Someone to Wed

by Cheryl Holt

  “Why are you smiling?” he asked. “I swear, you constantly resemble Eve in the Garden. I’m sure that’s exactly how she smiled at Adam as she lured him to his doom.”

  “I was thinking about my mother.”

  “Why would a conversation with me bring your mother to mind?”

  “I was pondering how Fate guides our steps.”

  “I don’t believe in Fate.”

  “You should.”

  “I don’t.”

  “How about omens and magic?”

  “No.”

  “How about ghosts?”

  “Definitely not.”

  She wondered if that was true. She frequently felt his father’s ghost hovering. Had he ever noticed the same? Perhaps his father’s spirit was only attached to the estate, and since his son was rarely on the property, he never sensed his presence.

  “You’re a sailor,” she said. “Aren’t all of you incredibly superstitious?”

  “The enlisted men usually are, but I like to imagine I’m smart enough to know fact from fiction.”

  “If you don’t believe in Fate, how can you explain being in my cottage?”

  “I have absolutely no idea.”

  He appeared so bewildered that she laughed. “You poor boy. What if your fascination grows until you’re wandering in circles?”

  “I’ll try to control myself. Who was your mother?”

  He’d switched subjects so fast that she was practically dizzy. Normally, she didn’t discuss her mother, but she answered him. What could it hurt?

  “Belinda James.”

  “Is she still with us?”

  “No. She died many years ago.”

  “Who was her family?”

  “No one of any account. I’m descended from a long line of spinsters who work as midwives and healers.”

  “How utterly bizarre. Why are you spinsters? You must hate men. Is that it?”

  We don’t hate them, but they drain our power and waste our energy, but she would never admit it. She chuckled instead. “We don’t hate men.”

  “It sounds as if you do.”

  “My kin have a tendency to be bossy and independent—it’s an inherited trait—so it’s hard for men to put up with us. It’s hard to have a successful marriage when we’re so insistent about having our own way.”

  “Yes, I can see where a fellow would be completely emasculated by you. Was your mother’s hair red? Is that where you got it?”

  “Yes, she had very pretty red hair.”

  “And do you look just like her? Was she as striking and beautiful as you are?”

  “Yes, she was very beautiful, and was that a compliment? If you’re not careful, you’ll be spouting poetry about my eyes.”

  “Gad, I will be, won’t I? You have the strangest effect on me, and I can’t figure out what’s causing it.”

  “Maybe Fate is driving you. Maybe you should start believing in it.”

  “Who was your father? Who was his family?”

  She clucked her tongue with offense. “You are so nosy. Why are you so intrigued by my past and my relatives?”

  “I’ve never met a woman like you, and I’m anxious to deduce what kind of people could have created such an odd female.”

  As with discussing her mother, she never mentioned her father. She was reticent about her mother because she’d nearly been swept up as a witch. Her father’s wife had urged a vicious priest to harass her, and he’d been dangerously thorough. Joanna lived far from the town where it had happened, and she doubted anyone would remember the incident, but she would never rekindle old, perilous stories. Nor would she focus a lens on her own habits.

  During her mother’s ordeal, her father had refused to intercede, and Joanna blamed him for her mother’s ruin. Belinda had been young and naïve, and he’d coaxed her into the illicit liaison. Her reward had been his total disavowal of their affection—and of Joanna’s existence.

  Joanna liked to pretend she’d been hatched from an egg, with no man ever planting a seed to make it transpire.

  “You still haven’t confided in me,” he said. “Who was your father?”

  “He was a scoundrel who used my mother badly, and I was the result.”

  “Oh.”

  “Is that enough information to satisfy your morbid curiosity? Or will you force me to provide details? I hope you won’t. It would embarrass me, and I don’t like to talk about him.”

  “Just tell me this: Was he a nobleman?”

  She blanched. “Why would the prospect even occur to you?”

  “You’re so extraordinary. I can’t picture you being sired by a commoner.”

  It was a sweet flattery, and in appreciation, she threw him a bone. “Yes, he was from an aristocratic family.”

  “Will you ever confess his identity?”

  “No. Never.”

  “But you know who he is?”

  “Yes, Captain Ralston, I know who he is. I wasn’t a foundling, left on the parish church steps.” She was weary of his interrogation, and she rose to her feet. “Are we finished? Is there anything else you need?”

  “Am I being tossed out?”

  “Yes. I’m busy—which you never deem to be possible.”

  He studied her, then frowned. “I’ve upset you.”

  “As we are barely acquainted, you couldn’t have.”

  “Was it my inquiring about your parents? If so, I apologize. I didn’t realize it would be such a difficult subject.”

  “There are . . . issues from my childhood. They distress me.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to admit who she was. She’d never boasted about being a Lost Girl at Ralston Place, so the Ralston family wasn’t aware of her connection to Captain Miles Ralston. She always protected her mother’s memory, and she wouldn’t ever explain why they’d fled England in such a hurry. There was never a benefit in declaring her mother had been accused of witchcraft.

