Wicked (3 page)

He leaned in, forcing her to take a step back so he had her pressed against the doorframe. She’d never been so near to an adult male—certainly never in such a state of dishabille—and there was an odd and unnoted brazenness flowing in her.

It dawned on her that she wasn’t concerned about being undressed, didn’t care that her hair was down and brushed out, didn’t care that he was gazing at her in a way that shouldn’t be allowed.

She wasn’t afraid of him and refused to be frightened. Men were ridiculous creatures, which his boorish behavior had blatantly demonstrated.

“You must be the blushing bride,” he said.

“If you mean that I am here to marry Mr. Oswald, then yes. I’ve come to marry him.”

He nodded shrewdly, as if assessing her for an ulterior, furtive purpose.

“Are you sure you should?” he asked.

“That I should what? Marry?”

“Yes.”

“No, I’m not sure at all,” she bluntly admitted. “But I’m a woman who keeps her word. I agreed to the match, and I shall follow through.”

“You’re awfully pretty.” He smiled a lazy, devil’s smile. “But you’re awfully old to be a bride.”

“I’m only twenty-five,” she huffed.

“How is it that no other fellow has snatched you up? How did you end up a spinster and having to settle for Stanley Oswald? Are you a secret drunkard? Are you a harpy? Why haven’t you wed?”

“As far as I’m aware, I have no bad habits.”

“Every female has
some
.”

“Not me,” she insisted. “I’m boring and ordinary, and I haven’t married because no one ever asked me.”

“So lucky Stanley swooped in before anyone else had a chance?”

“Yes, and I’m not usually so crass, but I find you to be extremely rude, and I’ve been more than courteous. Will you please go away?”

His grin widened. “You should be nicer to me.”

“I’ve been plenty nice. In fact, I’ve been much
too
nice, and you’ve drained all my kinder impulses.”

“Have I?”

“Yes. Now go.”

He tarried for the longest while, studying her, his blue, blue eyes digging deep.

She’d never been so thoroughly evaluated, and the sensation was thrilling in a way she didn’t understand. She was warm all over, her pulse racing, the throbbing beat pounding in her stomach. Her nipples had tightened into taut, painful buds.

To her astonishment, he reached out and laid a hand on her waist. With her wearing just the thin robe, it felt as if he was touching her, bare skin to bare skin. Her pulse hammered at an even faster clip.

Cunning and intent, he seemed driven to do…something, and for a wild, shocking moment, she thought he might kiss her. There was a strange charge in the air as if any behavior might suddenly be permitted.

Then he stepped away. A spark of energy had flared between them, and it sizzled out immediately.

“I’ll see you at supper.” He hurled the remark like a threat.

“I’m having a tray sent up to my room.”

“Pity.” He extracted a key from his coat and offered it to her. “You’d better keep this and use it. In this ghastly house, if you don’t lock your door, there’s no telling who might sneak in.”

She grabbed the key and flashed her most stern schoolteacher’s frown.

“Goodbye, Mr. Talbot.”

“Not goodbye,” he said. “We’ll be together soon—and often.” He spun and started out, muttering to himself, “This is going to be so amusing.”

The comment aggravated her.
He
aggravated her, and though she should have kept her mouth shut, she couldn’t help saying, “Mr. Talbot?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Yes?”

“Who exactly are you, and what is your position at Summerfield?”

“Me? Why, I’m no one at all. But trust me, we’re about to become very closely acquainted.”

He left, and she staggered over to the bed, waited a few seconds as she listened to his boots stomping down the hall. Then she rushed to the door and turned the key in the lock, double-checking to make sure it fit and that it worked.

“Your home is lovely.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Thank you for inviting me.”

Rose forced a smile and tried to look happy.

She’d had the past week to conjure up images of what Mr. Oswald would be like, but none of them came close to the reality.

He appeared hale and hearty, but still, he was seventy, and she was twenty-five. She emphatically scolded herself to stop fretting over the obvious, to stop concentrating on the negative, but it was difficult to ignore the facts.

He was thin and wiry, bald as a ball, and while his eyes had probably once been a striking shade of blue, they’d faded to gray. Most disconcerting to Rose, he was shorter than she was, only by an inch or two, but it was odd to have to glance down whenever she spoke to him.

