A Little Bit Wicked

by Victoria Alexander

Judith scoffed. “Nonsense, you’re not mad. You never have been.”

  “No.” Alexandra chose her words with care. “I’m not.”

  “Lucian wasn’t mad,” Judith said quickly.

  Alexandra blew a long breath. “Not yet.”

  A voice in the back of Judith’s head urged caution. She wasn’t at all sure she wished to hear what her sister-in-law had to say. Still, it was past time. “What do you mean?”

  Alexandra got to her feet, folded her arms across her chest, and walked to the window overlooking the terrace. “Did he ever speak to you about our parents?”

  Judith shook her head. “Not that I can recall.” In truth, she’d learned more from Lady Radbury today than she ever had from Lucian. “I made some assumptions about your father given the stipulations in his will but Lucian never spoke of your father or your mother.”

  “Our mother died when we were very young. Neither of us remembered much of her.” Alexandra stared out the window. “What sort of man was your father?”

  “My father?” The question struck Judith as odd. She thought for a moment. “He was a good man, I think. Reserved in his manner, at least regarding affection, but I always knew he cared for me. And I shall always miss him.” She smiled softly at the memory of the tall, fair-haired man with the sober expression and the smile in his eyes. “I know he must have been disappointed that I was his only child, that he’d had a daughter instead of sons, but he never made me feel that was in any way my fault.”

  “For that alone I could hate you,” Alexandra murmured. She stared out the window in silence. Finally she drew a deep breath. “I shall not bore you with tales of my father. Suffice it to say, neither Lucian nor I missed him. He was not a…a pleasant man. His wife and his children were his possessions, not his family.”

  “I see.”

  Alexandra snorted. “No you don’t. You can’t possibly. My brother lived in fear that he would become like my father one day.”

  Judith held her breath. “I don’t understand.”

  “My father was cruel for the sake of being cruel. He was violent and brutal with a vicious nature…” She shook her head. “Odd, when you grow up with a man like that you think that’s how everyone is. Somehow, you made Lucian, and me as well, realize that was not entirely true.”

  Judith should have been surprised by Alexandra’s admission. But even before Lady Radbury’s revelations Judith had suspected Lucian’s father had not been a kind or loving man. The dark, grim nature of the house alone proclaimed that there had been little happiness here.

  “He thought you were his savior.”

  Judith gasped.

  Alexandra glanced at her. “Don’t look so stricken. He was wrong. You were far too young and entirely too naïve to be anyone’s savior. I knew it from the beginning and I think he did as well. Still he hoped.” She turned back to the window. “I am sorry, Judith.” She shook her head. “All these years I have allowed you to think Lucian’s death was your fault. Indeed, I have encouraged you to believe that you drove him to it because of your actions on that one night.”

  Judith drew a shaky breath. “Perhaps if I had not been so—”

  “You had nothing to do with it.” A weary note sounded in Alexandra’s voice. “Do you believe in fate? Destiny?”

  Judith started to say yes, then shook her head. “I’m not sure.”

  “I am. Lucian always feared he was destined to become the man our father was. He swore he would not allow that to happen. That night, the night he died—”

  Judith stood, moved to Alexandra’s side, and realized her sister-in-law’s gaze was fixed on the spot on the terrace where Lucian’s body had been found.

  “After he hurt you. After you refused to allow him into your rooms—”

  “I should never have—”

  “No.” Alexandra shook her head. “Only a fool would have let him in. And you had no idea what would happen next.”

  The back of Judith’s throat ached. “It was my fault.”

  “If it was anyone’s fault, it was mine. And his. We had both watched his temper grow shorter, his actions become more violent, and we did nothing. Not that there was anything we could do. That night, he was shocked by his behavior, but more, he was terrified. He was convinced he was turning into our father and he would not allow that. He threw himself off the roof because of what he did to you, not because of anything you did to him.”

  Judith swallowed hard. “Alexandra, you can’t know that.”

  “I do know it, Judith.” Alexandra drew a deep breath. “Because I was there.”

