Chapter 18

Andrew glared daggers at the door, as if it might slide open if he stared long and hard enough.

"I am sorry, my lord."

He turned and faced his unwilling companion.

Miss Martin's lips were tightly pursed, and her cheeks were stained with dark red splotches.

"What are you apologizing for?" he asked.

"It was unkind of me to say that you had arranged all this."

Andrew opened his mouth to tell her it did not matter, but she was not finished.

"It was also foolish. After all, what could I possibly have to offer that would cause a man to lure me into such an indiscretion?"

He barked an unamused laugh at her backhanded apology. "According to my detractors I don't need a reason."

Andrew turned away from her and strode down the length of the room.

He flipped open the lids on the hampers; both were filled to the brim with food, enough to last several days. Beside the fireplace was a coal scuttle with ample fuel for a protracted blaze.

In addition to the food, blankets, and furniture, there was off to the side a rather modern-looking three-fold screen with a close stool tucked behind it.

Whoever had staged this had certainly thought of everything.

Andrew heard the scuff of a shoe and turned to find Miss Martin staring at the bed, her arms wrapped around her body, as if she were cold.

He scooped up more coal and tossed it onto the fire.

They might as well make themselves comfortable, because he suspected they would be there a while.

***

Stacia felt like a toad.

Even an idiot could see that Lord Shelton had been appalled when the door had slid shut, locking them both in.

Instead of snapping at her when she'd accused him of masterminding the episode, he'd merely looked resigned. And very weary.

And then she had compounded her bad behavior with her insulting apology.

Apologize. And be sincere, this time.

She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly feeling chilled to the bone, although not by the weather.

Shelton was building up the fire, his back to her.

Stacia chewed her lip, unable to look away from the bed. It was simple in construction, almost monastic, the bedding a soft white cloud.

And there was only one.

She swallowed and briefly closed her eyes, as if that could contain the emotions that were swirling inside her—fear, joy, excitement, anxiety and more—the sensations pulling her in a dozen directions, like the tug of conflicting waves striking a beach. The resulting undercurrents created a vortex that threatened to overwhelm her, just like the lethal drag of an undertow.

I get to spend time with Lord Shelton! I do not need to share him with anyone else!

Mine! Mine! Mine!

Stacia could not help smiling at the thought of having him all to herself.

Lady Addiscombe will sack you and you will be cast so far beyond the pale you will never get another position.

The thought was not nearly as frightening as it should be. After all, Lord Needham had given his word to help her, hadn't he?

He might feel differently after this…

He might. But Stacia did not think a man who brought his illegitimate daughter—and her mother—to live under the same roof as his new wife cared overly much about social conventions.

If her reputation was going to be compromised—ruined—then she might as well enjoy herself in the meantime.

Why was that thought so liberating?

Because you are trapped in a room with the man of your dreams.

Stacia smiled.

And he is trapped with you, not exactly a dream woman for any man.

Drab little dab of a woman.

Her smile faded, as did the delight and giddiness she'd been feeling.

This disaster was not his fault and yet he would pay for it. Of course he could probably weather such a scandal as he had in the past—

Stacia blinked, seized by the thought.

Lady Kathryn's story about Sarah Creighton—now Leary—came back to her.

Surely something like this is not what had happened to Shelton and Sarah?

No. That would be too strange.

Wouldn't it?

"Come, Miss Martin—sit close to the fire."

"Thank you," she murmured, and perched on the edge of the lovely, if threadbare, settee.

Apologize. And this time, make it genuine.

"My lord?"

"Yes, Miss Martin?" he asked, his expression vague but…amused?

What did he find amusing? This situation?

What does it matter? Apologize.

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

"No, thank you."

"Something to drink?" He uncorked one jug, sniffed and frowned before turning to the second. This time, he sniffed and smiled.

"What is in them?" she asked.

"Lemonade or ale. Which would you like?"

She thought for a moment. "Neither."

"There is tea?"

Stacia shook her head. "No, thank you."

"I will make something for you," he said.

"What?"

"Something my batman used to make for me. It is half ale and half lemonade. He called it lemon beer. "

"That sounds…" It sounded disgusting, but that was rude. "Er, intriguing."

"It is refreshing." He poured the mixture and then handed her the glass.

"Thank you," she said, looking dubiously at the pale brown liquid for a moment before taking a small sip. It was not terrible.

"Well?" he asked.

"It is interesting."

"Do you want a glass of just lemonade?"

"No, I will drink a little more of this."

He filled a second glass with ale, took a deep pull, and gave a sigh of contentment.

At least one of them was content.

Apologize .

"I'm sorry."

Even in the dim light of the attic his eyes were a shockingly bright blue. He smiled. "You already apologized."

"That was for the first thing I said. Now I am apologizing for insulting you again."

He laughed, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling attractively. "You are forgiven—for any and all infractions you might have committed."

"You are not angry with me?"

"I am not." His gaze turned pensive. "You know what this means, don't you?"

"Yes," she said grimly. "I know what this means."

"Well, you needn't look so joyous about it."

"Why should I be joyous about being ruined?" she demanded.

"I was not talking about being ruined. I was talking about being my wife." The muscles in his face tightened until he looked just as gorgeous as ever, but stern and intimidating instead of his usual laughing and teasing self.

"Er, wife?" she repeated.

His jaws flexed, but he didn't speak.

"Why?" she blurted.

"You mean why would I marry you when I didn't marry Sarah Creighton?"

That was exactly what Stacia meant, but she hardly wanted to admit it.

Still, she was desperate for the truth.

Tell him what you know.

Shelton gave a mocking laugh. "Don't hold back for fear of hurting my feelings, Miss Martin. You haven't done in the past," he added with a wry smile.

There was the invitation Stacia had been hoping for.

"Lady Kathryn met Miss Creighton—now Mrs. Leary—and she told me that things are not what they seem."

"Kathryn met Sarah?" he repeated after a moment.

"Yes."

"When was this?"

"This past spring. Her aunt lives near Mrs. Leary."

He gave a huff of laughter. "So that is what she has been on about."

"I beg your pardon?" Stacia asked.

"I cannot believe Kathryn has not said anything about this until now. Who would have guessed she had such self-restraint? Obviously, I have been underestimating her."

Stacia did not know what to say.

"So, what did she tell you, Miss Martin?"

"That Mrs. Leary seemed very happy and not like a woman who'd been forced to marry a provincial nobody against her will." She cleared her throat and then forced herself to say, "She said that Mrs. Leary's child looks a great deal like her husband."

He inhaled deeply, the action expanding his already impressive chest. He held his breath for a long moment and then exhaled, staring at something she could not see. The past, perhaps.

When he did not speak, Stacia said, "Kathryn hinted strongly that she knows the truth of what happened between you and Sarah."

"That is not my secret to tell. However, I fear you will never get past this until I speak of it." He smiled coolly, the expression for once not reaching his eyes. "I do not wish to commence our lives together with such a... misunderstanding between us."

"I have not said I will marry you," Stacia quickly reminded him.

"Duly noted," he said. "I am sure I can depend on your discretion."

"I would keep anything you told me in the strictest confidence." She gave him a reproachful look. "Men are not the only ones who can behave honorably."

He smiled faintly. "No, of course not. Then I will tell you the truth about what really happened with Sarah, and why I never offered her the protection of my name." He paused and then added with a stern, uncompromising look, "And then you will understand why you will not have the same lucky escape from marriage that she did."