Wicked

by Cheryl Holt

She moved to pick up the bag, but he was faster. He hoisted it onto his horse and latched it with the strap. She tried to skirt by him, to pull it down, but he blocked her.

  Her fury spiked. “Give me that!”

  “No.”

  “It contains everything I own. You shall not have it!”

  “I’m not keeping it. I’m helping you. Where are you headed? Into the village?”

  “My destination is none of your business. My plans are none of your business. My future is none of your business.”

  “Let’s return to the estate.”

  “Are you mad?” She sputtered with affront. “I wouldn’t go back there if hornets were chasing me.”

  “Your situation won’t seem quite so grim after a good night’s sleep.”

  “A good night’s sleep? In Mr. Oswald’s house? You are deranged.”

  “What is your other option? You don’t have any money. You told me so yourself. Will you continue on to the village? And then what?”

  “Apparently, you’re having trouble concentrating, so I must be a bit clearer with you: I am none of your business.”

  “I’m not about to let you go off half-cocked.”

  “Half-cocked? I can assure you that I have never been more lucid.”

  “It’s the middle of the night, you’re marching down a dark road without a penny in your pocket, and you deem yourself to be lucid?”

  “I have no idea of what I will do when I arrive in the village, but whatever I choose—to camp in a ditch, to sell myself into slavery, to starve to death in a cave—I swear it will be better than what I’ve just endured.”

  She glared at him, appearing aggrieved and magnificent and very, very young. His masculine instincts stirred again, and he wanted to guide and protect her, to shelter and keep her from harm. In his pitiful life, he’d never pined for much more than what he’d had. He’d been a lucky orphan, raised by a rich man, and he’d always assumed he had more than enough.

  Yet right that moment, he’d love to sweep her away and make her his own. It was a few miles to the border, and it would have been hilarious to ride off with her, to elope to Gretna Green and return to Summerfield with the riotous news that James had wed her himself.

  It would be the ultimate double cross, the ultimate betrayal. But he couldn’t do it to her or to Stanley. While Stanley had no scruples, James had some.

  He had no funds to support a wife, and Stanley—for all his treachery and spite—had provided for James in incalculable ways. So while it was amusing to consider perfidy, he simply couldn’t behave so badly.

  “He won’t let you escape,” James murmured.

  “Who won’t? Mr. Oswald? He doesn’t own me! He can’t force me to stay. I won’t stay.”

  “It’s pointless to fight him. Trust me. You might as well come home, and we’ll figure it out in the morning.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll talk to him for you. I’ll try to persuade him to give you some money to compensate you for the mess he’s made.”

  “No,” she said again, but her shoulders slumped, her rage waning.

  Tears flooded her eyes and dripped down her cheeks. She swiped at them as he reached out and rested a palm on her waist, being delighted when she didn’t slap him away.

  “Don’t cry,” he said. “Stanley isn’t worth it.”

  “Before I moved here, I had a fine life. I wasn’t wealthy or renowned, but I was at a spot where people liked me. I was relevant. I was happy there.”

  “I’m sorry for you. Truly.”

  “Then one day out of the blue, an attorney showed up to inform me that it had ended. Just like that.” She snapped her fingers at the starry sky. “I had to pack my bag and leave—for Summerfield.”

  “I’m sorry.” What else could he tell her?

  “I was nervous, but excited too. I assumed I’d have my own home and a chance to be a mother—when I’d never dreamed that could be my path.”

  “You could still have them.”

  “How? How could I have them?” She clutched a fist over her heart. “Should I shame myself? Should I engage in sin and immorality? Should I imperil my soul and be damned for eternity—merely so Mr. Oswald can thwart his brother?”

  “I don’t know a lot, Rose, but I know some things that you don’t. You wouldn’t be damned for this. Neither would I.”

  “How can you say that? Are you God now?”

