Chapter 6
Exhaustion slowed Kit’s progress as she made her way toward Rosedale Hall. It wasn’t simply that which bogged down her steps and had her trudging along the path. Dread and fear also contributed to her lack of enthusiasm in making the short journey. It was not aided by the very small amount of sleep she’d gotten the night before. While the good people of Lofton did keep country hours, they were still out well past ten at night, which was hours after she would normally have been in bed. Of course, she’d still been expected to be up before the crack of dawn to see to her cousin’s breakfast. The cook prepared it, but she wouldn’t allow the maids to serve it. No, Patrice demanded that Kit serve her breakfast in bed every morning. She treated Kit as her own personal servant, never letting an opportunity pass to remind Kit of just how far she’d fallen.
Of course, there were other things pressing on her, as well. Joseph had been horribly upset when she’d refused to let him accompany her. But the last thing she needed was for Lord High and Mighty Hadley to get a look at her brother and realize that it was he who had actually thrown a stone through the window. If he suspected it—well, he could threaten her all he liked, and she’d simply brazen it out. But Joseph was her Achilles’ heel, and until she understood precisely what the newly named peer was about, she’d keep that vulnerability well concealed.
Stepping from the shelter of the trees that grew heavily along the path she and Joseph had worn through the woods during their many sojourns to Rosedale Hall, Kit paused to collect herself. She didn’t know what he wanted though she certainly had her suspicions. And whatever people might say of her, she had no intention of letting him take advantage of her. To that end, she’d borrowed a knife from the kitchen before making her escape from her cousin’s home. Stabbing a man was certainly a mess she wished to avoid, but if it came to it, she’d do it. It wouldn’t be the first time since her reputation had been ripped to shreds that she would have fend off unwelcome advances.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, she pushed onward, walking toward the dark and foreboding shape of the manor house. With the windows now free of boards, it should have looked less ominous. Somehow it didn’t. In fact, it felt very much as if someone was watching her. Looking up, her eyes scanned the upper floors until she paused on one particular window. A dark shape was silhouetted against the glass. She couldn’t make out anything specific of the figure, but she had the sense that it was not Lord Hadley. Even as she thought it, the door opened and he stepped out. She glanced at him and then back to the window, but the dark figure was gone.
A shiver raced up her spine, a sense of dread settling in its wake. The whispers and rumors about Rosedale Hall and the dark events that had occurred within its walls. What sort of man could live there? Was he aware of what was said about the house, of what had occurred there? Did he have any sense of unease residing in such a place? She had more questions than answers and was left with the alarming realization that only he could provide answers.
“You came after all,” he said. “I had begun to wonder.”
“I keep my word, Lord Hadley,” she replied stiffly. “I told you I’d be here and here I am.”
He dipped his head in acknowledgement, but the gesture did not succeed in hiding his grin. “So you did, Miss Wexford. Come inside and we will discuss your restitution.”
Malcolm stepped aside and allowed her to enter the house before him. He didn’t miss the shiver that racked her gently curved shoulders as she crossed the threshold. Was it fear of him or fear of Rosedale Hall? It didn’t matter. Whether it was him or the house, she’d have to become accustomed to both.
Following her inside, he watched as she scanned the interior of the house. Peeling paint and wallpaper, dust and cobwebs covering every surface, even the Holland covers that had draped every piece of furniture in the house had not fully protected them from the dust. Lytton had attempted to hire local servants and failed. They’d sent to an agency in London but no one had arrived yet.
“It needs a bit of work,” he said.
“A bit,” she agreed. “Is this my restitution, then? To dust every infernal inch of this mausoleum?”
“No, that is not your restitution, Miss Wexford. But if you desire to spend your afternoon sweeping down cobwebs, I will see what I can do about procuring a broom for you.” The reply was offered slyly, with humor, but she was not amused.
“I’m a servant in one house already, my lord. I’ve no wish to take on work in another,” she answered. “I have very little money. Certainly not enough to pay for the window, but that is all I mean to give you, Lord Hadley. If you had anything else in mind, you will be sorely disappointed.”
Malcolm crossed his arms over his chest as they stood there in the dust shrouded foyer of his home. She was dressed in her worn pelisse again and the same drab, frayed dress she’d worn the day he’d chased her through the woods. Her hair was disheveled and a glance at her hands, unprotected from the cold by any gloves, offered proof of just how hard she worked. They were not the soft hands of a lady anymore. They were callused and worn from scrubbing floors and whatever else her hag of a cousin made her do.
“You think very poorly of me, Miss Wexford. Or is that you think very poorly of all men?”
“I have little enough reason to think well of them,” came her bitter reply.
While he didn’t know the particulars of her situation and the reports of her past were colored to cast her in a dark light, he had little doubt that she’d been sorely used and borne the brunt of someone else’s misdeeds. As much as he enjoyed needling her, the flash of fire in her eyes and the bite of her words providing more entertainment than he’d had in sometime, it was time to get to the heart of the matter. “My intentions toward you, Miss Wexford, are completely honorable, if somewhat unorthodox.”
