Slightly Wicked (13 page)

“But I daresay Stepmama has something to do with your dresses,” he said, “and your caps. She is determined to marry Julianne off this summer, preferably to Bedwyn. Have you noticed how my half-sister is many times prettier than all the other girls who have been invited here?” He chuckled. “Stepmama cannot countenance competition at such a crucial stage of Julianne’s career. Least of all from a cousin.”

Judith could think of no reply to make to such a speech and so made none. She lenghened her stride to close the gap between them and Mr. Peter Webster and Miss Theresa Cooke, the nearest couple ahead of them. But then Horace exclaimed with annoyance and stopped walking altogether. There was a stone wedged in the heel of his boot, he explained, and he set a hand against the tree trunk on the other side of Judith and lifted his foot to dislodge the stone, effectively boxing her in between himself and the tree.

“Ah, done,” he said after a few moments and returned his foot to the ground and lifted his head to smile at Judith.

He was uncomfortably close, and by now they had fallen well behind the others.

“You know, Judith,” he said, his eyes flitting over her face but coming to rest on her bosom, “I could make you very comfortable indeed at Harewood. And I could be induced to visit here far more often than I have been in the habit of doing.”

One of his hands lifted with an obvious destination. She batted at it and moved forward in order to get around him, but since he did not step back, she only succeeded in bringing herself closer to him.

“I am quite comfortable enough here as I am,” she said. “We are being left behind.”

He chuckled low and his hand found its target, closing around one breast. But only for a brief moment. He lowered the hand and took a short step back as the crunching of twigs heralded the return of one of the walkers. She could have almost cried with relief when she saw Branwell.

“Oh, I say,” he said cheerfully, “a problem, is there?”

“I almost had to have your sister haul my boot off,” Horace said with a chuckle. “I had a stone lodged in the heel and it was devilish difficult to get rid of it.”

“Ah,” Branwell said, “Bedwyn was wrong, then. He sent me back here because he thought perhaps Jude was not feeling quite the thing and might need to be escorted back to the house. The stone has gone, has it?”

“I wrestled it free,” Horace said, offering his arm. “Judith? Shall we restore Branwell to whichever lady was fortunate enough to win his escort? Did you know that your brother has become the darling of all the ladies?”

But Judith was not going to miss the opportunity that had been presented to her on a platter, so to speak.

“Do go on without me,” she said. “Both of you. I do not need an escort, but I
do
feel rather weak after spending the last two days in my room. I shall go and sit with Grandmama and Lady Beamish. Or perhaps I will go and lie down.”

“Are you sure, Jude?” Branwell asked. “I am quite willing to come with you.”

“Quite sure.” She smiled.

A few minutes later she had found her way out of the walk and was hurrying toward the safety of the house. She felt as if her flesh was crawling. His hand had felt like a snake, or what she imagined a snake would feel like. He had been offering to make her his
mistress
. Were all men alike?

But it was Lord Rannulf who had sent Branwell back to her, she remembered. Had he really thought she was ill? Or had he guessed the truth? But how was it he had even noticed that she and Horace had disappeared from the back of the group?

She could not return to the house yet, she realized suddenly. Even if she could reach the privacy of her room she would feel too confined. But the chance was strong that she would not even get there before being seen by either her grandmother or Aunt Effingham. She was feeling too agitated to encounter either the affectionate kindness of the one or the tart irritation of the other.

She turned toward the back of the house and a minute or two later was hurrying through the kitchen gardens and across the back lawn and up the slope of the hill. She had intended to sit there, allowing the air and the wide view to soothe her agitated spirits. But the lake looked invitingly cool and secluded. She shuddered, feeling that hand close about her breast again. She felt
dirty
.

