with his revelation. As he had horrified himself.
Had he actually blamed her for wanting her? For his complicated feelings toward Ian? Disgust churned through him.
He would relent and give her what she wanted. She likely read his avoidance as cruel neglect rather than something derived solely for the preservation of his sanity.
He would release her. She had not married him under pretense, after all. Their marriage was not based on love. Or even attraction. That was simply an unfortunate casualty. On his part, it seemed.
In time, he would forget how badly he wanted her, and maybe then they could come together and produce an heir. When he could go about the task objectively.
“Spencer!” Adara straightened to attention in her chair, the motion causing her shockingly red gown to pull dangerously low on her shoulders. “You’ve decided to join us.”
He paused, eyeing the small group gathered at his dining table. He fought to keep his lip from curling as he surveyed the indolent lot. Vaguely, he’d been aware they still remained on, clinging about like a bad rash. One advantage to avoiding Evie was that he’d failed to see them, too. Only gazing at their dissolute faces, it occurred to him that Evie had been forced to suffer their company. He grimaced.
“Winters,” Gresham exclaimed, not bothering to stand. “Good of you to join us.” He reached for his wineglass and took a healthy swallow, sighing in satisfaction.
Spencer gripped the back of his chair. The man had cheek, sitting at his table and drinking his wine as though it all belonged to him. As a member of Cullen’s s
et, he likely thought he had better claim to all Spencer now possessed.
Glancing around the table, he quickly learned that the one person he wished to see—the only one who mattered to him—was missing. “Where’s Evie?”
“Oh.” Adara fluttered a hand. “She’s probably in her rooms.”
“Yes. Likely napping.” The female beside his sister-in-law tittered.
Adara drove her elbow into her side.
Cocking his head, he cut the woman—Beatrice, he thought her name—a swift glance. Her lips quickly squashed into a tight line. She reached for her glass of sherry and downed it with a toss of her glossy-dark sausage curls.
“Didn’t know you were so interested, ol’ boy,” Gresham murmured around the rim of his glass.
Spencer snapped his attention back on him. “And why wouldn’t I be interested in my wife?”
Gresham splayed his hands before him. “Meant no offense.”
Spencer’s fingers curled and dug into the back of his chair. “What did you mean, then?”
“I’ve merely noticed you’ve been preoccupied with matters other than your lovely wife.”
“That so?” Spencer moved from his chair, a dangerous burn starting in his blood. Suddenly he saw Gresham as he’d seen him so many times before. With Cullen. And any number of women. Girls. Father only employed the most attractive of girls. When both Cullen and Frederick had visited from school, they’d brought Gresham. Spencer had spied the three of them up in the loft, engaged in all manner of sexual degeneracy with the household maids. Girls too young and callow to resist the advances of the young bluebloods they held in such awe. “And you’ve found my lovely wife of interest?” His voice was as dangerous as a blade to the throat.
Gresham was just like his brothers. A scoundrel with all the honor of a slave monger. In that moment, Spencer wanted him out of his house.
The bastard leaned back in his chair, his look smug. “How could I not? She is . . . noteworthy.”
It wasn’t his words as much as how he uttered them.
Spencer grabbed him by his heavily flounced cravat and hauled him from his chair. “You best occupy yourself with other matters and keep your attention off my wife.”
Gresham squawked and clawed at Spencer’s grip on his neck cloth.
Adara rose from her chair. “Gentlemen, come now . . . let’s be good children. No fighting at the dining table.”
Spencer glanced at each and every vapid face before settling his gaze on Adara. “Where is Evie?” he repeated, his voice a growl.
“It’s hardly my task to keep track of her.” Color blossomed in her cheeks. “Really, Spencer, you’re being such a bore. Don’t tell me you’re going to be one of those husbands?”
“And what kind would that be?”
She rolled her eyes. “One of the hovering types. Evie cannot want that—”
“Neither can you,” Beatrice murmured at her side.
Adara shot daggers at her friend.
Surveying the group, Spencer dropped his hold on Gresham and adjusted his sleeves. Shaking his head, he gave voice to the thought running through his head. “Why are all of you even here?”
All gazes swung to Adara.
Beatrice murmured yet again. “I’ve been wondering that myself. It has ceased to be even marginally entertaining.”
“I’ve had just about enough of you, Beatrice Summers,” Adara hissed. “Why don’t you go home and entertain your time with that fat, sweating husband of yours.”
“Well,” Beatrice huffed. “I do have other friends, you know.”
“Truly, Dare. Look at the man.” Gresham tugged at his cravat in an attempt to set it to rights. “He’s clearly besotted with his wife.”
“Clearly. His wife. Not you,” Beatrice echoed, dropping her napkin to her plate and pushing to her feet. “I want to go back to Town. I’ve had enough of this dismal place.” With that ringing comment, she flounced from the room.
A tense moment passed before the others rose to follow her out.
Spencer and Adara remained, alone in the dining room.
She rose and stepped toward him, her dark eyes wide and supplicating. “Don’t let her ruin what we could have together, Spencer. We’ve been apart for too long.”