It just seemed…peculiar. And jarring. Scraped raw were any foolish romantic notions she’d ever possessed about a handsome swain sweeping her away. From the moment Mr. Thumberton had explained the match, she’d understood that Mr. Oswald was older. She had to let it go, had to focus on the truth of her circumstances.

He was wealthy and settled, and he was prepared to marry her and provide for her for the rest of her life. There was some satisfaction to be had in knowing she would finally be allowed to mingle in the social echelon that would have been hers had her mother not run off with the wrong man. That one, rash act had permanently altered Rose’s path, and she’d never envisioned that her social position could be regained.

Few women in her situation were ever offered the chance Mr. Oswald was willing to bestow, and she had to remember to be grateful. So far, she hadn’t mustered much appreciation, but once she caught her breath, she was positive she’d be delighted.

They were walking in the park behind the mansion, so it was the perfect opportunity to have some questions answered. She was curious as to how their betrothal had come about.

“How were you acquainted with Miss Peabody?” she asked.

“I’d known her for decades.”

“I didn’t realize that. Did you ever visit the school? Would I have met you there?”

“No. My first wife, Edwina, was friends with Miss Peabody from when they were girls. Edwina was an early patron when Miss Peabody was starting out.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

So…he’d known Miss Peabody forever. His wife had been a childhood friend. How long had Miss Peabody planned Rose’s engagement? How long had the idea been brewing as a possibility?

Rose had assumed it was a last-minute arrangement, made as Miss Peabody’s health was failing, but now, Rose wasn’t so sure. Now, she wondered if the marriage hadn’t been percolating for years.

“Miss Peabody has been dead for several weeks,” he said. “Do you consider yourself to be in mourning for her?”

She was taken aback by his query. It was crudely posed. “I suppose I’ll always mourn her. In many ways, she was a mother to me.”

“But she wasn’t kin.”

“No.”

He looked impatient and slightly irritated. “I only raise the issue because I’m in a rush to wed. If you’re in mourning, there would have to be a delay.”

At his blithe mention of a hasty wedding, she grew weak in the knees, and she missed her step and stumbled. He grabbed her arm to steady her.

“Are you all right?” he said.

“Yes. I’m just…”

She halted, wishing she could expound on the myriad of panicked emotions swirling through her, but she was certain it wouldn’t be appropriate to tell him she was terrified.

He’d paid for her coach fare, for the inns where she’d stayed along the road, and she’d accepted his proposal. It seemed a tad late to complain.

She peered out at the beautiful park, the rolling hills beyond, the splendid mansion nestled in the trees. It was all too much to absorb.

“You’re just…what?” He sounded impatient again. He was brusque and gruff, and it would definitely require some adjustment on her part to grow accustomed to his mannerisms.

“Everything is happening so fast.”

“I never dawdle. I reach a decision and move ahead.”

“I see that.”

“I’ve never understood why a person would dilly-dally. I’m not getting any younger, and I need to wed as rapidly as possible.”

It was such a cold, pragmatic statement about their pending nuptials, and it hurt her. It made her feel superfluous, as if he could have chosen her or any female, which he absolutely could have done.

Stop it, Rose! You’ve said you’d do it. You agreed. You knew he was in a hurry.

Still, she couldn’t help asking, “Aren’t you worried about the fact that we’re practically strangers?”

“No. Men and women are always strangers when they marry—whether they’ve been acquainted for a day or a decade. You’ll be my fifth wife. There’s no mystery on my end.”

“Your fifth?” she wanly inquired.

“Yes.”

She forced another smile, but couldn’t hold it. It was their initial meeting. Couldn’t he have tried to charm her? Couldn’t he have pretended he was glad he’d picked her?

He studied her face and grimaced. “I’ve upset you.”

“I wasn’t aware that you’d been married so many times. It’s a shock to me.”

“If I’d told you the truth, I wasn’t sure you’d have come.”

“What became of all your wives?”

“They died. What would you suppose?”

“Well, of course, they died.” She was struggling for calm, for levity. “How silly of me to wonder.”