A
fter nearly three days of being almost constantly in the company of Miss Effingham and her houseguests, Rannulf was longing for the quiet sanity of Lindsey Hall, the ducal seat where he still made his home for most of each year. There were never house parties there, and most guests were chosen with care as people who were likely to have something sensible to say. Freyja and Morgan, his sisters, might be unconventional and headstrong and difficult and quite untypical of other young ladies of their class, but Rannulf would take them any day of the week over the likes of the Honorable Misses Warren, Miss Hardinge, Miss Cooke, and Lady Margaret Stebbins. They were all bosom bows of Miss Effingham, who was flaunting him before them like a newly acquired and prized lapdog.

He simply could not do this, he thought at least once an hour when in her company. He could not marry her and shackle himself to her pretty silliness for the rest of his life. He would be stark raving mad within a year. Freyja and Morgan would make mincemeat of the girl, and Bewcastle would freeze her with one disdainful glance.

But at least once each hour, following directly upon the heels of that thought, came the memory of his promise to his grandmother that he would at least try to consider her as a bride. He had spent enough time in his grandmother’s company to see that she was indeed ill. She would be dreadfully disappointed if he did not become at least betrothed this summer. And it was a disappointment she might well take to the grave. He simply could not do it to her.

And so he perservered, playing Miss Effingham’s silly flirtation games with her, charming her friends, jollying along all the young gentlemen who continued to make him feel like an octogenarian at the very least even though he was only a few years older than most of them.

He had firmly set aside his guilt over Judith Law. What had happened between them had
not
been seduction, and she had gone to some lengths to deceive him. He had done what was proper and made her an offer. She had refused. There was no more reason for feeling responsible for her. But he knew Horace Effingham’s type. And he knew that tea-spilling incident had been deliberate on Effingham’s part. Rannulf had guessed that the man would pursue his lecherous intent at the earliest opportunity.

It had become quickly apparent to him on the wilderness walk both that Effingham was maneuvering to get her alone and that she was resisting his efforts. And then they disappeared altogether. Fortunately Branwell Law was within hailing distance and was easily persuaded to go back to attend his ailing sister.

A few minutes later Law was back, Effingham with him, announcing that his sister was indeed feeling weak but that she had insisted upon returning to the house alone. And yet, Rannulf observed a couple of minutes after that as they strolled past another seat and view down to the house and park, she was not going to the house—or looking either weak or weary. She was hurrying away from the back of the house.

A picnic tea was set out on the front lawn when they left the wilderness walk. Everyone milled about, mingling and laughing and wandering off in groups. Rannulf took the opportunity to be free of Miss Effingham’s empty, boastful chatter for at least a short while and withdrew with his plate to the terrace, where his grandmother and Mrs. Law were seated side by side.

“I wonder where Judith is,” Mrs. Law said, searching for a sight of her granddaughter.

“Did Branwell Law not inform you, ma’am?” Rannulf asked. “She was feeling somewhat weary after a while and returned to the house for a rest. She would not let him accompany her.”

“But she is missing her tea,” Mrs. Law said. “I must have Tillie take a tray up to her. If you would be so good, Lord Rannulf—”

He held up a staying hand. “If I may make so bold, ma’am,” he said, “may I suggest that it might be better to allow Miss Law to rest in quiet for a while longer?”

“Yes, indeed,” she agreed. “You are quite right. May I trouble you to fetch that plate of pastries, Lord Rannulf? Your grandmama did not take one, but I am quite sure she must wish to try them.”

He brought the plate, offered it to his grandmother, who shook her head, and to Mrs. Law, who took three, and returned the plate to the table. No one’s attention was on him, he noticed with a quick glance around. Lady Effingham was talking with Mrs. Hardinge, and Miss Effingham was in a laughing group with Miss Hannah Warren, Lord Braithwaite, and Jonathan Tanguay.

Rannulf slipped around the corner of the house before someone could notice him and around to the back. There was no sign of her. Where had she gone? he wondered. Had she returned yet? Perhaps she really was resting in her room by now. There was a tree-dotted hill in the near distance. He squinted ahead to it but could not see her there. It looked like a quiet place to go anyway. He lengthened his stride and made his way toward it.