  If she spoke up about her link to Miles Ralston, what might Jacob Ralston say? She decided she’d tell him someday, but not that day. If she mentioned it just then, she’d never get rid of him.

  He hadn’t taken the hint that he should go, and she glared at him, debating how she’d react if he declined to depart. It wasn’t as if she could pitch him out bodily.

  His questions had stirred painful recollection that fueled her apprehension and claustrophobia—any reference to the shipwreck always did—and in order to calm down, she had to occupy her mind and hands with other tasks so she wouldn’t reflect on it. She opened the door and gestured outside, rudely indicating he should leave.

  “I want to come to supper some night,” he said from over on his chair. “Clara invited me, and I demand you honor the invitation.”

  “I have no kitchen skills, so I wouldn’t dare cook a meal for you.”

  “Don’t you have a servant? Are you that poverty-stricken in your finances?”

  “I have two servants.”

  One helped her mix and deliver her remedies, and the other prepared their food and tended the house. They didn’t reside with her, but stopped by during the day.

  “It means you employ a cook,” he said. “You don’t deal with it yourself, so you fibbed right to my face.” He grinned his devil’s grin. “For shame, Miss James.”

  “Would you go?”

  Finally, he stood, but he was in no rush. He sauntered over to her, and as he neared, so many raucous sparks ignited that she was surprised she didn’t catch on fire. No wonder young ladies landed themselves in so much trouble. Who could resist such a sly seduction?

  Before she knew what he intended, he dipped down and kissed her. It was just a light brush of his lips to her own. She hadn’t expected it, so she hadn’t grasped that she should ward it off.

  It was quick and dear, and
her anatomy rippled with such excitement she was amazed her heart didn’t burst out of her chest. As he drew away, he looked cocky and assured, as if he’d been testing her in some fashion. Had she passed the quiz he’d been administering?

  He straightened, and like the conceited ass he was, he pronounced, “I always thought I was partial to blond women, but it appears I like redheads better.”

  It was a ridiculous comment, and she laughed. “You are a menace, Captain. Haven’t you tormented me enough for one afternoon?”

  “I suppose I have. Will you walk me out?”

  “If you promise to behave. I can’t have you kissing me in my front yard.”

  “Why not? It’s not as if there are any people around to see.”

  “Clara is in the woods with Mutt. I wouldn’t want her to think we’re friendly.”

  He raised a brow. “Are we friendly? Is that what’s happening?”

  “There’s no other word to describe it, and I won’t try.”

  “I have several more salacious terms I’d use, but probably none I could utter in your presence.”

  “Thank you. I’m a very modest person, and I appreciate your reticence.”

  They exited the cottage, and it was only a few short steps to the gate and the fence where his horse was tethered. She petted the horse and rested her cheek on his muzzle. Captain Ralston scrutinized her in that potent way he had, and when she pulled away, he was scowling ferociously.

  “Were you talking to him?”

  “Oh, yes,” she blithely lied.

  His scowl grew even more fierce. “What did he say?”

  “He said you are a great master, and he’s glad he belongs to you, but his true love is Sandy who takes such good care of him in the stables.”

  His jaw dropped in astonishment. “He did not tell you all of that!”

  She laughed even more lustily, being delighted to have flummoxed him. “Of course he didn’t. Despite what you imagine, I have no ability to speak to animals.”

  His cheeks flushed. “If you had such a skill, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least. I find you to be odd and absurd and completely extraordinary.”

  “There you go again with your compliments. If you keep it up, I won’t be able to get back inside. My head will swell, and it won’t fit through the door.”

  “I am never a man to dispense flattery, so you must be working some strange magic on me.”

  “It’s that Fate you mock. It seems there’s a destiny brewing between us.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  Their conversation lagged, and he stared down at her. The most precious sense of affection flared, and she let it flow over her like a gentle rain.

  “When will you be at the manor again?” he asked, breaking the special moment into a thousand pieces.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “When you visit, you must have me apprised. Don’t you dare ever slip in and out without my being informed.”

  She smiled, but with exasperation. “To what end, Captain? What possible reason could there be to inform you?”

  “I told you, Miss James. I can’t deduce what’s driving me, but whatever it is, it’s very powerful. I doubt I can fight it and win.”

  “You act as if we’re in some sort of war.”

  “No, not a war precisely. We’re . . . we’re . . .” He cut off and scoffed. “Don’t listen to me. You have me totally befuddled. Have you cast a spell on me?”

  “I wouldn’t have the faintest idea how to cast a spell.”

  “I’m betting that’s the biggest lie you’ve spewed in my presence so far.”

  He dipped down and stole another kiss. This one was more desperate, more urgent, and she jumped in and participated enthusiastically. How could she not? If it had been up to her, she’d have begged him to continue until dark.

  “I’ll ride over tomorrow,” he said like a threat.

  “I might actually be looking forward to it.”

  He tried to grab her hand and squeeze it, but she wasn’t about to let him. Who could predict what she’d discover?

