Someone to Wed

by Cheryl Holt

  She tucked the cards into their box, then took them to her workroom. He followed, leaned on the doorframe and observing as she put them away.

  She came over to him and said, “Have I entertained you sufficiently for one afternoon? Clara’s classes are almost finished, and I walk to the village to meet her.”

  “I suppose I can declare myself sated.”

  It was a bald-faced lie. He’d likely never have enough of her. She’d ignited a fire in him that he couldn’t quell. He had no desire to quell it.

  He wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her close. He liked that she didn’t skitter away, that she didn’t pretend offense, and it had him speculating as to whether she was still a maiden. She was so independent, and she carried on far outside the bounds of society. Maybe she’d had lovers in the past, and he was tantalized by the prospect.

  If she was loose with her favors, it would solve several problems for him. A gentleman couldn’t seduce a maiden, but once a lady had shed that badge, it produced a route to all kinds of wicked conduct.

  He wasn’t such a rude oaf that he’d pressure her about it, and he had to hope—as they were better acquainted—she would provide a hint about her condition.

  He dipped down and kissed her, which was becoming a habit. She jumped in with delightful enthusiasm, and the embrace quickly spun out of control. To see her was to want her. How could he ignore such an overwhelming impulse?

  She was young, pretty, and alone in the world. She exuded a confident air that was enticing, but she seemed very vulnerable too, as if she needed a strong man by her side.

  You could be that man . . .

  The remark wedged itself into his head, and he shoved it away, being determined to focus on the moment and naught else.

  He simply kissed her, then kissed her some more. He didn’t unbutton any buttons or untie any laces, but salacious thoughts were pelting him. A potent animal lust was pounding in his veins, and he caught himself yearning to throw her down on the floor, to ravish her without consequence.

  The urge was so gripping that he forced himself to slow down and ease away. Their lips parted, and she gazed up at him, her expression tender, but exasperated too.

  “I can’t resist you,” she said.

  “You shouldn’t resist me. Why would you?”

  “I can list a thousand reasons.”

  “Name one.”

  “How about your engagement and marriage?”

  “I told you: I won’t be wed for over a year. It means I am very much a bachelor.”

  “I could argue the point, but I won’t. I’ll merely state that you feel free to dally, but I am unwed, so I don’t have the luxury to pursue a romance with you.”

  He grinned. “Is that what this is? Are we pursuing a romance?”

  “I can’t settle on the appropriate term to clarify what’s occurring.”

  He tried to link their fingers, but she wouldn’t permit it, and he remembered the day by the stream when that odd surge had flowed from her into him.

  “Why won’t you allow me to hold your hand?”

  “I have power in my palms,” she said, “and I’d rather not waste it on you.”

  “You have power in your palms? What kind of power?”

  “I’m positive you’ll laugh, but my hands heal people, and it requires an incredible amount of my energy.”

  “You might use them for healing, but you use them for other things too. You definitely used them on me—for something.”

  “Did I? I can’t imagine to what you refer.”

  She looked innocent as a nun, and he smirked with derision. “You are a rolling ball of fabrications and outright lies. Do you ever tell the truth?”

  “Usually.”

  The blithe comment made him laugh. “At least you admit you’re a partial fraud.”

  “It’s not always beneficial to be brutally honest. Depending on the circumstance, it’s not harmful to round the edges a bit.”

  “You have an answer for every facet of your mischief, don’t you?”

  “It’s not mischief, and if you’re going to stand there and insult me, I don’t have to listen.”

  “I’m not insulting you. I’m critiquing you. You should devise better anecdotes to explain yourself.”

  “You are not simply critiquing me. You deem me to be very peculiar, and if I’m not careful, you’ll soon be counselling me as to how I can conform my behavior in order to be just like everyone else.”

  He nodded. “You could be correct, so I’m being an ass. I wouldn’t want to change a single detail about you. You are absolutely fascinating, and I’m sure—if you attempted to conform to any of society’s rules—you would fail miserably.”

