SLIGHTLY WICKED

by Mary Balogh

  She had had no damned business bedding with him.

  She must know the rules.

  He knew the rules.

  He pounded the edge of one fist against the windowsill and cursed between clenched teeth.

  He knew the rules, dammit all to hell. His father had raised headstrong, unruly sons who flouted convention and public opinion at every turn. He had also raised honorable sons, ones who knew the rules that could not be broken.

  He had told her he would have taken her with him even if he had known the truth about her. He would have made her his mistress, he had said. Would he have? Probably not—undoubtedly not.

  She was a gentleman’s daughter.

  Deuce take it, but she probably did not know yet if she had escaped the worst of all possible fates. She was an accomplished liar. She had probably lied about that too. She might be giving birth to his bastard child in a little less than nine months’ time.

  He pounded a fist on the windowsill once more and then turned away from the window to pace his room again, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  Finally he tore open the door and strode out into the corridor beyond without stopping to close the door behind him. Without stopping to think further.

  She was sitting where he had left her, her hands one on top of the other, palm up, in her lap, the glass of lemonade, with perhaps an inch drunk, standing on a small wrought-iron table that the footman must have drawn up beside her. She was staring toward the stream and only half turned her head when he came through the trellised arch from the terrace.

  “I have been pacing my room,” he said, “trying to convince myself that you were entirely to blame for what happened. It is simply not true. I am as much to blame.”

  Her head came about entirely then, and he found himself staring into wide, surprised green eyes.

  “What?” she said.

  “You were an innocent, inexperienced young lady,” he said. “I am far from either innocent or inexperienced. I should have known. I should have seen through the act.”

  “You are blaming yourself for what happened between us?” she asked him, sounding quite astonished. “How foolish! There is no question of blame on either side. It was something that was mutually entered into. It is over and best forgotten.”

  If only it were that easy!

  “It is not over,” he said. “I had your virginity. You are now, to put it crudely and bluntly, damaged goods, Miss Law, and you cannot be so innocent that you have not realized that fact.”

  Her cheeks flamed, her head whipped around to face front again, and she stood up abruptly.

  “What makes you think—” she began.

  “Oh, not my own observations,” he told her. “I was somewhat inebriated, both by the wine I had consumed and by your acting performances and your charms. After you had fled, the landlady explained to me why she had changed the sheets on our bed after our first night together. There was blood on the ones she removed, she was charmed to report.”

  Her back visibly flinched.

  “You are a gentlewoman, Miss Law,” he said, “though not of a socially prominent or wealthy family, it is true. You are from a class well below any from which my family or my peers would expect me to choose a bride, but my hand has been forced. Not that I blame you. I blame myself for being so blind to reality. But it is too late to regret that now. Will you do me the honor of marrying me?”

  Her back did not flinch this time. It stiffened. For several moments he thought she was not going to answer him. But she did speak eventually.

  “No,” she said, her voice quite steady and firm. And she walked away from him, down over each wide terrace, past all the roses until she came to a stop at the water’s edge.

  Perhaps he should have presented his offer with softer words, gone to stand in front of her, taken her hand in his. Instead, he had paid her the compliment of speaking the bald truth to her. She surely would have recognized falsehood from him anyway. In her guise as Claire Campbell she had struck him as an intelligent woman. He went after her.

  “Why not?” he asked her.

  “I am no one’s problem, Lord Rannulf,” she said. “I will be a salve to no one’s guilty conscience. But your guilt is unnecessary. I went with you willingly and I—I lay with you willingly. It was an experience I wished to have and decided to take when the chance offered itself. You are quite right about the reason for my coming to Harewood. There is not much likelihood that a woman in my circumstances will ever be found out as a fallen woman or damaged goods. Women like me remain spinsters all their lives. I suppose the chance of marrying after all should be tempting. I could be Lady Rannulf Bedwyn and rich beyond my dreams. But I will not be married because your hand has been forced or because it is too late to extricate yourself from the trap you perceive me to be. I would not be married because honor forces you to offer such an unequal and imprudent match. You would not feel honored if I married you but martyred.”

  “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I did not mean to imply—”

  “Oh, no,” she said, “you implied nothing. You stated it. For which of several possible reasons did you expect me to leap at your offer, Lord Rannulf? Because you are a duke’s son and enormously wealthy? Because my hopes of making any other marriage are dim indeed even if I still had my virginity ? Because propriety dictates that I must marry my seducer since he has seen fit to offer for me—though of course you did not seduce me, did you? Because you told me I would honor you by accepting? My answer is no.”

  Relief warred with incredulity and continued guilt. It was the grudging manner of his offer that had offended her. If he had asked her properly, would she have done the proper thing?