She arched one ebony brow in an imperious fashion. “Unorthodox… I have no time for games, Lord Hadley. State your business and leave off with the dramatics, if you please.”
“You need to escape your harridan of a cousin, but due to your current financial straits, you cannot. And because of your reputation and the wild rumors that circulate about you, the avenues of escape typically open to women, or at the very least the honorable ones, are no longer available to you.”
She whirled away from him and walked toward a marquetry console that rested beneath a broken mirror. With her finger, she traced a delicate pattern in the dust gathered there. “You seem to have a remarkable skill for the stating the obvious, my lord.”
Malcolm moved toward her, stopping only when he could place his hand over hers on the table, stilling her movements. He heard her indrawn breath, felt her body stiffen with wariness at his closeness. When he spoke, his voice was pitched low, and there was a warning in it as well as a promise. “I am not like these men you know, Miss Wexford. I come from a wilder place, a place where one has to work to survive. Reputations and gossip mean little to me… what does mean something to me is keeping this house from falling down about my ears. For that I need money, and to get money, I must obtain a wife. That is your restitution.”
“To find you a bride?” she demanded, her voice quivering slightly. “Surely you would do better to find a matchmaker with whom reputable ladies will actually speak, my lord.”
“Not as a matchmaker, Miss Wexford. You will be my bride.” He said it gently, but there was steel in his voice. She would not deny him, of that he was determined. But her response was one he could not have anticipated. A bitter laugh escaped her, fading into peals of giggles.
“You’re insane,” she finally managed to say, albeit breathlessly. “Living in this drafty old house has addled your wits!”
“On the contrary,” he said. “My wits are perfectly clear. The will and trustees specified that I must wed a woman of good family with connections to the area. Your father was a baronet. Your mother was the daughter of a baron. Her family goes back generations here; your cousin, Mrs. Hampton, who is above reproach, still resides in
the area and you with her. You meet all of the requirements.”
“But one… I am of good family, but not of good name. Surely the trustees would protest?”
He shrugged. “They did not specify good name. There are two women in this village who meet their requirements. Of the two, you are certainly the most pleasing to look upon.”
Kit shook her head while favoring him with a baleful stare. “But I am also a horrible person… a vile seducer, a betrayer of friends, a woman of loose morals.”
Malcolm grinned wolfishly. “Some of my best evenings have been spent in the company of such women. That is hardly an obstacle.”
Chapter 7
Kit couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t even think. He was a stranger to her and she had no inkling of just what kind of man he was. But he offered her something that no one else would dare—a single chance to regain her social standing, to repair her tattered reputation. Of course there was more to consider than just herself.
“I have a brother,” she said.
“Should I be asking his permission, then?” Lord Hadley responded sardonically.
“A much younger brother,” she corrected. “I would not leave him behind.”
“I would not ask you to. There is adequate room for him here, or if he is of an age and you wish it, he may go to school… I understand that’s an important part of the social development of gentlemen in this country.”
Could it be that easy? There had to be some sort of catch, she thought. Given her history with luck which bore no little similarity to a Greek tragedy she knew there had to be. “What would you expect of me?” she asked.
“I would expect for you to be my wife,” he answered. “And all that typically entails… Managing my home, entertaining our guests should any ever dare to darken this door, and welcoming me into your bed.”
Naturally. He would expect that, she thought. “Would you consider a marriage in name only?”
“To that horse faced chit in the village? Most assuredly. To you? Not in a million years.”
Kit moved away from him again. He stood too close, close enough that she could feel the weight of his presence, feel the heat that emanated from him. It was unsettling. She didn’t fear him, she realized. But neither did she trust him completely. Still, she needed the room, the space, to gather her thoughts.
“I can’t think with you hovering,” she stated.
His lips once again curved upwards in a grin as he cocked one eyebrow in amusement at her. “That’s a good sign… I’d hoped I’d be able to addle your wits. I thought it would take an actual kiss, but apparently I simply need to stand within a reasonable vicinity. How promising!”
“This is not a jest, Lord Hadley. This is my life we’re discussing. I know nothing of you. You are a stranger here and yet if I marry you, as you’ve suggested, I become your property… It’s hardly a matter to be taken lightly.”
He’d leaned nonchalantly against the peeling paper that curled away from the wall. But at her words, he rose and walked toward her. No. Not walked. He stalked, like a predator. It was not the first time she’d compared him to one, and it would undoubtedly not be the last. There was a quicksilver quality to him, that he could be jesting and jovial one moment and seem so utterly overwhelming and powerful in the next.
He stopped, only an arm’s length from her. A long shadow fell, obscuring his face, but even in the depths of it, she could see his glittering gaze. It pinned her to the spot.
“It most assuredly is not a jest, Miss Wexford. I mean every word that I have said to you here today… and the next thing I say to you will be my solemn vow. I mean you no harm. I will not hurt you, nor will I allow anyone else to do so. If you become my wife, you will have all the protection that I can provide and a kind of comfort that you have not known in a very long time.”