  “I’m sure of it too.”

  She scooted away and went to the front door. He dawdled, feeling horribly besotted. He was anxious to tarry, but that was idiotic. No doubt his lengthy absence had been noted at the manor, so he’d have to invent a few alibis.

  He followed her, and she continued on outside and proceeded through the gate to where his horse was tethered. She nuzzled with the animal, leaving Jacob with the distinct impression that they really were chatting.

  “Are you and my horse conversing again?” he said as he sauntered up. “What’s he complaining about today?”

  “He’s tired of waiting for you to depart, and he’s afraid you’ll be very late getting home. He hopes you won’t blame him for your being tardy.”

  “I won’t even ask if that’s true or not. It probably is.”

  He kissed her a final time, and this one was more urgent and desperate, and to his great disgust, he was hastily calculating how quickly he’d be able to see her again.

  He pulled away, and he assessed the dark woods. They seemed sinister. “I worry about you and Clara living so far out of the way. If I could find you a house nearer to some neighbors, what would you think of that? Or maybe even in the village?”

  “I appreciate your concern, but I wouldn’t like to move. I’m happy here, and I’m grateful for what’s been provided. I don’t need more than what I have.”

  “I’ll stop by tomorrow. I don’t know when, so it will be a surprise.”

  “I suppose it would be futile to tell you you shouldn’t.”

  “Yes, it would be futile, and if you visit the manor, you’re aware that I must be notified.”

  “I shall inform you of my presence, so we can . . . what?”

  “I’ll let that be a surprise too.”

  “Should I remind you that your sister and your fiancée are at the manor?”

  “I haven’t forgotten.”

  “Yes, you have. What, precisely, will we do after I accost you?”

  He stood very still, struggling to deduce his reply. He pictured himself picking her up, racing up the stairs to his bedchamber, and debauching her for hours on end, and he chuckled, deciding he was a smitten fool.

  “I have no idea what we’ll do. We’ll figure it out as we go forward.”

  He stepped away and mounted his horse, and as he stared down at her, there was such a perception swirling that he’d arrived exactly where he was meant to be, but that was an insane sentiment.

  He gave her a mock salute, then he tugged on the reins and trotted away. As he hurried off, he was eager to glance back, to wave, to discover if she was watching and waving too, but he forced himself to look straight ahead.

  For pity’s sake, he’d see her the next day. He had to cease his obsessing, but he missed her already, and he had to physically prevent himself from turning and cantering back to remain by her side.

  Joanna loafed by her gate until he was swallowed up by the trees. He’d stayed much too long, so Clara would have to walk part of the distance by herself. The lane from the village was safe, but Joanna liked to show up and accompany her. Before she could
depart though, she had to check one little detail.

  She dashed into the cottage and proceeded directly to her workroom. She retrieved her cards, and she laid them on the table, shuffling them, filling them with energy.

  She debated whether to inquire about her own situation, but it was pointless to divine her fate. Most times, her future was shielded.

  Instead, she had to learn something about the Captain. She wasn’t positive what his query had been, but she had her suspicions, and the response he’d received was absurd. It was blatantly evident that he was about to marry the love of his life, but she didn’t understand how that could be even remotely true.

  She’d finally been introduced to Roxanne Ralston, and Miss Ralston was a vain, conceited shrew who berated and intimidated the servants. She was unpleasant and unlikable, and Joanna couldn’t imagine why any man would wed her. She definitely couldn’t fathom how the Captain would find even a modicum of contentment with her.

  Joanna placed her hand on the stack, and she posed her question aloud: “Is Roxanne Ralston the love of Jacob Ralston’s life? Will she make him happy forever?”

  She selected a card, and it was titled, Death. She selected several others—just to be certain—and on observing how they arranged themselves, she grinned with satisfaction.

