Wicked

by Cheryl Holt

  “It’s a great breach to forge ahead, but I figured you could stagger through.”

  “I would hope so.”

  “In this house, if I waited for people to remember their manners, I’d be ninety years old before it was accomplished.” He took her hand and made a very polite, very proper bow over it. “Lucas Drake, at your service, Miss Ralston.”

  Her heart literally skipped a beat. “Lucas…Drake?”

  “Yes. Of the very lofty, very pretentious, very patronizing Sidwell Drakes. No doubt you know of us. Please say you do. If I have to tell my father, George, Lord Sidwell, that you haven’t heard of his exalted self, I can’t predict how he’ll bear up.”

  “No,” she lied. “I’m not acquainted with your family.”

  “How awful of you not to pretend.”

  “I guess I need to develop some guile.”

  “You certainly do—if you expect to swim in this ocean of sharks. You’re much too nice. You’ll be eaten alive.”

  A young lady hailed him from across the room, and he smiled at Rose again. He was such a charismatic rogue, but he was fully aware of his allure. She imagined he’d broken hearts all over the kingdom. What girl could resist such a devil?

  “The vicar has departed.” He murmured the news to Rose as if they were conspirators. “With him having left, we can start dancing.”

  “He doesn’t approve of dancing?”

  “He doesn’t approve of any frivolity, so we have to behave until he’s gone. Then the fun can begin.” He stepped away. “I promised to help move the furniture in the parlor to clear the floor. When there’s dancing, I usually play the pianoforte—I know all the bawdy songs—but you must drag me away at least once so I can be your partner.”

  “I will,” she lied again.

  His smile became even more beguiling, and he swept off. She stood, frozen in place until he vanished around the corner, then she slipped out the French windows onto the verandah and fled to the garden.

  She wasn’t sure where she was headed. Reeling with emotion, she couldn’t decide whether to be furious or humored. But why would she feel anything at all? What was Lucas Drake to her?

  Her cousin, that’s what.

  The old Lord Sidwell had been her grandfather, the man who’d disowned her mother and dumped Rose on Miss Peabody when she was four. The current Lord Sidwell was her uncle, the man who’d never contacted her, who’d never visited, who’d never invited her for a single holiday.

  Lucas Drake was so oblivious and self-centered that he didn’t note their close relation. It was outrageous. It was humiliating. It was galling.

  Had Lucas never been told about Rose’s mother who was his aunt? Had he never been told he had a cousin? If he’d been informed, had he never been apprised of Rose’s name? Did he know her name—Rose Ralston—but was so maddeningly dense that he didn’t grasp their connection?

  She was in a blind temper, marching along in the dark and angrier than she could ever recollect being. What with her having agreed to wed Mr. Oswald, she had enough on her plate. Must she deal with Lucas Drake too?

  When he’d provided his surname, she should have curtly and succinctly notified him of precisely who she was, but she’d been too stunned to speak up.

  Having discovered his identity, she would find it excruciating to socialize, and she wasn’t certain she could be civil. Rumor had it that he and Mr. Talbot were to leave shortly for London. How soon would that be?

  She rounded a corner and, to her horror, crashed into a man who was approaching from the opposite direction. She hit him so hard that she nearly knocked him down.

  “Oh, oh, pardon me,” she gasped. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”

  “You’re in quite a hurry, aren’t you?”

  “I wasn’t watching where I was going. I’m sorry,” she repeated.

  The man straightened, and he was rubbing his chest where her forehead had smacked into him. As she peered up into his face, she was vexed to see that it was James Talbot.

  He’d attended the supper, and they had studiously avoided each other through the entire ordeal, a boon for which she’d be eternally grateful. Now he’d turned up—like a bad penny—to plague her.

  “Miss Ralston”—he was grinning—“what’s the rush? Are you running away?”

  “No, I’m not running away. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “You’re just out for a leisurely stroll?”

  “Well…yes.”

