Wicked (9 page)

“She has a stronger constitution than you envisioned and an ingrained sense of right and wrong. She might refuse just on general principles.”

“She won’t.”

James scoffed. “One blasted time, I’d like you to be mistaken. It would humor me immensely to see you thwarted.”

“I won’t be. I specifically chose her because she’s all alone. If she doesn’t behave as I’m demanding, she has nowhere to go, and I’ve always found a female’s need for fiscal security to compel her into any circumstance that will provide it. How do you think whores end up flat on their backs?”

“You’re such an ass,” James snorted. “She doesn’t want to marry you.”

“Who would?”

“She’s having second thoughts. She might renege. It could happen.”

“It won’t. I took her to church with me, and Oscar was in fine form.”

“Yes, I spoke with her afterward. She was extremely distressed.”

“Marvelous,” Stanley mused. “She realizes why I require an heir. She’ll view it as her duty to protect the people at Summerfield. She won’t disappoint me.”

The house was filled with guests. He and James were huddled together in the main parlor, observing the crowd.

Miss Ralston was across the room, chatting with Veronica, and Stanley made a mental note to talk to her about the girl. Veronica spread trouble wherever she went. Unfortunately, there were few young ladies in the neighborhood who were close in age to Miss Ralston, so it was natural that a bond might bubble up. Stanley was determined it wouldn’t.

“I wish,” James said, “you’d picked someone who wasn’t quite so nice.”

“What an idiotic comment.”

“I just hate to have her hurt. It would be easier to bear if she was less likeable.”

“How am I
hurting
her?” Stanley gestured around the ornate parlor. “If a child catches in her womb, she’ll spend the rest of her life—in luxury, I might add—in this grand mansion. Her son will be lord and master after I’m gone. That’s hardly a detriment.”

“But until you pass away, she’ll be wed to you. I wouldn’t exactly cite it as a benefit.”

“There are worse things than marrying a rich, landed gentleman such as myself.”

“Yes,” James caustically concurred. “She could fail to conceive, and you’ll ship her off to parts unknown, ruined and with coach fare and a few pennies in her purse. You won’t think twice about her after that.”

“No, I won’t.” Stanley scowled. “And why would you? Don’t tell me you’re becoming a romantic at the ripe old age of twenty-five.”

James shrugged. “I like her.”

“Bully for you. Like her. Don’t like her. As far as my bargain with you, it changes nothing. Now if you’ll excuse me”—he nodded to where Veronica was still chatting with Miss Ralston—“I can’t have that little tart getting too cozy with my fiancée. I’d better run her off.”

“Yes, heaven forbid that Miss Ralston have any friends at Summerfield.”

It was an old complaint that harkened back to James’s own childhood. There had been scarcely any children on the estate, which was the reason Stanley had sent James to boarding school against Edwina’s vehement wish that he not.

James never thought Stanley proceeded with James’s interest in mind, but every blasted choice had bestowed boons on James that he’d never deserved.

“Well,” Stanley said, “heaven forbid that it be Veronica anyway. She is not—and never will be—a suitable companion for Miss Ralston. You should watch out for her too. I hear she has the morals of an alley cat.”

“This is not news to me,” James replied.

“I didn’t suppose it was. Be careful she doesn’t lure you into a jam.”

“She couldn’t.”

“I’m never surprised by the mischief a pretty girl can instigate. Don’t let yourself be snared in her net.”

“She’s not smart enough to trap me.”

“If that’s what you believe, then you’re a fool.”

* * * *

“What are you doing out here by yourself?”

“Moping. What does it look like?”

James was on the verandah, leaned on the balustrade and peering out into the dark garden. He stared over his shoulder at Lucas.

“You, moping?” Lucas said. “You never mope.”

“I’m trying new things.”

“The vicar finally left. We’re going to dance again. Come inside and help me move the furniture.”

“I don’t want to move furniture
or
dance.”

“So? Come inside anyway. We have too many women and not enough men.”

“Have you become Stanley’s social secretary?”

“Yes. It appears I’ve found my calling.” Facetiously, Lucas added, “My father will be so proud.”