“I’ve been blessed with longevity, Miss Ralston, and I’ve been cursed with brides who had frail constitutions. I outlived them all, so on this occasion, I’m determined to settle on someone who is healthy and strong. Miss Peabody swore you had the stamina of a plow horse.”

“How flattering.” There was more aggravation in her tone than she’d intended.

“Don’t mock your youth or vigor. They are precisely why I selected you. It’s too late for me to fool with weaklings or ninnies. Miss Peabody promised you would surprise me on both counts.”

“I hope I can live up to her high opinion.”

“I hope you can too.” He clasped her hand and patted it. “In all my marriages, I’ve only ever sired one child, and he passed away years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“So that is why you’ve been summoned. I have no time to waste and need an heir—as quickly as it can be managed. In exchange, I will give you all this.” He gestured at the manicured grounds, the grand manor. “It’s a fair bargain, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” she hesitantly concurred, not knowing what else to say.

“Heed me, Miss Ralston. I’m older than you and more experienced in these sorts of affairs. This is the best conclusion for you. After you’ve reflected on it, you’ll see that I’m right.”

“I’m sure I will.”

They’d arrived at the house, at the steps that led up onto the rear verandah. It was a beautiful day in early summer, and the drawing room windows were open. Male laughter drifted out, and a merry tune was being played on the pianoforte.

Mr. Oswald frowned and muttered, “Those scalawags. They’re home from the army and at loose ends. No doubt they’re drinking all my liquor and smoking all my cigars.”

“Who is visiting?”

“Two of the most disreputable scapegraces who were ever born. You’ll meet them soon enough. Unfortunately.” He guided her up the stairs. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d better chase them off.”

Just that abruptly, he walked away, leaving her alone.

He stomped inside. She wanted to tag along, wanted to ascertain who was home from the army, but she’d definitely been dismissed, so she didn’t dare follow.

Yet she was dreadfully curious.

She’d spent an hour with Mr. Oswald and hadn’t gleaned any information of value. If she’d been a weepy type, tears might have flowed. But she wasn’t weepy. Nor was she prone to melancholy.

When she’d agreed to Miss Peabody’s scheme, there had been no guarantees of love or affection. There had only been the prospect of marriage and fiscal security, and they were boons that couldn’t be discounted.

Eager to wash and rest a bit, she started across the verandah, but she couldn’t resist peeking in the window to the drawing room as she passed. There were two men present. Why was she not surprised to discover that one of them was James Talbot?

He slouched on a sofa, drinking hard spirits. A handsome blond man who was probably his same age was seated at the pianoforte. They looked lazy and bored.

Since his unexpected appearance in her bedchamber the prior evening, she’d tried to pretend he hadn’t been there. She’d been dying to ask someone about him, but couldn’t figure out how to innocently inquire.

He’d studied her as if he knew things about her she didn’t know. He’d alluded to Mr. Oswald with a derogatory comment about his being a seducing libertine. Yet she couldn’t envision Mr. Oswald as a roué. He hadn’t seemed flirtatious in the least, and Rose had no idea how to find out the truth of the matter.

Was it any of her business? She was quite sure a husband could act however he liked, and she didn’t see how she—who was just beginning her official position as fiancée—had any standing to question him as to his personal habits or to complain over conduct of which she didn’t approve.

She heard Mr. Oswald inside. “Why are you wastrels in my parlor? Didn’t I tell you to keep yourselves busy this afternoon?”

“We are busy,” Mr. Talbot replied.

“Doing what?” Mr. Oswald barked. “You’ve helped yourself to the liquor, and I’ve learned from past experience that—with Lucas in residence—you’ll consume it all before you depart for London.”

The blond man’s grin was as devilish as Mr. Talbot’s. “You’re completely right, Mr. Oswald. I’d offer to pay you for it, but you’ve always been so generous. I wouldn’t want to insult you.”

“Don’t be smart,” Mr. Oswald snapped at him.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”

Mr. Talbot and the blond man, Lucas, shared a mocking toast, and Mr. Talbot said to Mr. Oswald, “Are you pleased with your bride?”

“She’ll do.”

“High praise indeed,” Mr. Talbot retorted.

He was sitting near the window, and he glanced out to the verandah to the exact spot where Rose was loitering and eavesdropping. He stared directly at her, as if he’d known she was there the entire time.