  “For a moment there, you looked ready to commit murder.”

  “I was a bit…undone by a comment I heard inside.” Instantly, she realized it was a stupid admission.

  He scowled. “What comment was that?”

  “It was nothing.”

  “You can tell me. Were you insulted?”

  “No, no, don’t be silly, and don’t worry about me.” She forced a smile, struggling to appear a tad less deranged. “I’m merely a little distressed over the changes I’ve endured the past few weeks. I’m not handling all of this with much aplomb. No one could, I dare say. But…I’m fine. Really. I’m fine.”

  She was babbling, and he was staring at her with a concerned expression that was unnerving. She could barely keep from flinging herself into his arms and weeping.

  She was sad and disheartened and weary. Why was life so difficult? Why was there never any reward for effort and toil? She was a good person, with high moral standards who always tried her best.

  She’d had no part in her parents’ folly, yet she’d been punished for it every day. She’d been an unloved orphan, then a spinster schoolteacher, with Miss Peabody being the only one kind enough to offer assistance.

  A daughter of the exalted Drake family, she’d had her fortunes descend to the point where she had to wed an elderly stranger to gain some security. It was so unfair, so unjust.

  Frivolous, lazy Lucas Drake could wallow in iniquity without consequence. He could behave in any disgusting manner he pleased, then he could go home to his despised father and be welcomed back. He could do those things, but Rose had to marry Mr. Oswald.

  Suddenly, tears surged into her eyes and dripped down her cheeks. She swiped at them, but there were too many, and she couldn’t hide them.

  He was aghast. “Are you crying?”

  “No.”

  “You are! You’re crying.”

  “I told you I was distressed.”

  “You also told me you were fine. You don’t look fine.”

  “I am, though. I am.”

  She took several deep breaths, wishing the horrid encounter was over, wishing the ground would open and swallow her whole.

  “Would you excuse me?” she mumbled, and tried to skirt by him, but he put his hands on her waist, steadying her, stopping her.

  “What’s wrong?” His voice was low and seductively compassionate.

  “I’m just…unhappy,” she blurted out.

  Oh, why couldn’t she be silent? She simply needed to shut her mouth and hurry to her room where she could compose herself, then return to the party without Mr. Oswald being aware she’d been absent.

  Yet for some reason, she didn’t want to leave Mr. Talbot. When he stood so close, there was no word to describe the sensations that were stirred. She felt better with him near. She felt less alone and afraid.

  He snuggled her to his chest, and though it was recklessly inappropriate, she let him. She didn’t push him away or attempt to maintain any space between them. She wrapped her arms around his waist and held on tight.

  She might have been on a ship, riding high waves that were about to crash her onto a rocky shore. At the moment, he was the only stable port, the only safe harbor.

  It dawned on her that she couldn’t remember ever being comforted. She supposed it had happened when she was tiny, when her mother had still been alive, but it certainly hadn’t happened at Miss Peabody’s school.

  She hadn’t realized that comfort could be so appealing. He had broad shoulders, the type a troub
led woman could lean on for support. But they were in an isolated section of the garden, and her emotions were at a dangerous ebb. She gave herself a few weepy seconds to enjoy the embrace, then she eased away.

  She peeked up at him, and he was frowning, his brash, egotistical character tucked out of sight.

  “You don’t have to marry Stanley,” he vehemently whispered.

  “I want to,” she half-heartedly insisted.

  “But you don’t have to. Truly you don’t.”

  “I think I should. I think I must.”

  “I can take you into the village in the morning. The mail coach stops around ten. I’ll buy you a ticket to whatever destination you request. You don’t even have to tell him. You can just leave.”

  “Where would I go, Mr. Talbot? That’s the problem. Where would I go?”

  They stared and stared, a thousand messages swirling, and it occurred to her that she was incredibly attracted to him. She’d had such limited interactions with men, so it was difficult to recognize it for what it was, but once recognized, it was impossible to ignore.