  Shock slammed Judith and stole her breath.

  “I knew that night, indeed, everyone in the house hold knew, something dreadful had happened between the two of you. I saw Lucian pounding on your door, and when he went up to the roof, I followed him.” Alexandra’s brow furrowed with memory and regret. “I tried to talk to him but he wouldn’t listen. And I didn’t know what to say.” She paused to collect herself. “He told me I should tell you how very sorry he was.”

  “Alexandra.” Judith couldn’t get out the words.

  “I tried to stop him. I distinctly remember reaching for him, trying to grab him.” There was a haunted note in Alexandra’s voice. “And then he was gone. Over the side of the house. Into the night. I couldn’t bring myself to look over the edge of the roof.” She shook her head. “I didn’t want to look down on him like that. See him small, at a distance. Like a broken doll, tossed aside.” She blew a long breath. “I knew he couldn’t survive but I hoped, for a moment anyway. I ran down to the terrace but he was…it was…”

  “But he wasn’t found until the next morning,” Judith said quietly. She remembered that morning distinctly. The cries of the servants who found Lucian’s body. The pain of his death and the sheer horror of realizing it was her fault.

  “I didn’t want everyone to think—to know—the truth. I thought it would seem more like an accident if someone else found him. So I stayed with him until dawn, then hid and waited until he was found.” She shook her head. “For a long time I wondered how my heart could continue to beat if his didn’t. After all, our hearts had beat in unison since before we were born.

  “I should have told you then that it wasn’t your fault but”—she shrugged—“my pain was such that I had no desire to ease yours. And as the years passed, and I was dependent on you for my home and my support and your life seemed so carefree—”

  “Did it?”

  “Wasn’t it?”

  “In many ways I suppose it was but only because I had no one to care for. No,” Judith corrected herself. “Because I refused to allow myself to care for someone or allow someone to care for me.”

  “Because you thought you were to blame for Lucian’s death? Because you felt somehow you had failed him? And if you failed him, you could certainly fail someone else, and the consequences might be just as tragic?”

  “Something like that,” Judith murmured.

  “Well, you were wrong.”

  Judith stared.

  The corners of Alexandra’s mouth quirked upward. “Is it so hard to believe? That you were wrong?”

  “About this?” Judith nodded. “Yes.”

  “He was on this path his entire life. You were…incidental.” Alexandra’s gaze met hers. “If it hadn’t been you it would have been someone else. Or something else. I think now death by his own hand was inevitable once he believed he was becoming our father. There was nothing you could have done to save him. “

  “Surely, if I had known—”

  “But you didn’t know. You didn’t know about his demons and his fears. And even if you had, it wouldn’t have made any difference.” Alexandra blew a resigned breath and turned back to gaze out the window. “I knew him better than anyone. His demons were mine and I couldn’t help him.”

  Judith’s gaze followed Alexandra’s, and for a silent moment they shared a bond forged from a common tragedy, a union ten years in the making. Judith tried to gathe
r her thoughts, her emotions, and found them scattered and confused.

  One disclosure from Alexandra was not enough to counter a decade of guilt and remorse. Still, Judith was gripped by a relief so intense, she wanted to weep with the sheer force of it. It was as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Or her heart. With it came a sense of freedom of being, a lightness of her soul. And she could breathe.

  “Why are you telling me all this now?”

  “I don’t know.” Alexandra was silent for a long moment. “Perhaps because I no longer feel the need to punish you for my own failings. Or because my bitterness has faded in the wake of new and unexpected feelings.”

  Judith smiled. “My gratitude to the penniless poet.”

  Alexandra shook her head as if she could not believe her own words. “So you see, sister dear, there’s no reason at all why your Lord Warton shouldn’t be your Lord Warton.”

  For a moment Judith’s spirits rose, then plummeted, and she grimaced. “I fear it’s too late for that.”

  “Why? Because you’ve made your plans for picking flowers in the jungle?”

