Chapter 4

Chapter Four

T he journey was long and indeterminable.

Rather than entertain his interest for a second longer than possible, Evangeline kept her mouth shut and stared out of the window. The duke's presence filled the carriage even when he was silent, however, and she wished she were anywhere else, wishing so hard that her heart ached with it.

After stopping briefly once for lunch, they otherwise only paused to change horses, while Evangeline remained inside the carriage.

At last, however, darkness fell, and eventually they pulled into a small inn, lanterns casting pools of light across the courtyard, and ostlers flocking to their sides to deal with the horses.

"Are we stopping for the evening?" Evangeline asked, breaking the silence.

"Yes."

How fortunate it was she hadn't expected conversation from him.

"Where are we?"

"Huntingdon." He rose and exited the carriage, extending a hand to help her descend. "It's the first overnight. Of many."

Tired and stiff, she clambered free of the carriage. The duke almost immediately dropped her hand and strode in ahead to the open door and yellow light. Evangeline followed behind.

"Welcome, Your Grace," the innkeeper said. "Are you well? Would you like some dinner?"

"Have some food delivered with a bath, if you would," he said, leading the way into the inn.

The innkeeper led the way upstairs, past a loud dining room. Evangeline could not but be thankful that she would not be expected to eat there.

"Here's your room, Your Grace," the innkeeper said, and Evangeline followed them into the room without truly understanding the significance of the meaning.

There was one room.

A room.

One, single room.

Noises from other guests filtered through the open doorway, the coffee house and dining room being full of lively guests, and the duke shut the door, dismissing the innkeeper, as Evangeline stared in horror at the bed.

"Peace, wife," he said, shrugging his coat from his shoulders and laying it over the back of the chair.

Peace. She could not imagine a situation less likely to inspire peace.

All around, there was evidence of others: the creak of a floorboard in another room and the distant sound of laughter. Outside, she could hear chickens. At least their room didn't overlook the main courtyard, where the ostlers would be bustling and the horses would be whinnying in their stables.

Of course, she had known that as his wife, she would be obliged to share his bed, but to expect her to do so here seemed cruel.

There was a knock on the door, and several maids came in with pails of steaming water. That was when Evangeline noticed the copper bath by the roaring fire. As they filled it and left a bar of soap on the side, along with a pair of towels.

The moment the maids left, the duke nodded toward it.

No. Surely he could not mean?—

In front of him? He showed no signs of leaving the room, so he had to mean that, but it felt cruel to expect her to undress in front of him, exposing herself to the acidity of his gaze.

No doubt he had seen far prettier ladies. Evangeline had never given her body much thought. But in the overly stuffy room, considering taking off her clothes, she thought about her breasts, the thatch of hair between her legs, and what the duke, an intimidating man in his own right, would think about both.

"Well?" he prompted when she didn't move. "I'm your husband now, pet. Better you accustom yourself to the concept."

"I don't trust you," she blurted.

His eyes narrowed. Despite the squirming in her stomach, she kept her chin up and held his gaze. If he tried to force her to undress, she would scream. There were enough people around to hear her. Perhaps at least one would take pity on her, and?—

"Suit yourself," he said with an elegant shrug and moved his hands to the buttons of his waistcoat.

For a moment, she watched with fascinated horror. He had large hands, the veins on the back of them prominent and snaking, and his fingers were deft and competent.

All too soon, he slipped off his waistcoat and in one fluid movement, hauled the shirt over his head.

Before she looked away, heat scalding her cheeks, she noticed the dark hair that rose in a line from the waist of his trousers and the way it sprinkled across his upper chest. She also caught sight of rounded muscles; the type she had suspected his clothes concealed.

A shiver went through her, different in nature from the shiver she had experienced before. Her stomach flipped.

She linked her fingers together and sat on the bed, resolutely facing the wall as the duke undressed all the way and slid into the tub. Water slicked against the sides, and her blush burned hotter at every sound.

Soon, wet and dripping, he could come for her, and she would have to submit. Could she at least keep her dress on? She hoped she could—she prayed she could keep at least some of her dignity in this horrid place.

All too soon, water splashed and dripped as he rose from the bath, and she resisted the urge to turn.

"You may look now," he said after a handful more seconds, a wry note in his voice.

She glanced over her shoulder to find he was wearing his trousers once again, slung low on his hips. The towel was over his shoulders, and his hair dripped dark in the candlelight.

There was something forbidden about the scene, as though she had stumbled across a painting she ought not to have seen, and the artistry of it frightened her.

"Sleep," he said, striding to the other side of the bed and sliding the blankets back. "We have another five days of travel to go, and it would be better if you were well rested."

Evangeline stared at him, trying to take in his meaning.

He lay back against the pillow, his face peaceful and his eyes closed, lashes casting dark half-moons on his cheeks.