  Was he feeling the same? Was he attracted to her as well?

  She grew wearier. It was another calamity heaped on top of meeting her cousin, of having him on the premises and reminding her of the inequities of life.

  James Talbot was handsome and virile, the sort of fellow any girl would die to marry, but Rose was marrying Mr. Oswald. Mr. Talbot would be another encumbrance to make her question her choices, to make her rue and regret. How did a woman move forward in the midst of such turmoil? How did a woman thrive under such burdens?

  “Don’t let him coerce you, Miss Ralston,” he said.

  “I’m not being coerced.”

  “Aren’t you? Just say the word, and I’ll send you away from here.”

  “There’s nowhere for me to go, Mr. Talbot. There’s nowhere for me at all.”

  She spun and ran, a foolish, wild part of her wishing he’d call her name or chase after her, but he had the good sense not to. As she slipped in a rear door, she breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn’t followed.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “May I be frank with you, Miss Ralston?”

  “I hope you always will be.”

  Rose smiled hesitantly at Mr. Oswald.

  She never quite knew how to carry on with him. His demeanor reminded her very much of Miss Peabody who’d been abrupt and blunt. She’d had little patience for folly and had been extremely quick to dish out criticism.

  The notion of being wed to a male version of Miss Peabody was dreary and depressing. Rose saw a long, miserable slog ahead.

  At least at the school, she’d had the chatter and energy of the students to break up the monotony. Here, she would have lengthy quiet interludes, interrupted by an occasional supper party or a sound scolding when she upset her husband. She’d endured plenty of them under Miss Peabody’s caustic eye, and the realization that she hadn’t escaped that tedious existence, that she might have simply substituted one for the other, was distressing and sad.

  Shouldn’t marriage be a time of new beginnings? Summerfield was so beautiful. Why couldn’t she be happy? She was such a foolish romantic and was focusing on small details when she had to focus on the bigger ones, on the magnificent estate she would be able to call her own.

  They were walking in the garden again, another day having passed where she was supposed to have toured the neighborhood. Instead, she’d hidden in her room, not having had the stomach to socialize with her cousin. And after her encounter the previous evening under the verandah with Mr. Talbot, she hadn’t known what to do.

  She still didn’t understand his relationship to Mr. Oswald, and she was terrified he might mention their meeting and confess that Rose was having second thoughts. If Mr. Talbot could engage in mischief, he seemed the type who probably would, and it would definitely be to her detriment.

  “I need to discuss an important issue with you,” Mr. Oswald was saying.

  “What is that?”

  “Before we start, you must assure me that you’ll be completely discreet. Can you be discreet? Can you promise me?”

  She didn’t like having her character questioned, but she swallowed down any comment to that effect and replied. “Of course you can count on my discretion. I view myself as a very loyal person. I would never speak out of turn.”

  “I assumed that about you, but this is such a delicate matter I had to be certain.”

  They were near a garden bench, the pretty pond stretching in front of them. He gestured for her to sit, then he stood, gazing out at the water, his posture very straight, his fingers linked behind his back.

  Clearly, he was about to reveal a very difficult topic, and she could barely keep from begging him not to. She recognized that a wife was lucky if her husband shared his concerns, but still, they were scarcely acquainted, and she was so conflicted about their arrangement.

  She needed more time to settle her mind and accept her future. If he told her a horrid secret, it would only make her path rockier.

  Finally, he spun around, and if he’d been a cheery sort of fellow, his expression might have been a smile, but she didn’t imagine he ever smiled.

  “I’m pleased with you,” he said.

  “Well…good.”

  “You’re every bit as sensible and refined as Miss Peabody claimed.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “You possess all the stellar traits that must be passed from mother to child.”

  “I like to think so.”

  “But here’s the rub.”

  He looked flummoxed, which was a surprise. She didn’t suppose he was ever out of his element.

  “What is it?” she urged after an agonizing pause.

  “I’ve brought you here under false pretenses.”