  “Because I’ve ended it with him.” Her heart ached with the words.

  “You ended it with him?” Alexandra raised a brow. “Not the other way around?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then tell him you’ve changed your mind. Tell him”—Alexandra grinned—“you were wrong.”

  “I don’t think that will matter.” Judith shook her head. “I’ve caused him a great deal of pain and I can’t imagine he can ever forgive me.”

  Alexandra stared at her. “Don’t disillusion me now, Judith. I have always thought you were the most courageous woman I have ever known. Look at your life. You would not allow Lucian to hurt you again. You did not crawl into a hole after his death but instead you’ve made a rather interesting life for yourself.”

  “A life alone,” Judith said wryly.

  “Yes, well.” Alexandra sighed. “I take some measure of responsibility for that.” She rolled her gaze toward the ceiling. “Judith, do you love this man?”

  Judith hesitated then shrugged. “Yes.”

  “Does he love you?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then do something about it. You said you were tired of being alone. I certainly don’t want to have anything to do with you. It seems to me if you don’t wish to live the rest of your days alone, you need to get this Lord Warton back.”

  Judith thought for a moment. The only reason at all she had ended it with Gideon was her fears. Now Alexandra had eliminated those for the most part. Even Susanna and Lady Radbury had given their approval. If she went to Gideon and he wanted nothing to do with her, she would be no worse off than she was now. And if he did…

  “Well?”

  “You’re wrong, Alexandra. He’s not this Lord Warton.” Judith squared her shoulders. “He is my Lord Warton and it’s past time I let him know.”

  Chapter 16

  “I t is a fact one cannot deny that, on occasion, the more one drinks the more lucid one becomes.” Gideon frowned at the nearly empty glass in his hand. “That only applies, of course, if one’s fondest desire is not to be the least bit lucid.”

  “I should think he’s accomplishing that,” Cavendish said under his breath.

  “No.” Norcroft studied Gideon with a practiced eye. “He’s remarkably sober. More’s the pity.”

  “It was the food,” Sinclair said, and shook his head. “We never should have allowed him anything to eat.”

  “I wasn’t even hungry,” Gideon muttered.

  “I was,” Cavendish murmured.

  “Perhaps,” Norcroft began, “as you are still coherent in spite of your best efforts—”

  “In spite of our best efforts,” Sinclair interrupted.

  Cavendish chuckled. “We are nothing if not helpful.”

  “—you would care to share with us exactly what brought about this desire of yours for oblivion.” Norcroft studied him closely. “Or do you plan to continue without pause until it is left to us to carry you home?”

  “I have no plans.” Gideon shrugged. His only plan when he had arrived at his club a few hours ago was to drink until he could no longer see Judith’s face when he closed his eyes. Or hear her voice. Or feel her touch. It would have worked quite nicely too, except one by one his friends had arrived to share in his misery or provide comfort. He wasn’t entirely sure which since he hadn’t had the slightest desire to talk about Judith or what had transpired between them. Still and all, when one’s world had shattered into a thousand pieces it was rather nice to have friends. He glanced around the circle of men. “Actually, I do have a plan.”

  Norcroft nodded. “Excellent.”

  “I plan to peruse the list of eligible young women that my aunt has compiled and I have ignored up to now, and from that choose a suitable bride.” Gideon raised a glass to his friends. “That is my plan.”

  Cavendish stared. “That’s not much of a plan in my opinion.”

  “I don’t even know his aunt and it doesn’t sound like a very good plan to me,” Sinclair said under his breath.

  Norcroft stared. “What about Lady Chester?”

  “Lady Chester is no longer my concern,” Gideon said in a lofty manner, and noted the alcohol must have had some effect. Why, the pain he felt at the mention of Judith’s name was scarcely worse than if he’d had a leg cut off or an arm torn away or his still-beating heart ripped from his chest.

  The other men exchanged wary glances.

  “That explains a great deal,” Sinclair murmured.

  “Why isn’t Lady Chester your concern?” Norcroft said slowly.