  “No, but I’ve traveled the world, and I’ve seen much more of it than you. Nothing is ever black and white, and our choices are never clear cut. Sometimes you must skirt the edge of what is proper to arrive at the correct place. Sometimes you can’t get there any other way.”

  “I thought you liked me,” she suddenly hurled.

  “I did like you. I do like you.”

  “When you were sneaking into my bedchamber and kissing me in the garden, I thought you were thrilled to be with me. I thought we shared an affinity.”

  “Yes, it’s very strong.”

  “Don’t lie to me!” she bellowed.

  “I’m not lying.” He clasped her waist and gave her a slight shake.

  “You were buttering me up—for Mr. Oswald. You were ingratiating yourself, so I’d let you seduce me, so I wouldn’t protest your arrangement with him.”

  “That’s not true,” he insisted, and it wasn’t.

  He was fascinated by her. Stanley and his sordid scheme were totally separate from James’s interest, and he was cursing his deal with Stanley, but he wouldn’t apologize for it.

  He owed Stanley for all the boons in his life, boons that Stanley had extended without expecting or demanding repayment. Stanley’s request regarding Rose was the only time he’d asked James for a favor in return, and James hadn’t been able to refuse. He hadn’t wanted to refuse, and despite what Rose presumed, a physical relationship between them would be wonderful.

  He was an experienced lover who could arouse a woman, who could please a woman, and he could please Rose—if she would allow him to. The trick was to convince her that Stanley’s plan was for the best.

  James had a male opinion of sexual conduct. He was pragmatic and saw it as a means to an end. In the past, he’d exchanged plenty of money in order to engage in carnal acts, and he didn’t view Rose’s situation as being any different from that of other females with whom he’d consorted over the years.

  Stanley was proposing a sensible business agreement. She would offer up her chastity, and if James could plant a babe in her womb, she would be handsomely rewarded. Why should it matter if it was James or Stanley who did the planting?

  No one outside the three of them would ever know what had happened, and the final result would be the same: marriage and a home and family for Rose, the inheritance secured for Stanley’s child.

  And for James? He’d have the private satisfaction of his son growing up to be lord and master at Summerfield. James didn’t intend to ever wed or have sons of his own, so his child with Rose would attain a position in the world that James could never have hoped to provide.

  “I believed I could belong here,” she woefully mumbled.

  “You can belong. You will belong.”

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  She started to cry in earnest, and he couldn’t bear to see her so sad. He pulled her into his arms and held her as she wept. He’d never previously comforted a distraught woman and hadn’t understood that it would be so pleasurable. While he stroked a soothing hand up and down her back, she gripped his coat as if—should he release her—she might float off into the sky.

  Eventually, the tempest was spent, and she collapsed against him.

  “Let’s go home,” he whispered.

  “I can’t.”

  “You can,” he advised. “A bit ago, you told me that you don’t know what to do. I’ll decide for you.”

  “It’s wrong,” she moaned. “It’s all wrong.”

  “But we’ll make it right.”

  He lifted her, in a quick move seatin
g her on the saddle. He wrapped her fingers in the horse’s mane.

  “Hold on,” he said. “We’ll have you snuggled in your bed in no time at all.”

  She stared down from her high perch, and she was such a lonely sight, silhouetted by the silvery moon.

  His heart lurched in his chest, an enormous ache of yearning bubbling up from somewhere deep inside. He tamped it down, grabbed the reins, and headed for the estate.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Let’s walk in the garden.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Veronica peeked up at James, aggravated that he’d scarcely noticed her.

  They were in the main parlor at Summerfield, with her popping in announced. Stanley was nowhere to be found, so Veronica had James all to herself. When she’d arrived, she’d told the servants to bring tea and cakes, acting as if she was mistress of the manor. James had stumbled in shortly after, so now she was entertaining him.

  Life could be so wonderful!

  “How about a ride then?” she suggested. “It’s beautiful outside.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Spoilsport. We used to ride together all the time.”