She must indeed have returned to the house, he thought a few minutes later as he climbed the last few feet to the top of the hill and looked around appreciatively at the view. And it was just as well. He had not really been hoping to meet her, had he? For what purpose? He had not thought of asking himself that until this moment.

There was a lake down below. It looked neglected and overgrown but rather lovely nevertheless. He was surprised it had not been connected to the wilderness walk. He was trying to decide whether to go down there or not when he saw her. She had just appeared from beneath the overhanging branches of a willow tree. Swimming. She was on her back, kicking lazily, her hair spread about her like a dark cloud.

Ah. She had come here to be alone.

He should respect her privacy.

But he found that his legs were carrying him down the far side of the hill nonetheless.

CHAPTER X

         I
t was a feeling rather than anything she saw or heard—a feeling that she was no longer alone. She opened her eyes and turned her head with some dread, fully expecting that Horace had somehow followed her here.

For a moment she felt intense relief when she saw that it was Lord Rannulf Bedwyn who was sitting beside the pile of her clothes under the willow tree, one leg stretched out before him, the other bent with one arm draped over his knee.

Her clothes! She moved swiftly until she was treading water, only her head above the surface. She lifted her arms to sleek her hair back over her head and then, seeing them bare, returned them hastily to the water, spreading them out below the surface to balance herself.

How foolish,
foolish
of her to risk swimming here in her shift.

“I am
not,
” he said quietly though his voice carried clearly across the water, “going to run off with your clothes. Or force myself on you.”

“What do you want?” she asked him. She was intensely embarrassed even though they had spent a day and two nights . . . But that seemed like more than a lifetime ago. It seemed like something that must have happened to someone else.

“Some quiet time,” he said. “Did he harm you?”

“No.” Except that she had splashed around for several minutes, trying desperately to get herself clean.

“I would come and join you,” he said. “But alas, my absence will appear ill-mannered if it is too lengthy. Why do you not come here and join me?”

She was amazed—and alarmed—at how very tempting the suggestion was. They had nothing more to say to each other and yet . . . and yet he had saved her from a potentially nasty situation on the wilderness walk. And despite his admission a few days ago that he was a philanderer, she knew somehow that she could trust him not to force unwelcome attentions on her. He had just said so.

“Is it the fact that I will see you in your shift?” he asked when she did not immediately approach the bank. “I have seen you in less.”

If she told him to go away, would he go? She believed he probably would. Did she want him to go? She swam slowly toward him. No. If she was perfectly truthful with herself, the answer was no.

She set her hands on the bank and hoisted herself up, setting a knee on the grass when she was able. Water streamed off her. Her shift clung like a second skin. She turned and sat, her feet still dangling in the water.

“Perhaps,” she said without turning, “you would be good enough to hand me my dress, Lord Rannulf.”

“You would only get that wet too,” he said, “and be no better off than you are now. It would be wiser to leave it until you are ready to return to the house and then remove the shift first.”

“Are you suggesting—” she began.

“No, I am not,” he told her. “I did not come here to seduce you,
Miss Law
.”

Why had he come? For some quiet time, as he had claimed? Was it pure coincidence that he had found her here?

She was aware of him getting to his feet and shrugging out of his coat. A moment later it landed, wonderfully heavy and warm, about her shoulders. And then he sat down beside her, crossing his legs and looking both informal and relaxed.

“Has he bothered you between three evenings ago and this afternoon?” he asked.

“No.” She shook her head. “And I do not expect him to bother me again. I believe I made myself clear today.”

“Did you?” She was aware that he was gazing at her profile even though she did not turn her head to look at him. “Why did you not make yourself clear to
me
?”

“Just now?” she said. “You told me—”

“When I offered you a ride,” he explained. “When I suggested that we take a room together at the inn by the market green.”

She could not think of a suitable answer even though he waited for her to speak. She drew her feet out of the water, clasped her arms about her raised knees, and lowered her head to rest her forehead against them.

