Chapter 7
“The prime minister is just over there,” Spencer murmured, “if you’d like to meet him.”
Winnie’s face felt hot. In fact, every inch of her skin felt hot, her cheeks burning, her heart pounding in her ears. “Have you lost your mind?” she hissed, keeping her voice barely above a whisper so as not to attract attention.
Though they were attracting plenty anyway. Spencer had taken her by the arm, as cool and assured as if he’d anticipated all of this—as though he’d expected to find her unconscious and accused of grand larceny in a leather-goods stall. He’d orderedtwelvefull kits for his carriage horses before they managed to extract themselves.
Things had not improved from there. In the bazaar proper, he’d introduced her to several of his fellow peers, who had gazed at her in frank disbelief before bowing and addressing her as Lady Warren.
Lady Warren! She was going to strangle him.
“At least let me introduce you to the dowager Duchess of Vale. You’ll like Lisbet. She used to be an anarchist.”
She clenched her teeth so hard she feared something was going to give. Perhaps her sanity. “Stop introducing me to your friends,” she ground out.
“It would certainly strengthen the pretense that we are wed.”
“We ought not to bestrengtheningthe pretense, Spencer!”
“It is rather late to disavow it.”
“Oh my God,” she murmured. “You are a madman. I have accidentally married a lunatic.”
At that, the corner of his mouth quirked. “Do you know, I had the same thought a few minutes ago?”
“I am covered in the excrement of several looted American animals,” she whispered. “This is really not the time, Spencer.”
Spencer’s hand caught her waist. He pulled her close—far too close—and her thoughts went a trifle blurred.
“One more,” he murmured. His voice was at her ear again.
Why did hedothat? She could feel his breath, and she shivered, gooseflesh rising along the back of her neck.
“One more introduction, because Lisbet will be good to have on our side,” he went on, “and then we’ll go home. And then I’d like to know what on Earth you were doing in that stall.”
She let him do it. He introduced her to the duchess—a tiny, ravishing woman in her middle years—and all the while maintained his tight grip on Winnie’s waist. It was not quite proper, but the duchess did not seem half so perturbed as Winnie felt.
Though perhapsperturbedwas not the word. His hand was large and warm at her side; she could feel his muscular thigh pressed up against hers. She was dizzied, short of breath. Her lower belly felt taut and loose at the same time.
By the time he called for the carriage and swept her back outside, she could not tell if confusion or outrage held precedence among her emotions. Agitation seethed in her; her nerves felt close to the surface, jagged and raw.
The moment they were alone in his coach, the words were on her lips, even before the vehicle rocked into motion. “What were you thinking?”
“Mostly that I was surprised the shopkeeper was taken in by your swoon. You had your eyes screwed so tightly shut, I feared they would stick that way.” His dimple emerged as he looked at her.
Her fingers itched to do some violence to his person. She wanted to jostle him, upset his cravat and undo his buttons, shove her fingers in his hair and—
“They all think we are married!” she half-shrieked. “Everyone will have heard of it by the end of the week. Your sisters—”
“Yes,” he said, and as she watched, the playful expression vanished from his face. “They will all believe it.”
“Why did you do it?”
The wheels of the carriage rattled, hard ash wood thudding rhythmically against the stones of the street.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t speak, and she wished she hadn’t asked at all. What had she thought he would say?For you, Winnie Halifax. It was all for you.
“It was the right thing to do,” he said finally. “The only thing to do.”
