Page 23 of Outrageous

Eva watched him leave before slumping into the chair.

Did she want him—was that true? She had to admit she was . . . fascinated by him. But it was more anger and hatred she felt toward him, for his persecution of her brother. If she did want him, it was only to punish him and certainly not to marry him. But if that was all she wanted from him, then why had she felt so hurt when he’d said he would not exercise his husbandly prerogative once they married? Why was it painful to acknowledge he had no interest in bedding her? Was that what she’d wanted, to be bedded by him?

You know it is.

Eva groaned. But there was no point in denying her body’s reaction to him: her skin became hot when he looked at her and her innards churned in a not entirely unpleasant fashion when he gave her that heavy-eyed look. That was probably the effect he had on most women—after all, he was very handsome, virile, and he’d been praised often for his bravery. It wouldn’t be abnormal to find such a man attractive. To want such a man.

Was that why she’d kidnapped him? Had she really done all this for herself? Had she lied to herself that she was doing it for Gabe and Dru? If she had, she had condemned herself to a certain kind of hell: she wanted him, or at least her body did, and he had made it clear he had no interest in touching her.

There was a soft knock on the door.

“Enter,” she said. The door opened and the maid came into the room.

Eva sighed, stood, and prepared to face the coming day.

* * *

They didn’t have the same postilions as before. In fact, Godric had paid both boys an obscene amount of money and asked the innkeeper to separate them and send them to opposite ends of the country. They would talk eventually, but Godric and Eva’s elopement would be old news by the time any word of what had happened made its way to London.

He studied his betrothed, who sat across from him swathed in a plain gray cloak, with a pretty periwinkle-blue bonnet on the seat beside her. Her dress, he knew—even though he could not see it—was the same shade of blue. Godric knew that because he’d been the one to choose her clothing from the small dress shop. He’d chosen three gowns based on the recommendations of the seamstress. They all had loose bodices that could be adjusted with a drawstring below the bosom to fit almost any shape. All they’d required was hemming as his wife-to-be was exceptionally small in stature.

Godric studied her as she stared out the window, her profile perfect, sharp, and wintry. Good God, but she was a beauty. She had the sort of coloring he loved—dark, inky hair and navy-blue eyes with pale, pale skin. His own golden fairness was a disappointment when he looked in the mirror. There was something vapid about looking as though one should be sitting on a cloud plucking a harp—a comparison he’d heard times beyond counting from the women he’d bedded.

Lady Eva de Courtney looked like a character from some Greek fable. An untamable nymph or headstrong goddess.

Or a mad daughter of the moon.

“Why are you staring at me?” she demanded.

Godric smiled at her waspish tone. “You are soon to be my wife. It is my right to look at you. Don’t you wish to look at me?”

“No.” But her face flushed wildly, giving the lie to her words.

Godric chuckled, genuinely amused by her lack of guile; she might be nineteen but she behaved as though she were much younger. And she made him feel ancient. He supposed he was ancient by her standards: almost seventeen years older. Lord. He’d already been in the army for years by the time he was her age.

He eyed the young woman across from him. No doubt her father had spoiled her—such a clever, lively, beautiful daughter would be the apple of any father’s eye—and parental indulgence certainly went a long way to explaining her unorthodox, willful behavior. Godric had met the marquess and his wife at several functions this Season. They did not like him. Well, that was an understatement—they actively disliked him. Godric could not blame them. He’d conducted himself badly this past Season, his behavior culminating in a challenge to the marchioness’s eldest son, Gabriel Marlington. The only reason the duel had not occurred was because Godric had apologized to the younger man—very publicly.

His face heated at the memory of that apology. As mortifying as it had felt at the time, it had been the right and honorable thing to do. Not for himself, but for his grandfather. The duke was old—ancient, in fact. At eighty-six he had not many more years left, a piece of information he had wielded with all the subtlety of a cudgel to pressure Godric to do his bidding.

“Give up this foolish duel, Godric. You know you are in the wrong. If you should die—or kill him—who will take the burden from my shoulders? It will not only be me you have forsaken; it will be the hundreds who rely on the Duke of Tyndale.”

Godric hadn’t been lying when he’d told Lady Eva that an heir of his body was not necessary to the continuation of the dukedom. He did have several male heirs, but the next one in line—his cousin Charles—was far too young to take over the dukedom.

So Godric had apologized. In White’s. In front of everyone who was anyone in ton circles.

“I shall make a terrible duchess.”

He glanced up. “Hmm?”

“I said, I shall make a terrible duchess.”

He suspected she was correct, but even he was not so impolitic to say such a thing. “How do you know that?”

The question gave her pause, but she was quick to recover. “You’ve seen me this Season—you know what I mean.”

Godric could have told her he’d paid very little attention to her this Season, and it would have been the truth. It also would have insulted her. He was not yet, he hoped, reduced to being cruel to infants.

“You needn’t worry about entertaining,” he told her. “I plan on doing very little of it.”