"Is that it?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

"Is what it?"

"You are not—I thought…" She trailed away.

"You thought I would take you here?"

Unable to answer, she nodded, and he cracked an eye open, the gray in it reminiscent of a hawk.

"I won't be touching you, pet."

"Forgive me if I don't immediately trust you." She clenched her hands into fists. "You have hardly been considerate of my feelings in all this."

"Then believe that I'm appeasing mine. Just go to sleep."

"I'd rather sleep on the floor."

With a snort, he turned his back on her and silence settled across them, broken only by the joviality from downstairs.

So, that was how it was to be, was it? When it came to chivalry, he was an exercise in how not to be chivalrous. A real gentleman would have offered to take the floor.

Teeth gritted, she removed her pillow from the bed and took hold of the blanket with both hands, dragging it off his shoulders.

The duke gave an angry groan, and her heart thudded with mingled anger and fear. This was a dangerous man to rile, but she'd had enough of his autocratic ways.

"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded.

"Going to sleep, Your Grace."

"I have no objection to that, but I do have an objection to you taking my blanket."

"It was not your blanket."

"There was only one."

"It's not my fault you decided to sleep half-naked," she said primly.

He slid his feet from the bed, and that was all the warning she had before he reached down and took hold of her shoulders, hauling her up so she faced him.

"Enough," he growled. The candlelight played shadows across his face, highlighting the severity of his cheekbones and the cruelty in his thin lips. "Stop behaving like a child and sleep beside me on the bed."

"Why? What about your behavior is designed to make me trust you? The part where you gave me no choice about marrying you? Or perhaps the moment when you barely allowed me time to say goodbye to my family before whisking me north?"

She crossed her arms. "You interrupt my wedding to end it in the most dramatic way possible, you humiliate me in front of our guests, and now you are expecting me to share a bed as though nothing of that nature happened?"

His eyes were a cold gray that sliced into her, a hawk finding its victim. "What about my behavior led you to believe I would take advantage of you in this situation?"

"Why, nothing except the fact that you clearly have no consideration for decency."

He leaned in closer, and she caught her breath.

"If that were true," he said in a low voice that reminded her of smoke and silk, "then I would not have prevented a wedding between you and the scoundrel you were betrothed to."

Evangeline drew herself up. "If you had complaints about his character, you might have brought them up before the wedding date."

"And so I might have if I could have gotten to London any faster."

Her jaw snapped shut. There had to be a rebuttal to his point, but she could not think of one, and truth be told, she had no desire to sleep on the floor.

If George truly was married—although if his previous wife was dead, surely he was no longer so—then of course she should not marry him. Nor should she want to, and in many ways she didn't. But he would have been so much more comfortable than her current companion.

"Very well," she said stiffly. "Turn around so I may change into my nightgown."

He removed the blanket from her arms and spread it across the bed, resuming his former position, away from her. As he was facing that way, she had no concerns that he might spy on her, and although it was not what she had expected in the slightest, it truly did seem as though he had no interest in her. Which was a good thing.

She was not precisely sure what would happen after the wedding—her mother had been irritatingly vague, save that it was her duty as a wife—but she had not been looking forward to it.

Holding her breath, she crept into bed, turning her back on the duke. The fire crackled and popped in the hearth and she closed her eyes, finally ready to sleep.

* * *

The next morning dawned bright, sunlight streaming in from between the windows.

Evangeline stirred, her face pressed against something warm and hard. How odd. Pillows were not usually so hot, and the length of it extended down her body, even to the crook of her knees, which were pressed against the long pillow.

It almost reminded her of when she had shared a bed with Clara, when they were younger. Except Clara was never this warm, and certainly never this long.

Her eyes snapped open.

An expanse of male skin greeted her.

The duke was still lying on his side away from her, but she must have rolled across to join him in the night, and now her body was plastered against his. Worse, her nightgown had rolled up, so her bare thighs were pressed against his trousers.

She flung herself back so abruptly she almost fell off the bed and clapped her hand over her mouth to prevent her scream.

His breathing never changed, and she released a sigh of relief.

She could do this. Now was her moment, if she was going to find herself out of this terrible situation and this awful, authoritarian man.

The skin of her face tingled where it had pressed against his naked back, and she did her best to ignore the sensation as she clambered out of the bed to her trunk.

Her maid had not followed them. Clara still needed a maid, but she could find one in the north, so she chose a dress that she could button herself without help. To conceal her shoddy work, she slipped a shawl over her shoulders, and she was ready.

After a glance at the duke, who remained where he was, slumbering softly, she tiptoed to the door.

Quietly, quietly?—

The handle stopped. The door was locked. Frustrated, she tugged, but it merely rattled in its hinges, refusing to open.

"Looking for this?" the duke asked from behind her.