James chuckled and spun around as Lucas joined him, and they studied the house. The rooms were bright and gay, the light from dozens of candles wafting out, giving the mansion a festive glow. Guests were mingling, laughing, and drinking Stanley’s liquor, which James liked to see.

“You’re actually sulking,” Lucas said after a protracted silence.

“I told you I was.”

“What’s wrong? Is it being back at Summerfield?”

“You know I always hated it here.”

“No, you didn’t. You hated Stanley. You didn’t hate the estate.”

James considered, then nodded. “I suppose not.”

“If he’s harassing you, we don’t have to stay. It’s not as if we’re children who must blindly obey. Let’s head to London. I can’t figure out why we’ve tarried as long as we have.”

“You were opposed to going right away,” James reminded him. “You’re broke, and there will be creditors chasing you who still haven’t been paid from the last time you were on furlough.”

“There is that.”

“Why don’t you write to your father? You could ask him to square your debts.”

“I’m not ready.”

Lucas had no shame. He overspent and overindulged in every conceivable way. Yet when push came to shove, he’d slink home to Lord Sidwell and beg for rescue. Lord Sidwell would huff and bellow and scold, then he’d relent and bail Lucas out—literally on occasion—but Lucas had to be in very dire straits before he’d seek the man’s assistance. With their dawdling at Summerfield, his situation was hardly ominous. There was no reason for a fast departure.

“Seriously,” Lucas said, “let’s ride out in the morning. Bugger Stanley. If he’s upsetting you, I’m happy to take my chances in London.”

“I can’t leave now.”

“Why not?”

“I agreed to help him resolve a problem he’s having.”

“What is it?”

“It’s nothing. It’s just…I swore I would.”

“Well, I must point out that if you’re letting yourself be sucked into one of Stanley’s schemes, you have only yourself to blame when it crashes down.”

“You’re correct.”

“Whatever he’s asked of you, you shouldn’t proceed. It can’t be to your advantage.”

“He told me if I aid him, he’ll give me the information about my parents. And a thousand pounds to boot.”

“You believed him?”

James hemmed and hawed, not sure how to answer. He and Stanley had such a strange relationship. Stanley insisted he’d been kind to James because Edwina had insisted, but Edwina had been dead for almost two decades. So what was Stanley’s motive? Why persist? It made no sense and never had.

Stanley had never liked James and claimed he didn’t like to support James or have him on the premises. But the instant James got fed up and tried to sever ties, Stanley would lure him back, and James was unable to evade Stanley’s incessant pull.

Where Stanley and Summerfield were concerned, James had no spine whatsoever.

Did he trust Stanley? Did he assume Stanley would follow through on a promise?

“I don’t
not
believe him,” he ultimately said.

“What does that mean?” Lucas asked.

“Don’t listen to me. I’m morose and miserable.”

“You certainly are, so we’ll have to start the dancing without you. What with Vicar Oswald finally leaving, we barely have the energy for amusement. Your glum attitude would ruin what’s left.”

Suddenly, Miss Ralston appeared in one of the windows. She was wearing her schoolteacher’s dress—gray fabric, white collar and cuffs, every inch of skin covered from chin to toe—and it occurred to James that she must not have a garment that was more fetching. Not a single gown suitable for a party. It was the saddest notion ever.

Yet even attired in the drab, conservative outfit, she was shockingly pretty. On seeing her, his pulse raced.

Stanley might be expecting to marry her, but that act had no bearing on how James behaved. He’d be more than happy to show her things that Stanley never could.

Would she hate James in the end? He prayed that she wouldn’t.

“There’s Miss Ralston,” Lucas said.

“What do you think of her?”

“She’s much too fine for the likes of Stanley Oswald.”

“My opinion exactly.”

“Let’s bet on whether I can seduce her,” Lucas eagerly suggested, and on hearing the ridiculous remark, a wave of jealousy swept through James.

“You never could,” James told him. “She doesn’t like you.”

“Not
like
me? Don’t be absurd. Women love me.”

“Not her. She finds you vain and annoying.”

Lucas’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “She didn’t say that.”

“She did.”

“Then I’ll just have to spend the evening changing her mind, won’t I?”

He waltzed away, and James snickered to his retreating back, “Good luck.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Lucas scoffed. “It’s skill and charm and cleverness. She doesn’t stand a chance against me.”