He stared at her for a long moment, trying to remember what it was he ever saw in her. All he saw now was a shallow, empty creature. A barren shell, the only love in her heart that which she reserved for herself. Not like Evie. Evie was selfless. Evie loved. Loved a man to the grave.
And isn’t that what you want for yourself? Evie to love you with that depth?
“It’s been a long time, Adara. Whatever we had is over. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure we really ever had anything at all.”
Air escaped her lips in an angry hiss. “You don’t mean that—”
“Don’t embarrass yourself any more than you have. You should go with your friends,” he said, not ungently, “and leave.” Turning, he started to leave the room.
“Spencer!” Adara cried. “Spencer! Don’t walk away from me! Where are you going?”
Without a glance over his shoulder, he forged ahead. “To find my wife.”
Chapter 21
Evie shivered and buried her head in her bent knees. The wall at her back felt cold and damp and uncomfortably hard, but she required its support, grateful for something to hold her up and keep her from falling into the swirling blackness around her, consuming her, swallowing her.
A faint scratching sounded on the air. Rats. They scurried among the vats she had glimpsed on the far side of the cellar. Before Adara had locked her in. Before darkness. At least she told herself that—told herself the creatures weren’t too close to her.
She couldn’t accurately judge how long she’d been down here. It felt like a lifetime since Adara had slammed shut the door. Surely someone would come. Even Adara couldn’t be so spiteful—so illogical—as to think she could keep her down here forever. Someone would come. Her fingers turned numb where she clutched her knees. Eventually.
She only had to cling to her sanity until then. A very real challenge. Alone in the dark, only one thing occurred to her—flung her back years. As though she were there again. In that bed. In Barbados.
It happened so long ago that she rarely thought about it anymore. Only trapped in darkness did her will fail her and catapult her back in time . . . force her to live it all again.
The surf roaring gently outside her window.
Warm sea air in her nose as Stirling’s sweaty body bore her into the bed.
The salty taste of his flesh as she sank her teeth into his arm.
Then, came his fists. The agonizing pound of knuckles. The burst of pain in her ribs.
She whimpered. Trembling, she drew her knees closer and squeezed herself into the smallest ball possible, as if she could hide and prevent the past from finding her.
But it always did. In the dark, it always could find her.
“Spencer.” His name rose, unbidden.
Whatever he was to her, whatever they had, he made her feel safe, protected.
She’d never been able to say that about a man before. She’d only experienced neglect or cruelty at the hands of men. Her father had abandoned her to Penwich. Master Brocklehurst had been overly fond of applying his strap to her back for the slightest infraction. And then there was Stirling.
Spencer was different. If he were here, she wouldn’t be struck cold with terror.
He’d married her for duty, for heirs, but he had yet to claim his husbandly rights. It was almost as though he wanted their physical union to mean something. He wanted it to matter.
“Spencer.” She rocked harder, hugging herself until she could hardly draw breath. The next time she saw him she vowed to hold him and kiss him and never let him go. To put her fear aside and cross that threshold into the final intimacy.
She would no longer give him a reason to avoid her. She would give him herself. Completely. Totally. Again and aga
in.
“Find me. Just find me.”
“Have you seen Lady Winters?”
The kitchen buzzed with activity, the staff at work on the evening meal. “She was headed to the wine cellar with Lady Adara the last time I saw her.” The cook slammed a pot down at that last mention of Adara, her lip curling over her stained and crooked teeth. “That would have been this morning.”
This morning? Unease curled through him at this information. He gave a curt nod of thanks. The kitchen staff paused amid their work, watching him with wide eyes as he departed for the cellar.
Dark fury brewed inside him, his pace increasing as he considered that his wife had not been seen since this morning. With Adara. The little witch had lied, then. Not only had she seen Evie, but she had escorted her to the wine cellar. And why would Adara have bothered? She wasn’t the solicitous sort. Especially given her attitude toward Evie.
His stride increased until he was running down the length of the corridor. His heart thundered against his ribs.
He flung open the bolt to the cellar and squinted down into unremitting gloom. He winced, hoping Evie wasn’t down there.
“Evie!” he called down.
Thick silence answered him.
Digging into his jacket pocket, he pulled forth a handkerchief. Bending, he jammed it between the door and the floor, effectively keeping the heavy door wedged ajar.
He stomped down a few steps, his boots strong cracks on the wood. Peering into the swirling black, he called again, “Evie, are you down there?”
His stomach cramped at the thought of her trapped in the dark. All day. Alone. Although she had denied it, he knew she feared the dark. Remembered her gasping, choking breath when she woke at the inn, the fire dead and cold, the room black.
“Evie?”
Nothing. Silence.
Relieved, at least, that she had not been trapped down here after all, he turned, only to stop on the top step.
A sound. The barest scratch dragged against the rock floor. Then, he heard it. A whimper. Evie.
Swinging around, he flew down the rest of the steps. “Evie, where are you?”
Why didn’t she answer him? He stalked the cellar floor, knocking into vats, a crate. Then the tip of his boot struck something soft and yielding. His heart clenched. Evie.