  There was no doubt that Jacob Ralston was about to wed, and it would be to the bride who was destined to be his partner. That message had been quite plain. But it wouldn’t be Roxanne Ralston, so he was in for a few wild months.

  He wasn’t the sort who liked upheaval though, and she’d garner enormous amusement as events unfolded and pummeled him in a manner he’d never expect.

  She tucked the deck away, then grabbed her shawl and bonnet. She rushed off to meet Clara, and she smiled all the way.

  “My brother mentioned that he’s met you.”

  Margaret studied Miss James, thinking she was so pretty. What had Jacob thought of her?

  Despite the fact that Jacob’s engagement was about to become official, he was still a bachelor. He was home, where he was always bored, so it probably wasn’t a good idea to have him bumping into such a tempting siren.

  Should Margaret cancel Miss James’s visits?

  “Your brother and I have conversed,” Miss James said.

  “I’m aware that you discussed me with him. In the future, please don’t.”

  Miss James’s cheeks heated. “I apologize. He heard I was tending you, and he demanded to know why you were ailing. It was incredibly difficult to deflect his nagging.”

  “He is very impressed with himself.”

  “He definitely is,” Miss James agreed, and they smiled a conspiratorial smile.

  Margaret pondered for a moment, then jumped in with both feet. “We’re having a party on Saturday night. We’ll have a buffet supper, and there will be dancing afterward. Would you come?”

  Miss James froze, as if the request was a riddle she had to unravel. “Are you certain you’d like me to?”

  “I wouldn’t have asked you if I wasn’t serious. Why are you frowning?”

  “I’ve lived in the area for years, and I’ve never previously been invited to a social event at the manor.”

  “That’s because my mother was a great snob. She wouldn’t have deemed it proper to include you. I’m much less set on myself, and you’re the only interesting person I’ve encountered since I returned. If you attend, I’ll have someone to chat with who won’t bore me to tears.”

  Miss James chuckled. “After an explanation like that, how could I decline? It would be cruel of me to refuse, and my niece is attending a party of her own on Saturday, so I’m free that evening.”

  “You have a niece? What’s her name?”

  “Clara. She’s nine.”

  “Every time I talk to you, I learn new information.”

  “Her parents couldn’t raise her, so my Aunt Prudence and I took her in.”

  Margaret was swamped by a wave of self-pity, wondering why every woman in the world seemed to have children but her. Even unwed Miss James had a girl of her own. Motherhood was so easy for others. Why had it been impossible for Margaret?

  She’d tried her best to give Mr. Howell a son, but she’d failed. It was the sole task that really mattered for a wife, and Mr. Howell had never forgiven her. Not that she cared, but her lack still stung.

  They were in Margaret’s bedchamber, in her sitting room. Her health was fine, so she hadn’t needed Miss James, but for some reason, it was soothing to dawdle with her. She exuded a serenity that made Margaret yearn to linger in her presence.

  She was so assured and confident, while she, Margaret, had always perceived herself as being on the wrong side of a wall, that there was a better life on the other side, and she simply had to cross over to it. She could never manage the leap though, but continued to wallow where she didn’t wish to be.

  Miss James gathered her supplies and left, and Margaret tarried in the quiet, feeling anxious, as if something was supposed to happen. But nothing ever did.

  It was late afternoon, and supper wouldn’t be served for hours. Roxanne wouldn’t let them eat at a decent time, but forced them to pretend they resided in a London mansion and were surrounded by posh aristocrats who reveled until dawn.

  Roxanne was running the manor, having arrived from Italy prior to Margaret arriving from Egypt. Since Roxanne wasn’t Jacob’s bride yet, or even officially his fiancée, Margaret should have yanked the reins of authority away from her, but when she’d staggered in, she hadn’t had the energy.

  Initially, she’d been content to have Roxanne assume the duties, but now that her condition had improved, she’d like to step in, but she couldn’t figure out how. It would stir a quarrel between them, and where Roxanne was concerned, Margaret had already recognized that she’d have to pick her battles.