“That was different,” she said lamely at last. But
how
was it different? Perhaps because she had sensed from the very first moment that if she had said no he would not have pressed the point? But how had she known it? And was it true? “I wanted the experience.” But it was a dream she had wanted.

“You would have taken that experience with Effingham, then, if
he
had come riding along instead of me?” he asked.

She shivered. “No, of course not.”

He did not speak again for a while and when he did, he changed the subject.

“Your brother is a fashionable young gentleman,” he said, “and moves in fashionable circles. Even
fast
circles, if one may judge from his friendship with Horace Effingham. He is enjoying the idle life of a guest while you are here as a type of glorified servant. Do I detect a story behind those contrasting details?”

“I do not know,” she said, lifting her head and staring across the water. “
Do
you?”

“Is he the black sheep of the family?” he asked. “But do you love him nevertheless?”

“Of course I love him,” she said. “He is my brother, and it would be very hard to dislike Bran even if he were not. He was sent away to school and university for a gentleman’s education. It is only natural that he would wish to mingle with other gentlemen on a basis of equality. It is only natural that he be somewhat extravagant until he discovers what he wants to do with his life and settles to some career. He is not vicious. He is just . . .”

“Thoughtless and self-absorbed?” he suggested when she could not think of a suitable word. “Does he know that he is responsible for your being here?”

“He is not—” she began.

“You do altogether too much lying, you know,” he said.

She turned her head to look indignantly at him.

“It is not your business, Lord Rannulf,” she said. “Nothing to do with my life or my family is your business.”

“No, it is not,” he agreed. “By your choice, Miss Law. Have your sisters suffered a similar fate to your own?”

“They are all still at home,” she said, feeling such a wave of homesickness suddenly that she had to dip her forehead against her knees again.

“Why you?” he asked her. “Did you volunteer? I cannot imagine anyone was eager to come here to suffer the kindly affection of your aunt.”

She sighed. “Cassandra is the eldest,” she said, “and our mother’s right hand. Pamela is the third of us and the beauty of the family. She could not have borne to leave, not to be the center of everyone’s admiration—not that she is unduly vain about her looks. And Hilary is too young. She is only seventeen. It would have broken her heart to have to leave our mother and father—and it would have broken all of our hearts too.”

“But no one’s heart will be broken by your absence?” he asked.

“One of us needed to come,” she said. “And they did all shed tears over me when I left.”

“And yet,” he said, “you would defend that extravagant young puppy of a brother to me?”

“I do not need to,” she said, “or to censure him. Not to
you
.”

And yet she was not really angry with him for prying or for understanding the situation so well. It felt treacherously good to have someone interested enough in her life to ask questions about it. Someone who understood, perhaps, the extent of the sacrifice she had made voluntarily . . . though of course she would have been the chosen one even if she had not offered to come.

“Where did you learn to act?” he asked. “Does your family engage in amateur theatricals at the vicarage or rectory or wherever it is you live?”

“Rectory,” she said, lifting her head again. “Oh, dear, no. Papa would have an apoplexy. He is fanatically opposed to acting and the theater and declares that they are the work of the devil. But I have always, always loved acting. I used to go off on my own into the hills, where I would be neither seen nor heard, and throw myself into different roles I had memorized.”

“You seem to have memorized a great deal,” he said.

“Oh, but it is not difficult to do,” she assured him. “If you act a part as if you
are
that character, you see, then the words become your own, the only logical ones to speak under those particular circumstances. I have never consciously memorized a part. I have simply
become
various characters.”

She fell silent, rather embarrassed by the enthusiasm with which she had just explained her passion for acting. She had wanted desperately to be an actress when she grew up until she had learned that acting was not a respectable career for a lady.

Lord Rannulf sat quietly beside her, one wrist draped over his knee, the other hand absently plucking at the long grass. She thought of him as he had looked earlier, his head bent over Julianne, listening attentively to her chatter.