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I believed you would scorn smooth, flattering words. Allow me to—”

  “No.” She turned to face him and her eyes gazed fully into his. “It was a fleeting experience, Lord Rannulf. It was never meant to last. I was curious, my curiosity was satisfied, and I was satisfied. I had no wish to continue the liaison, and I certainly have no wish to marry you. Why should I ? I am not so innocent or so ignorant that I do not know what men of your rank are like. I had proof of it on the road, and your words today have confirmed what I already knew. You are neither innocent nor inexperienced, you said with pride. Anyone who knows what is what, you said, would understand that such behavior is to be expected of you both before and after marriage. Even if I wished for marriage to you I would not marry you. Why would I knowingly become a wife married unwillingly and left to wilt in some quiet, respectable corner while her husband carries on with his life of philandering and debauchery just as if she did not exist? I wanted you for experience, not for a husband, and I was satisfied with the experience, which I feel no desire to repeat. How fortunate for you! Now you will not have to face the scorn of your peers and the displeasure of your brother, the Duke of Bewcastle, after all. Good day to you.”

  Strangely, despite her fluent, scornful words and her barely suppressed anger and her drab, ill-fitting clothes, she was suddenly appealing to him again and he remembered the consuming sexual attraction he had felt for her during their day and a half and two nights together. Until now it had been hard to realize that she could possibly be the same woman.

  “This is your final word?” he asked her.

  “Which of the ones I have spoken do you not understand, Lord Rannulf?” she asked, still staring directly at him.

  But before he could say anything more, he became aware of someone else in the arbor. He looked up to see the same footman as before standing just inside the arch, clearing his throat. Rannulf raised his eyebrows.

  “I have been sent to summon Miss Law to the sitting room, my lord,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Rannulf said curtly. But as he turned to offer his arm to Judith Law, she hurried across the lowest terrace and up to the next, holding her skirt up with both hands and totally ignoring his very existence.

  He did not f
ollow her. He stood looking after her, heady with relief. Though why he should feel relieved he did not know. He suddenly remembered that one way or another he was going to have to marry someone this summer.

  He was feeling ruffled. And still plagued with guilt. And more than half aroused, dammit.

  Chapter VIII

  Harewood Grange was buzzing with noise and activity when the carriage set Judith and her grandmother down on the terrace. All the expected guests had arrived, they discovered. Most were already in the drawing room, taking tea with Aunt Louisa, Uncle George, and Julianne. Only a few latecomers were still in their rooms, changing their garments. Many of their numerous trunks and bags and hatboxes were still strewn about the terrace, servants and strange valets darting about to take them as quickly as possible to their relevant rooms.

  “I am far too fatigued to put in an appearance, Judith,” her grandmother said. “I feel one of my migraines coming on. But you must not miss joining the gathering. You may help me up to my room if you would be so good and then run and fetch a cup of tea for me and perhaps a little cake or two—the ones with the white icing, my love. After that you must put on a pretty dress and join Louisa and Julianne in the drawing room and be presented to all the guests.”

  Judith had no intention of doing any such thing. She spied the opportunity for her first hour of real freedom since her arrival at Harewood, and she would not squander it. She hurried to her room after Tillie had been summoned to settle Grandmama in her bed for an afternoon sleep, changed quickly into one of the few dresses that had not yet been subjected to alteration, an old lemon-colored cotton that she was attached to, threw off her cap and replaced it with her own straw bonnet, and hastened down the back stairs, which she had discovered during several errands to the kitchen in the past few days. She slipped out through the back door and found herself facing the kitchen gardens, vegetables on one side, flowers on the other. Beyond, grassy lawns stretched away to a tree-dotted hill. Judith walked toward it and then lengthened her stride, raising her face to the sun and to the light breeze, which felt good lifting the hair at her brow and her neck, which were usually covered by her cap.

  Was she quite, quite mad to have turned down a marriage proposal? From a man who was titled and wealthy? From a man with whom she had lain? Whom she found achingly attractive? With whose memory she had expected to fill every dream for the rest of her life? Marriage was every woman’s ultimate goal, her dearest hope being that marriage would bring her security and children and a tolerable measure of comfort, perhaps even companionship.

  For the past few years Judith had waited patiently to meet a man willing to marry her, someone acceptable to Papa and tolerable to herself. She had very sensibly never expected her dreams of romance to become reality. Yet today—a little more than an hour ago—she had refused Lord Rannulf Bedwyn.

  Was she mad?

  The hill was not a high one. Even so, it provided picturesque views across the surrounding countryside. From the top she could see in all four directions. The breeze was a little stronger up here. She faced into it, closed her eyes, and tipped back her head.

  No, not mad. How could she have accepted when he had not even tried to hide his resentment at being forced into offering for her? When he had made his contempt for her lowly social standing so obvious? When he had quite openly confessed that what had happened between them was no unusual occurrence for him ... and that such encounters would continue even after his marriage?

  How could she marry a man she actively despised?

  Even so, she thought, spying water below the hill on the far side and making her way down toward it, there had been some sort of reckless madness in her refusal—pride overriding common sense. Common sense now reminded her that even if marriage to Lord Rannulf had led to being hidden away in some forgotten corner while he continued with his life of philandering, it would at least have been marriage. She would have become the respected mistress of her own home.

  Instead of which she was a dependent of Uncle George, who hardly knew she existed, despised by Aunt Louisa and at her constant beck and call for endless years into the future. Only her grandmother made life tolerable for her at the moment. She gave herself a mental shake when she caught the self-pitying drift of her thoughts. There were worse fates. She could be married to a man who cared not the snap of two fingers for her and neglected her and was unfaithful to her and .. .