  She wandered over and stared out the window, and on the edge of the park, she could see the roofs of two houses. Kit lived in the larger, fancier one, and Sandy in the smaller, more modest one. She was distressed by Sandy and their brief meeting out by the barn. He’d been cool and aloof, but his detached attitude was her own fault.

  She’d been home for weeks, but she hadn’t sought him out. She should have, but she hadn’t been able to decide what to say. A decade earlier, when she’d acceded to her mother’s commands and had agreed to shackle herself to Mr. Howell, she’d abruptly severed her affair with Sandy.

  He’d wanted to marry her, and she’d convinced herself that it could transpire. On one very unpleasant occasion, she’d discussed the prospect with her mother, but Esther had been so enraged that she’d almost suffered an apoplexy. Esther’s reaction had been to move up the wedding and to whisk Margaret away from the property—and from Sandy.

  Before she’d departed, they’d had one fraught conversation where he’d begged her to stand up to her mother, to refuse Mr. Howell. He’d truly believed they could elope and live on love. His last words to her had been, If you wed him, you’ll be sorry forever . . .

  It was humiliating to admit how right he’d been, but he was too kind to ever rub it in. After she’d sailed for Egypt, she’d never heard any gossip about him, so she had no idea how his life had unfolded without her.

  In her more morbid moments, she liked to imagine he’d never stopped pining away for her, but she doubted that was the case. He’d been a handsome boy, then a handsome young man, and the years had added maturity and strength to his features. His shoulders were broad, his body lean and strong from physical exertion.

  With his blond hair, blue eyes, and tanned skin, he resembled a bronzed god an artist might have painted on a church ceiling.

  Should she try to talk to him again? Would he like that?

  She had to find out, and she dashed out of her room, down the rear stairs, and out of the manor. He’d likely have completed his chores for the day a
nd—like any sane person—would be having supper, so she proceeded to his house.

  It occurred to her that she was being very rash, but she hurried on, determined to speak with him and not lose her nerve.

  She rushed up his walk, having to knock twice before footsteps sounded. As she waited, she noticed how the residence had been enhanced. Was it by feminine hands? Shutters had been attached, and there were flowerboxes under the windows. Rosebushes had been planted along the front.

  When she’d parted from Sandy, he’d been nineteen, a bachelor with a good job and a house, so he’d been quite a catch among the local girls, but he’d only ever been enticed by her. She hadn’t paused to wonder if one of them might have snagged him for a husband.

  What if one of them had? What would she do? She had to be glad about it, didn’t she?

  A boy opened the door. He was eight or so, and with his being blond and blue-eyed, he was a little version of Sandy. Her heart dropped to her shoes.

  Was he married? In her time away, she’d never pondered whether he might be. Was his wife inside? Would Margaret have to be introduced to her and feign cordiality? She nearly spun and slunk off, but she wasn’t a coward.

  “Is Sandy at home?” she inquired. Then she changed her question to, “I mean Mr. Sanders?”

  “Yes. Shall I fetch him for you?”

  “Would you?”

  He raced off, calling loudly, “Pa! Pa! It’s Miss Ralston!”

  Sandy replied to his son, “Are you a barbarian, Tim? Why are you shouting? And why would Roxanne Ralston be here? Is there an emergency at the stables?”

  “I didn’t think to ask,” the boy said.

  Margaret entered the parlor without being invited, and she tried to recollect if she’d ever been in the house, but if she had, she couldn’t remember.

  Sandy strolled in, the boy dogging his heels. He was holding a towel, as if he’d been drying the supper plates in the kitchen. His coat was off, his sleeves pushed back. It was such a cozy domestic scene that she could have wept.

  “Oh,” he said on seeing her. “Margaret! I was expecting your cousin. May I help you? What’s amiss?”