  “We did not,” he scoffed.

  “We did! Our trips are some of my favorite memories. You can’t have forgotten. I’ll be crushed if you have.”

  He was telling the truth, and she wasn’t. There had been a tiny handful of occasions—when she was ten and eleven—where James had humored her by trotting down the lane at her side. A groomsman was always a few yards behind, watching her every move and reporting back to Oscar, so there’d never been a chance to engage in any misbehavior.

  At that early age, she wouldn’t have known misbehavior if she’d tripped over it, but it was during those chance meetings that her path had become clear: She would marry James Talbot when she grew up.

  Whenever he was home on furlough, he’d still been in the army, so he’d pranced around the estate in his red soldier’s coat. When he wore it, she was quite sure there couldn’t have been a more attractive man in the entire kingdom.

  She’d spent long hours imagining their wedding to the point where she’d decided who would be on the guest list, what gown she’d don for the ceremony, and what food would be served at the breakfast. But if she couldn’t ever convince him to be alone with her, how would she achieve her ultimate goal?

  “Then let’s play cards,” she said.

  “No.”

  “Oh, you are such a maddening grump today.”

  “Tell me again: Why are you here?”

  “I’ve come to visit Miss Ralston.”

  “I don’t believe she’s having callers.”

  “That can’t be right,” Veronica baldly lied. “She specifically asked me to stop by at two o’clock.”

  “It appears she changed her mind.”

  Veronica smirked. “Does she seem like a fusspot to you?”

  “No. Why would you pose such a ridiculous question?”

  “She’s slated to wed Stanley, but she’s not very happy about it.”

  “She seems plenty happy to me.”

  “You must be joking. Stanley has had to order her to attend every party he’s hosted, and she looks so miserable she could be sucking on sour pickles. Then she sneaks out the instant no one is watching.”

  He glared at her. “It occurs to me that you’re much too worried about Miss Ralston. She’s none of your business.”

  “Not my business!” Veronica huffed. “You’re joking again. If she marries Stanley, she’ll be my aunt. She’ll live in the house and direct the activities. She’ll have all sorts of influence over me.”

  “Good,” he muttered. “Your mother passed away years ago. You could use some feminine guidance.”

  “I’m ready to wed,” she boldly announced. “I’m eighteen, and I’m weary of Papa Oscar lording himself over me.”

  “I was raised under Stanley’s thumb, so I can understand the feeling.”

  “I merely have to find someone who tickles my fancy.”

  “You’d trust Oscar to pick a husband for you?”

  “No. I’ll pick him myself.”

  “Really? Would you elope?”

  She straightened on the sofa, eager for him to note how pretty she was in her lavender dress. It highlighted the violet color of her eyes, making her appear exotic and unusual. He might have traveled the world in the army, but he’d not have seen any female as fetching as she was.

  “I’m not a child anymore.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Who can predict how I’ll behave?”

  “Not me.”

  “I might do any wild thing—if the right person asked me.”

  “I’m sure that’s true.”

  She frowned, trying to decide if she’d just been insulted, and she was irked by the notion. Why was it that men could act outrageously? Why was it that girls’ conduct was circumscribed by morals and convention? It was so unfair.

  “I’d like to live in London,” she said.

  “Wouldn’t we all?”

  “I’d like to be a grand hostess with a thousand friends. I’d hold thrilling parties and surround myself with interesting people.”

  She’d tossed out a few of her private dreams, anxious to give him a hint of the spectacular path she envisioned for them, but he simply said, “Yes, Veronica, I’m certain you’ll have a thousand friends in London someday.” He stood and motioned to the door. “Shouldn’t you be going? Oscar has to be wondering where you are.”

  “I’m waiting for Miss Ralston. If she comes down, and I’m not here, she’ll be disappointed.”

  “She’ll get over it.”

  “Yes, well, that’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one who just moved to a new place and is learning her way. She needs me.”