  Her spirits flagged. He didn’t like her? He didn’t want her? What?

  “You don’t wish to marry me?” she asked.

  “No, no, it’s not that. I’d be delighted to wed you. Any man would be, but I’m in a desperate situation.”

  “What situation is that?”

  “I’m old, Miss Ralston.” She was about to stroke his ego, to politely state that he wasn’t that old, but he held up a hand to stop her. “I’m seventy. There’s no need to deny it, and I have to have an heir.”

  “I realize that fact.”

  “I’ve tried for decades with too many brides—to no avail. I’ve no son to show for my intense efforts.” More grumpily, he muttered, “I couldn’t even sire a piddling daughter.”

  She scowled. “I wouldn’t consider a daughter to be piddling. I’d welcome a boy or a girl.”

  “Yes, yes, but you’re a woman. You’re expected to have a tender heart, but I’m a man, and I must have a son. I don’t have time for daughters. I don’t have time at all.”

  They struggled through another severe silence, and she said, “So what are you telling me?”

  “Are you aware of how a babe is conceived, Miss Ralston?”

  Her cheeks flushed bright crimson. “No.”

  “It’s a…physical act that’s quite simple. I’ll teach you how it’s done, and I have no doubt you’ll take to it in a thrice.”

  She’d like to ask him what the act entailed, what—precisely—would be required of her, but she had no idea how to raise the embarrassing subject. Apparently, it involved nudity and caressing of private parts, and she couldn’t envision stripping off her clothes and letting him touch her all over. The prospect left her dizzy with dismay.

  The mere mention of the topic was so disturbing that if he didn’t immediately move on, she would jump up and run back to the house. Alone.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?” she haughtily inquired.

  “Yes, actually. My point is that I can’t risk you being barren.” He shook his head. “I simply can’t.”

  “I see,” she mumbled.

  “No, you don’t, but here is what I propose as our solution.”

&n
bsp; Our solution, she caustically thought. She’d traveled to Summerfield to wed him. As far as she was concerned, naught had changed on her end of the bargain.

  “What is it, Mr. Oswald?”

  “I should like you to stay for three months.”

  At his long hesitation, she pressed, “And…?”

  “We shall do our best to get you with child, but if we can’t, I’ll return your dowry to you. We’ll claim we weren’t compatible, and you can be on your way.”

  She pondered the statement, but couldn’t make sense of it. “I’m confused.”

  “I understand.” He nodded in commiseration. “We would marry only after I plant a babe. If no impregnation occurs, you’ll be free to leave—with your dowry money in your purse.”

  “We wouldn’t marry?” She frowned. “But…we’d be having marital relations, and I’d be ruined.”

  “I would come to your bedchamber using a rear stairwell. No one would know I’d visited, so your reputation would remain spotless.”

  “I would know what we’d done.”

  He shrugged. “Yes, and I’d know too, but I’d never tell.”

  “How would we explain the delay in the wedding?”

  “We’d say we were taking our time to become better acquainted.”

  “People would wonder and gossip.”

  “Let them.”

  “It’s a sin—what you’re asking. It’s wrong. It’s morally and ethically wrong.”

  “Yes, it is, but I’m asking anyway.” He pointed to the hills in the north. “If you ride up the road, very soon, you arrive at the Scottish border. Have you ever heard of a handfasting?”

  “No.”

  “It’s an ancient Scottish custom. A couple would share their bed, usually for a year and a day. They’d try to procreate, and if they couldn’t, they’d separate.”

  “That sounds scandalous,” she scoffed, “and demeaning.”

  “The country folks still do it, so it’s not unprecedented in these parts. If you require a moral license in order to proceed, we’d merely be following local custom. What I’m suggesting has always been practiced here.”

  She studied him, assessing his stern countenance, his erect posture. He was such a cold man, so lacking in emotion and determined to have his way, and she couldn’t begin to calculate how deeply he’d just hurt her.