Instead, they’d ended up flat on the ground, his ears ringing, her eyes tearing from shock and pain. She’d been prone atop him, and the tall golden stalks of lady’s bedstraw had been everywhere about them. The rich scent of honey had filled his nose, and as his vision had cleared, the terror leaking slowly away, he’d felt—
Nothing but her. Winnie. Her long, lean body stretched full-length against his own. Her loose hair, a softer, silkier color than the flowers, had tickled his cheeks and neck and lips. One of his hands had been pressed to the small of her back, and he could feel the gentle rise of her buttocks just beneath his smallest finger.
He’d wanted to shift his hand down. He’d wanted to reverse their positions and press her into the ground.
That memory—pinpoint sharp and dizzying—had not faded nearly so well as the bruise on her face.
He had, at least, identified a landmark before his ignominious descent from the tree, so that she might find her plants again later on. He tried to remind himself of that fact whenever he glanced across the carriage and saw the discolored mark beneath her left eye.
God. He had given the woman ablack eye.His sisters were never going to let him live this down. Mrs. Halifax was the most alarming and dangerous creature he had ever encountered, and he wished very much he could stop thinking about her face.
They’d spoken at some length during their journey away from Llanreithan. She had described—briefly—her former life in London and her estranged mother.
She and her mother had lived in Cheapside. Eliza Wallace had been a paid companion. She’d left for Paris in 1811, when Winnie was twenty.
He sensed there was more to the story than she was letting on. Her pale green eyes went cool when the subject of her mother came up. The effusive delight that lit her face when she spoke of her sheep, her dyes, the advertisements she evidently drew by hand, faded from her expression, and her remarks grew clipped. And he—
It was foolish, to be certain, but he did not like to see her dimmed that way.
He’d been struck silly by the look on her face when she’d run into the grove of lady’s bedstraw. Her eyes had been squeezed shut, her tanned tapered fingers holding the tiny yellow blossoms to her nose. She’d smiled so blindingly that he’d lost his breath staring at her.
She’d been as far as possible from the filthy, incarcerated woman he’d found in the jail in Treffynnon. She’d looked unfettered. She’d looked fully alive, somehow, there in the meadow, surrounded by golden plants and the scent of honey.
He could not remember the last time he himself had felt that unconstrained.
He’d gotten to know her these last six days. She’d been almost formal at first: a bit reserved, a little uncertain. Nothing like his sisters. But when he drew her out with questions about the things she loved—sheep and thread, yes, but alsoParadise Lost,the precise color of a purpling dusk, and the coagulating properties ofGalium verumwhen applied to milk—she grew enthusiastic. She waved her hands about. She pointed out the window. Her lashes fluttered down, then up again as she peered into his face, as though she could not believe he was interested in what she had to say.
But he was. He’d never before known that he cared what caused the color variation in single and double Gloucester cheese, but apparently he did—at least when Winnie was teaching him. He’d never before known someone so filled with energy and passion. She fairly gleamed with it.
He had hoped that extended proximity to her might dull the shock of her beauty, but thus far he’d shown no signs of growing accustomed to her. She remained distressingly attractive. Between the lingering celery-colored bruise beneath her eye and the general appeal of her person, it made him uncomfortable just to glance in her direction.
“Have you considered,” she asked suddenly, “what you will tell your staff about me when we arrive?”
He was forced to look at her. She wore a dark, drab-colored dress, which only called his attention to the flaxen strands of her hair and the golden perfection of her face—a jewel glowing against a simple setting.
It was deeply offensive.
“I suppose we shall tell them you are Lady Warren,” he said.
She winced.
Though they had not been forced to share a bedchamber at the various inns on the way to London—and Spencer thanked Providence for that—they had introduced themselves as Mr. and Mrs. Halifax. She had resisted—with a conviction that bordered on desperation—the use of his title.
Perhaps she did not want to be a countess. Spencer could understand that. He did not particularly want to be an earl.
“Will your sisters not be at home?” she asked. “You are not concerned about turning up with a temporary wife?”
He had told her something of his younger twin sisters, Margo and Matilda. She’d not heard of their escapades all the way in Wales, a fact which rather surprised him. He’d imagined the antics of the Halifax Hellions were known from coast to coast.
“They’ll be home.” He shifted uneasily in his seat and resisted the urge to loosen his cravat. “I shall just have to explain things to them, I suppose.” He saw her face grow set, and he hastened to reassure her. “I shan’t tell them about your forged papers, of course. Though if anyone would understand a scheme so preposterous, it would be Margo and Matilda.”
“Oh—no.” Her gold-tipped eyelashes fluttered briefly. “You may tell them. This disaster is no fault of your own. I can’t imagine you want them to think you’ve wed and then annulled the marriage all within the space of a month.”
He was not even certain such a thing was legal. Still—
“No,” he said. “I won’t tell them. It’s not my secret to reveal.”
“Perhaps you can say that I am your cousin, and we can keep the annulment quiet.”