  “I’ll tell her you called.”

  He walked over to the sofa, took her arm, and lifted her to her feet as if he might drag her out. She wasn’t about to embarrass herself by wrestling with him.

  “Yes, please tell her I was here,” she agreed, mustering her aplomb, “and that I’ll visit tomorrow at the same time.”

  “She’ll be delighted.”

  He gestured to the door again, his implacable glower urging her out. While she could typically coerce men to dote on her, he seemed immune.

  “It was lovely,” she told him, “having this opportunity to chat with you.”

  “Goodbye,” he said, refusing to bestow the flirtatious response she’d been dying to receive.

  She hesitated another second, struggling to figure out an excuse to linger, but she couldn’t devise a suitable scenario.

  She flashed her most winsome smile, then flounced out. She yearned to glance around to see if he was watching, but she didn’t dare.

  The butler was in the foyer with her cloak and bonnet—as if he’d been eavesdropping and had known she’d been thrown out. She offered more smiles, then left.

  As the door was closed behind her, she dawdled on the front steps, enjoying the prominent view of the bricked drive and wishing the house was hers. Eventually, she stomped down the stairs and proceeded to the stables, but she wasn’t in any hurry to have her horse saddled or to start for home.

  To her surprise, Lucas Drake was headed to the stables too, and her smile widened to a grin. James had been rude and irritable, but Mr. Drake never was. Perhaps he’d like to go for the ride that James had declined. Perhaps he would like to pass the afternoon with a very pretty, very popular girl.

  If they spent a few hours together, who could guess what might transpire?

  * * * *

  “There’s a secluded spot by the pond. Shall we stop?”

  “We probably shouldn’t.”

  “I declare, you’re as stuffy as James.”

  “Me! Stuffy?”

  Lucas feigned indignation and laughed at Veronica. As he was leaving for the village, she’d magically appeared. She’d asked him to escort her to the vicarage, b
ut James had warned him to be wary.

  Not that a bit of danger had ever prevented him from engaging in folly. But still, he’d rather not tussle with Vicar Oswald. And if Lucas did misbehave and was caught, Stanley would ban him from Summerfield, which Lucas would hate to have happen.

  Over the years, he’d been at the estate constantly—when he was at odds with his own father. In many ways, Summerfield was more his home than his family’s seat at Sidwell. Stanley had always been more welcoming too, and that was really saying something.

  Plus, now that he and James had mustered out of the army, Lucas didn’t know what would become of them. They were both at loose ends. Who could predict where they’d be in another month? In another year?

  If James stayed on at Summerfield, Lucas wanted to be able to stay on too, so he couldn’t risk getting tossed out. Especially not over a slattern like Veronica.

  Yet it was humorous to envision the mischief he could instigate. He’d never been interested in morals or decency, and when a female was begging for trouble, he was happy to oblige.

  “When do you have to be back?” he inquired.

  “Not for hours.”

  “You won’t be missed if you tarry?”

  “No. Papa Oscar believes I’m visiting Miss Ralston.”

  Her pronunciation of Papa reminded him of how young she was. Then again, plenty of girls her age were wed already and had several babes in the nursery. Wise parents usually married off the wild ones before they could commit too many sins.

  Veronica was on the verge of a major scandal. If her mother had still been alive, there’d have been a responsible adult to guide her. But there was only the vicar, and he was blind to anyone but himself.

  “I suppose we could stop by the pond for a bit,” he said.

  “Truly?” She beamed with pleasure.

  “Yes. Show me your secret spot.”

  She kicked her horse into a trot, went up the road, then reined in and turned off. He followed, ecstatic to note that they were instantly swallowed by the forest, the thick foliage rendering them invisible and hiding them from passersby.

  They emerged to a flat, shady bower. A narrow beach beckoned for him to remove his boots and wade in the cool water. Through the trees, he could see the chimneys of Summerfield Manor.