“Does it amuse you,” she asked, “to toy with Julianne’s affections?” The words were out before she fully realized she was about to speak them aloud.

His hand stilled. “Does she have affections to be toyed with?” he asked in return. “I think not, Miss Law. She is after a titled husband, the richer and more socially prominent the better. I daresay a duke’s son who is independently wealthy seems like a brilliant catch to her.”

“You do not believe, then,” she said, “that she looks for love or at least
hopes
for love? That she has some tender feelings? You must be a cynic.”

“Not at all,” he said. “Merely a realist. People of my class do not choose marriage partners for love. What would happen to the fabric of polite society if we started doing that? We marry for wealth and position.”

“You
are
toying with her, then,” she said. “My uncle is a mere baronet. His daughter must be far beneath the serious notice of a
duke’s
son.”

“There you are wrong again,” he told her. “Titles do not tell the whole story. Sir George Effingham’s lineage is impeccable, and he is a wealthy man of property. My grandmother believes that the alliance will be perfectly eligible.”

Will be?

“You are going to marry Julianne, then?” she asked. She had not fully believed it until this moment despite all Aunt Effingham and Julianne had said.

“Why not?” He shrugged. “She is young and pretty and charming. And well born and rich.”

She did not know why her heart and her mind raced with such distress. She had been given her own chance to have him and had refused him. But of course she knew. She could not
bear
the thought of his being with Julianne.
She is young and pretty and charming.
And also empty-headed and vain and selfish. Did he deserve better, then? Everything he had told her about himself said no. And yet . . .

“Of course,” he said, “Miss Effingham and her mama will be disappointed if they hope to see her a duchess one day. I am second in line now, but my elder brother married recently. In the nature of things it is altogether probable that his wife will be breeding soon. If she produces a boy, I will be pushed back into third spot.”

She knew the look that would be on his face, and sure enough, when she glanced at him she saw the familiar mockery there.

“Perhaps,” he said, “Lady Aidan will do her duty consummately well and produce twelve sons in as many years. That will leave me almost without hope. What is the opposite of hope? Despair? Each of Aidan’s sons will plunge me deeper into despair.”

She realized suddenly that his intent was not so much to mock either her or himself as to amuse her. And she
was
amused. What an absurd picture he painted. She laughed.

“How dreadfully sad for you,” she said.

“And if you think
my
plight desperate,” he said, “imagine that of Alleyne, my younger brother. Aidan busy begetting sons, me twenty-eight years old and in danger of taking a bride at any moment and doing some begetting of my own.”

She laughed again, looking into his face as she did so.

“That is better,” he said, a gleam of something that might have been amusement in his eyes. “You need to smile and laugh more often.” He lifted one hand to set his forefinger lightly along the length of her nose for a moment before withdrawing it, adjusting his position, clearing his throat, and gazing out across the lake.

She felt rather as if she had been branded with liquid fire.

“Will the duke not marry?” she asked.

“Bewcastle?” he said. “I very much doubt it. No woman is good enough for Wulf. Or perhaps that is not strictly fair. Since he inherited the title and everything that went along with it at the age of seventeen, his life has been devoted to performing his ducal duties and being head of the family.”

“And what do
you
do, Lord Rannulf?” she asked him. “While your brother occupies himself with his duties, what is left for you to do?”

He shrugged. “When I am home at Lindsey Hall,” he said, “I spend time with my brothers and sisters. I ride and hunt and fish with them and pay social calls with them. My closest friend, Kit Butler, Viscount Ravensberg, lives nearby. We are still close, despite a nasty quarrel a few years ago that left us both bruised and bloody and despite the fact that he is now married. I am on friendly terms with his wife too. When I am not at Lindsey Hall I like to be active. I avoid London whenever I can and soon tire of such places as Brighton, where all is frivolity and idleness. I went on a walking tour of the Scottish Highlands last year and of the Lake District earlier this year. The exercise and experience and company were good.”