  Well, there were worse fates.

  The lake at the bottom of the hill was lovely and secluded. It was surrounded by long grass and wildflowers and a few trees. It looked quite neglected and was surely never used or even visited.

  Perhaps, she thought, it could become her own private little retreat in the days and months and years ahead. She kneeled on the bank and trailed a hand in the water. It was fresh and clear and not nearly as cold as she had expected. She cupped some in her hands and lowered her flushed face into it.

  She was crying, she realized suddenly. She almost never wept. But her tears were hot in contrast to the coolness of the water, and her bosom was heaving with sobs she seemed powerless to control.

  Life really was unfair at times. She had reached out just once in her life and stolen a brief and magnificent dream. She had neither expected nor demanded that it be prolonged. She had wanted only the memory of it to last her the rest of her life.

  Clearly it had been too much to ask.

  Now it was gone, all of it. The memories were sullied— all of them. Because now he knew that she was not the bright star, the flamboyant actress he had found attractive despite her physical defects. And because she now knew that he was a man to be despised.

  Yet he had just offered her marriage.

  And she had refused.

  She got to her feet and made her way back up the hill. She must not be missed. If she were, Aunt Louisa would surely make sure that she had no future chance for idleness.

  Someone, she discovered when she arrived back at the rear of the house, had locked the back door. It would not open to all her efforts and a knock drew no response. She made her way around to the front, fervently hoping that everyone was still gathered in the drawing room so that she could slip up to her room undetected.

  Two horses were being led off toward the stables as she rounded the corner to the front terrace, and a mountain of baggage was being lifted out of a baggage coach. Two gentlemen stood with their backs to Judith, one of them directing operations in impatient, imperious tones. She shrank back and would have disappeared back around the corner, but the other gentleman half turned his head so that she could see him in profile. She stared, unbelieving, and then hurried toward him, her reluctance to be seen forgotten.

  “Bran?” she cried. “Branwell?”

  Her brother turned toward her, his eyebrows raised, and then he grinned and hurried to meet her.

  “Jude?” he said. “You are here too, are you? Famous!” He swept off his hat, gathered her up into a bear hug, and kissed her cheek. “Are the others here as well? I like the bonnet— very fetching.”

  He was dressed in the very height of fashion and looked handsome and dashing indeed, his fair hair blowing in the breeze, his eager, boyish, good-looking face smiling fondly into her own. For a moment she forgot that she wanted to visit exquisite torture on every part of his body, down to the last toenail.

  “Just me,” she said. “One of us was invited, and I was the one chosen.”

  “Famous!” he said.

  “But what are you doing here, Bran?” she asked.

  Before he could answer her, the other gentleman came up to join them.

  “Well, well, well,” he said, looking her over with the sort of bold scrutiny that would have had Papa scolding her afterward if he had been here to witness it. “Present me, Law, will you?”

  “Judith,” Branwell said. “My second sister. Horace Effingham, Jude. Our stepcousin.”

  Ah, so he had come, Uncle George’s son from his first marriage. Aunt Effingham would be gratified. Jud
ith had never met him before. He was a few years older than Branwell’s twenty-one and a couple of inches shorter—he was about on a level with her own height. He was a little stockier than Bran too and darkly handsome in an almost pretty way. His smile revealed very large, very white teeth.

  “Cousin,” he said, reaching out a square, smooth hand for hers. “This is a pleasure indeed. Suddenly I am delighted that I succumbed to my stepmama’s persuasions and came to what I expected to be certain tedium. I brought your brother with me to help alleviate the boredom. I will take the liberty of calling you Judith since we are close relatives.” He carried her hand to his lips and held it there longer than was necessary.

  “Effingham is a fine fellow, Jude,” Branwell said eagerly. “He has taken me to the races and given me useful tips on picking a winner, and to Tattersall’s and advised me on how to choose the best horseflesh. He took me as a guest to White’s Club one evening and I took a turn at the tables and won three hundred guineas before losing three hundred and fifty. But still, only fifty guineas lost when other fellows around me were losing hundreds. And at White’s. You should just see it, Jude—but of course you can’t because you are a woman.”

  She had recovered from the first surprise of seeing him, and from the first delight too. Branwell, the only boy among four sisters—handsome, eager, sunny-natured Bran—had always been the darling of them all. He had gone away to school at great expense to Papa and had come home with very mediocre reports. But he had excelled on the playing fields and was everyone’s best friend. Then he had gone to Cambridge and scraped through every examination by the skin of his teeth. But he had not been interested in a career in the church or in law or in politics or the diplomatic service or the military. He did not know what he wanted to do. He needed to be in London, mingling with the right people, discovering exactly where his talents and abilities could be put to best use to earn him a fortune.

  In the year since he had come down from Cambridge, Branwell had spent everything their father had set aside for him—and then everything that had been allotted to his daughters as modest dowries. Now he was eating into the very substance of Papa’s independence. Yet he was still the darling boy, who would soon be finished sowing his wild oats and would then proceed to rebuild the family fortune. Even Papa, who was so very strict with his girls, could see no wrong in Branwell that time and experience would not mend.