It was tempting. Incredibly tempting given just how miserable her cousin was trying to make her. For herself, she could tolerate it. But the simple fact remained that her lowered social status was impacting her brother. Every fight he got into with other children in the village was the direct result of his attempts to defend her. Patrice was no kinder to him than to her. His education was suffering, his language was becoming rougher and more like the servants he spent so much time with rather than like the gentleman he was supposed to be raised to be. But there remained one very significant obstacle even if she did agree. Patrice would not necessarily have to give her consent, but if she opposed the match, life could get very difficult.
“You’ll need to speak to my cousin,” Kit offered in a rush. “You’ll have to obtain her consent.”
“I take that to mean I have yours, then?” he queried.
“It is foolish beyond measure, but I—,” she broke off, questioning the wisdom of admitting her current situation to him.
“But?”
“I can’t stay there anymore,” she admitted. “It isn’t the work, you understand. I could survive scrubbing floors and cleaning hearths from dawn to dusk. It’s the insults, the snide remarks and the constant reminders that I am not now who I once was in the eyes of the world.”
He cocked his head to one side as if he was considering his answer carefully. When he spoke again, his tone was gentler than she would have expected. “Others do not dictate who you are, Miss Wexford, only how they choose to see you. If they elect to be small and mean then it is surely no reflection on you.”
Kit shook her head. “I do not understand you at all, Lord Hadley.”
He shrugged. “You will have ample time to make sense of me in the future, Miss Wexford. You should return home. I will come tomorrow morning and speak with your cousin.”
Kit started to reply but a door slammed loudly upstairs, so forcefully that the windows rattled in their frames. “What was that?”
“A ghost, Miss Wexford—apparently Rosedale Hall is full of them.”
Her eyes widened. “You can’t possibly be serious!”
A loud creaking noise from above the stairs preceded his answer. “I assure you that there are some things I would not jest about… and the presence of spirits in this house is one of them. It’s a matter I take very seriously.”
“And you just tolerate this?” she demanded.
“What else would I do? The dead cannot harm us, Miss Wexford. It’s the living we must be on guard against… I will see you tomorrow.”
Malcolm watched her from the windows as she left Rosedale Hall and headed for the path through the woods. It would have been the gentlemanly thing to do to offer to accompany her or even to see her home in the small curricle that he’d obtained since arriving in Lofton. But until he’d secured her cousin’s consent and the banns were posted, they could not be seen together. It would only create difficulty for her.
Another door slammed above stairs.
“Jealous bitch,” he muttered. He didn’t know why he assumed the spirit, if in fact it was a spirit, haunting Rosedale Hall was female, only that it plagued him incessantly. That was reason enough to assign such a gender. The activity in the house was growing in both frequency and intensity. Dark shadows that seemed to shift and move of their own volition, that had a depth and presence that could not be explained were among the most disturbing events to occur. Objects would move of their own accord, and strange whispers would emanate from uninhabited rooms. But there was naught to do for it at that moment. He had more pressing matters to attend to.
He had much to do the following day. He’d need to ride into Birmingham and confer with Mr. Mooney about his choice of bride. Then he’d have to return to Lofton and call upon Mrs. Patrice Hampton to secure her permission for his betrothal to Katherine. And afterward, he’d pay a visit to the vicar and find out what he could about the unfortunate events that had unfolded within the walls of Rosedale Hall. He’d never put much stock in tales of ghosts and hauntings before, but he could only imagine that if the spirit lingered after death, there would have to be a reason. What would motivate the dead?
Kit
slipped in through the kitchen entrance. She managed to avoid being seen by any of the servants and tiptoed quietly up the stairs to her room. He’d given her no reason not to trust him, not to believe that everything he’d spoken to her was truth. But she’d learned the hard way that men often said things they did not mean. If he was truly a man of honor and if his offer was legitimate, it would solve every problem she currently faced. Of course, she wasn’t foolish enough to think it wouldn’t create a tangled mess of new ones.
Once in the safety of her room, she found Joseph asleep on his small cot in the corner. His clothes were dirty and it was clear he’d worked harder than a boy should have to. She could see angry red blisters on his hands from where he’d been forced to muck out stalls in the stables. Whether she could safely trust her newly betrothed or not, he was the only hope she had for herself and her brother.
The door opened and Vera slipped inside. Kit pointed toward the sleeping boy and motioned for quiet.
“What did he want?” Vera asked in a low and clearly worried whisper.
There was no other way to say it than to simply blurt it out. “He wants to marry me.”
A high pitched squeal began to emit from the other woman, but Kit slapped her hand over Vera’s mouth quickly. “Hush!”
“I’m sorry!” Vera offered in a muffled hiss before pushing Kit’s hand away. “But you can’t be serious! He asked you to marry him?”
Kit shrugged. She was still baffled by it all herself. “It has something to do with the terms of his inheritance. He has to marry a woman with connections to Lofton and of a genteel background. Apparently, even with my tattered reputation, I still meet the basic requirements!”
Vera moved toward the bed and sat down. It was probably the first time the poor woman had been off her feet all day, Kit thought. She spent plenty of days just like that herself.
“Will you go to London, then?” Vera asked. “I would. I’d leave this place as far behind as possible.”
A Heart So Wicked (The Dark Regency Series Book 6) Page 5