  “She doesn’t want me,” Gideon said simply.

  Cavendish frowned. “Not at all?”

  “Not even a tiny bit.” Gideon caught the attention of a waiter and gestured for a refill. “I thought she did. I thought she loved me.”

  “And?” Norcroft said.

  “She says she doesn’t.”

  Sinclair raised a brow. “She came right out and said that?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you believed her?” Cavendish asked.

  “No, but…” Gideon shook his head. “We agreed that either of us could end it whenever we wished to do and she so wishes.”

  “It’s never good when they end it,” Cavendish said in a sage manner. “Not the natural order of things.”

  Gideon shrugged. “All she wants is to remain friends.”

  Sinclair raised a brow. “And you’ve agreed to that?”

  “Not exactly.” Gideon’s voice hardened. “I have no desire to be her friend.”

  “You’re just going to let her go then?” Norcroft asked.

  “I will not pursue a woman who does not want me.” Gideon drained the last tiny drop from his glass. “I’ve done that once and once was quite enough.”

  A murmur of assent waved around the circle.

  “Unless of course,” Norcroft said thoughtfully, “you still want her.”

  “Oh, it’s an entirely different matter if you want her.” Sinclair nodded. “It wouldn’t do at all to let a woman you wanted get away.”

  Cavendish’s brow furrowed. “When we say want, what precisely are we talking about?”

  “I thought she wanted me as much as I wanted her. Now…” Gideon shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t wish to be seen as a fool and certainly don’t want to feel like a fool.”

  “Is it want in the carnal sense?” A hopeful note sounded in Cavendish’s voice.

  “I believe we’re speaking of love,” Sinclair said to Cavendish.

  Cavendish shook his head in a mournful manner. “I was afraid of that.”

  “I don’t want to make another mistake. What if I’m wrong about her feelings? What if she doesn’t love me?” Gideon’s jaw tightened. “I will not chase after a woman who does not want me.”

  “You’ve said that already.” Sinclair studied him curiously. “It’s your pride, th
en, rather than your heart that’s at stake here.”

  “Not at all.” Gideon stared at the American in annoyance. “It’s definitely my heart.”

  “Then I should think looking a fool or feeling a fool or even being a fool is worth the risk.” Sinclair paused. “If indeed your heart is involved.”

  “You should probably fight for her,” Cavendish said in an offhand manner.

  “Fight for her?” Gideon crossed his arms over his chest. “And who precisely am I supposed to fight with?”

  “You’re fighting with Lady Chester for Lady Chester of course,” Cavendish scoffed as if what he’d said actually made sense. “She says she doesn’t love you. You don’t believe her. You simply have to make her accept the truth.”

  Gideon raised a brow. “Is that all?”

  “Warton.” Norcroft leaned closer. “It seems to me if you love her…” He paused. “Do you love her?”

  Gideon huffed. “Yes.”

  “Have you told her?” Sinclair asked.

  Gideon blew a long breath. “Not exactly.”

  Cavendish snorted.

  “Well then, before you let her walk out of your life you should tell her how you feel,” Norcroft said. “It all depends on which is more important to you. Your pride or your heart.”

  “My arrogance will be my undoing,” Gideon said under his breath. Bloody hell they were right. Even Cavendish. It scarcely mattered whether he looked like a fool for chasing after a woman who didn’t want him. If she did love him and he didn’t do all in his power to keep her, that would indeed make him a fool. “You’re right,” he said slowly. “All of you.”

  Cavendish grinned. “I knew we were.”

  A throat cleared behind Gideon. He glanced over his shoulder to find a club steward with a sour expression on his face standing behind him. “Yes?”

  “My lord, we have something of a problem.” The man’s usually serene demeanor was distinctly nonplussed.

  “Yes?”

  “There is a”—the steward’s lips pressed together in a disapproving line—“lady in the foyer who insists on speaking to you at once. She says it’s urgent.”

  Judith? Gideon’s heart leaped in his chest and he stood. “Of course.”