Lucas flitted inside, and James observed until Lucas sidled up to Miss Ralston. His flirtatious charisma was visible even from James’s removed vantage point.

The entire charade was too ludicrous to watch. He spun and fled into the garden.

* * * *

Rose hurried down the garden path. She wasn’t sure where she was headed, and thankfully, there were lanterns lighting the route so she wouldn’t barrel into anyone as she had when she’d nearly knocked down James Talbot.

The party was still in progress in the house behind her, and she’d begun to feel as if she couldn’t breathe. With Lucas Drake fawning over her, Veronica Oswald pretending friendship, and Mr. Oswald glowering, she’d had to escape.

As she went farther and farther, the laughter and voices dimmed. Finally, she was away from the festivities, away from the lanterns. It was dark and quiet, the moon gleaming off the water in the pond.

She saw the bench where Mr. Oswald had seated her when he’d unveiled his sordid proposition, when he’d talked about Scotland and local custom and handfasting. His proposal was an insult to Rose, as if she was nonessential in even the most elemental fashion.

She was desperate to discuss the situation with someone, to get advice. She’d struggled for hours to compose a letter to Amelia or Evangeline but, in the end, she hadn’t put pen to paper. What could she possibly say to her two old friends?

Both women would be shocked beyond belief, and they had no more experience with men and matrimony than Rose had. The only effect a pleading missive would render would be to alarm Amelia and Evangeline about their own pending marriages.

If Miss Peabody would throw Rose into such a horrid quandary, what might she have done to Amelia and Evangeline? There was no way she could explain to Amelia and Evangeline. And even if she’d dared, they hadn’t the means to help her.

She had to help herself, the problem being that she had no idea what to do. She didn’t have any power or influence over Mr. Oswald, and she certainly didn’t have any funds to leave. Mr. Oswald had them, and he would provide them to her
after
she’d participated in his squalid scheme.

She had staggered to a stop, when suddenly, a man stepped from the shadows.

“Miss Ralston, Rose,” James Talbot said. “Why are you out here? Has something happened? You look upset.”

“Don’t call me by my given name.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because it’s wrong. Because it confuses me.”

“Good. I want you confused.”

He came to her, quickly covering the ground that separated them. The moment she’d recognized him, she should have fled. But she hadn’t, and now, she couldn’t move. She was frozen in place, watching him approach.

“Why are
you
out here?” she asked, anxious to break the tension festering.

“I was thinking about you.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“I was. I was thinking about you with Stanley. I was thinking about you marrying him.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t pretend you care about me.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because I want someone to care! I’m so alone, and I need a friend, but it can’t be you.”

“No, I never have female friends, and friendship isn’t what I’d like from you. Where you’re concerned, I have more despicable ideas.”

“I have to go back inside.” Still, she didn’t move.

He leaned in, standing so close his boots slipped under the hem of her skirt, his legs tangled with hers. He drew her to him, her entire front—breasts, stomach, thighs—crushed to his.

Sparks ignited, and she felt thrillingly alive in a manner she never previously had. Sounds were clearer. Colors more vibrant. The night air pressed down, and a sense of expectation arose, as if any wild, heady conduct would be allowed.

Before she realized what he planned, he dipped down and captured her lips in a torrid kiss, stirring a desire she hadn’t understood herself to possess. She yearned to do things and try things she didn’t comprehend. Her body seemed to reach out with longing, as if it instinctively knew there was a way to connect with him on a deeper, more potent level.

His hands were in her hair, and he was plucking out the combs that kept the weighty mass anchored in its tidy chignon. Fleetingly, it dawned on her that she didn’t have any others, that she’d have to sneak out in the morning and hope she found them before a gardener stumbled on them and wondered what loose woman had been misbehaving in the dark.

She’d never carried on so brazenly, and she truly intended to pull away, to stop him, but she couldn’t bring herself to make him halt.

She couldn’t predict what might have occurred, what she might have permitted, but his naughty, crafty fingers had drifted to her chest and were unbuttoning her dress. Every inch of her being, down to the tiniest pore, shouted for her to encourage the reckless liberty, but she knew better, and she yanked away.