  She eased back, giving him the space he needed to mount his horse. Then, from up above her, he asked, “What is your Christian name? Is it Joanna?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m calling you Joanna from now on.”

  “I guess it would be pointless to request that you not.”

  “And you will call me Jacob.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  He yanked on the reins and trotted off. She watched him depart, and her yearning was palpable, like a besotted girl mooning over her first beau. Once he vanished in the trees, she blew out a heavy breath and turned toward the cottage, wondering how their relationship would unfold, how it would conclude.

  He would be at the estate for several months, so she’d have plenty of opportunity to get herself into all kinds of trouble. Plus, he was about to become engaged to his cousin, and he was hosting a huge betrothal party in September.

  Since he was about to bind himself, he had no business flirting with her. It definitely had her worried over what type of man he was deep down. She’d assumed she knew, but she might have misjudged.

  She missed him already, and she had to buck up and refuse to dally with him, but she likely wasn’t strong enough to order him away. What woman could?

  As she reached the door, Clara and Mutt skipped around the side of the house.

  “I was spying on you with Captain Ralston,” Clara said.

  “I should probably scold you.”

  “Are you in love? Will you marry him?”

  “No and no.”

  “But you were kissing!”

  “That’s all it was. A kiss. Captain Ralston is very fond of me.”

  “He certainly is!”

  “Promise me you won’t tell anyone what you witnessed.” Clara didn’t reply, and Joanna said, “I’m serious, Clara. People at the manor wouldn’t like us to be so close. I’m too far beneath him, and they’d be angry.”

  “Your lineage is more elevated than his,” Clara huffed.

  Joanna chuckled. “We’ll keep that opinion to ourselves, and can we please drop the subject? He overwhelms me, and I hate that you saw me misbehaving.”

  “I thought it was very romantic.”

  “It was very romantic, wasn’t it? I have to agree.”

  “Will he visit us again?”

  “He claims he will.”

  “I can’t wait. Can you? I like him very much.”

  Joanna sighed. “Unfortunately, I like him too.”

  “I’m glad he’s sweet on you.”

  “He’s not sweet on me. He’s . . . he’s . . .”

  Joanna couldn’t describe what he was. She simply went inside, but the afternoon and the parlor were both boring and much too quiet with him gone.

  “There you are. I’d about given you up for dead.”

  Margaret glared at her brother, Jacob, and said, “Very funny.”

  “Who’s being funny? I haven’t seen you in five years.”

  “Seven.”

  “What?”

  “It’s been seven years since we last saw each other.”

  He frowned. “Has it been that long?”

  “Yes.”

  They were in the dining room, a pair of footmen hovering, but other than that, they were alone. The only other person who might have strolled in was their cousin, Roxanne, but she never rose early, so there was no chance of her putting in an appearance, for which Margaret was grateful.

  She hadn’t decided if she liked Roxanne or not. When they were younger, they’d occasionally socialized with Roxanne’s side of the family, but once they grew to adolescence, Roxanne moved to Italy and stayed there. She was mostly a stranger to them.

  Margaret had been at R
alston Place for two months, and Roxanne for three. Margaret had slithered home from Egypt, after her husband, Mr. Howell, had passed away from a heart seizure. Roxanne had slithered home from Italy.

  Due to their extensive traveling in foreign lands, she and Roxanne probably had a lot in common and should have bonded immediately. They could have sealed their friendship by jumping into the arrangements for Jacob’s betrothal party in September, but Margaret couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for the celebration, and Roxanne was content to handle the details herself.

  On the few occasions Margaret had attempted to help, Roxanne had ignored her every suggestion, leaving Margaret with the distinct impression that her assistance was neither needed nor necessary.

  Now that Roxanne had barged in and assumed control of the manor, Margaret would have a difficult time fitting in with Roxanne as her sister-in-law. Margaret had staggered to Ralston Place with naught to show for her ten years of marriage to Mr. Howell. She felt like a poor and very unwanted relative. Roxanne already pictured the house to be her own, and she hadn’t been particularly welcoming.

  After she became Jacob’s wife, she could ask Margaret to depart, but where would Margaret go?

  She was fairly certain Jacob wouldn’t allow Roxanne to evict her, but he was rarely in England. If she and Roxanne quarreled, and Roxanne ordered her to pack her bags, it wasn’t as if Jacob would be standing nearby to counter her edict.

  Margaret had been having a quiet breakfast when Jacob had blustered in. It was eight o’clock, and she was finished eating and on her way out. He was just sitting down to begin. He looked annoyingly chipper and eager to face the day, while she was exhausted, irritated, and wondering why she’d come downstairs. There was quite a bit of comfort to be found in her old bedchamber.

  “I’ve met Joanna James,” he said. “She tells me you’re morose and she’s been tending you because of it.”

  “Maybe Miss James should be a little more circumspect about my private business.”

  “What does that mean? You’re not morose? She’s not tending you?”