Wicked

by Cheryl Holt

  Rose jerked the letter from Evangeline and read it herself. Her jaw dropped. “Oh, no. This can’t be right.”

  “Isn’t he a libertine and wastrel?”

  “You have no idea.”

  “What should we do?”

  “Well, for starters, she’s absolutely not marrying him.” Rose hung her cloak on a hook by the door, then dashed up the stairs. “I’ll write immediately to warn her.”

  “Then what? By the time you contact her, we won’t be here. If she refuses him, where would she go?”

  “I don’t know—as I don’t know for myself—but I have to at least try to stop her.”

  Rose hurried on, her temper spiking as she thought about Miss Peabody and her interference in their lives. How dare Miss Peabody play God! How dare she endanger Rose and Amelia! And what was Rose to think about Evangeline? She couldn’t possibly be riding off to a good ending.

  Disgusted, incensed, she was muttering to herself as she marched into her room.

  It bore no resemblance to her lavish suite at Summerfield. There was no inner bedchamber with a huge bed, no dressing room beyond, filled with plush towels and a silver bathing tub.

  There was just the one room—it could have been a nun’s lonely cell—a narrow cot along the wall, a writing desk in the corner. The sole window looked out at the rolling hills that led to the village.

  Yet even with her entering such a tiny space, she wasn’t paying attention.

  “Hello, Rose,” a male voice said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  She whipped around to see Mr. Talbot seated in the chair at her desk. Apparently, he’d brazenly sneaked in as he used to at Summerfield.

  If she suffered a race in her pulse, if she suffered a giddy moment of joy at realizing that he’d come for her, she ignored it and gave free rein to her unbridled fury.

  He was slouched down, his fingers folded over his flat stomach, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He appeared handsome and lazy and pompously exasperating—as if he had every right to show his face, to bluster in without notice or permission.

  This wasn’t Stanley Oswald’s house of decadent disrepute. This was a renowned, respectable girl’s school, and she was a renowned, respectable teacher.

  “What are you doing in my room?” she raged.

  “I thought we should chat.”

  “Chat?” She was so angry, she worried she might faint.

  “Yes, you were in such a rush to leave Summerfield. We didn’t finish our conversation.”

  “Oh, we finished plenty.”

  “I beg to disagree.”

  “Get out!” She yanked open the door and made a shooing motion toward the hall, but of course, he didn’t budge.

  He was an obstinate, annoying man who behaved however he pleased and be damned to everyone else.

  “Get out!” she repeated.

  “No.”

  She hollered for Evangeline, but no footsteps hastened in her direction. She called for the gardener, for the maid, the cook, Evangeline again.

  “This place is deserted.” He was very smug. “No servant will run to your rescue.”

  “I don’t need any help. I’m completely capable of stamping out vermin on my own.”

  “Vermin!”

  He pushed himself to his feet, rising slowly to his full height. She’d forgotten how tall he was, and in an instant, he towered over her. He laid a palm on the wood of the door and shoved it closed.

  It had a lock, and the key was in it. Before she saw what he meant to do, he spun the key and dropped it in his pocket.

  “Give me that.”

  “No.”

  “Give it to me!” she bellowed, and it occurred to her that she probably sounded like a lunatic. But when she was around James Talbot, such demonstrations of madness couldn’t be avoided. He inspired that sort of derangement.

  She pounded on the door and kept on pounding until her fist grew sore, but no one arrived to assist her.

  “Where is everyone?” she fumed. “Did you bribe them to disappear?”

  “Yes, actually.” He grinned and waved to the chair. “Sit down, Rose.”

  “No.”

  “I insist.”

  “As do I. I don’t want you in here, and I won’t blithely submit to any of your ridiculous orders.”

  “I won’t let you out until you calm yourself and listen to me.”

  “You might as well choke on a crow as persuade me to listen.”

  “When you were at Summerfield, I occasionally witnessed this side of you. Have you always had a temper?”

  “I’ve never had an irate moment in my life—until I met you.”

  “I’m sure that’s true. I’ve frequently been told that I can be vexing.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “Would you like to hear how I’ve occupied my time since you left Summerfield?”

  “No.”

  “I’m going to tell you anyway.”

  “Is there some reason you think I care?” She gestured to the locked door. “Shouldn’t you head home? Won’t your darling Veronica be wondering where you are?”

  “See?” He wagged a scolding finger in her face. “That’s exactly the type of idiotic comment that proves why we need to have a long, frank talk.”

  “What? You don’t like me mentioning your beloved? Aren’t there wedding bells in your future? Have you come to stick in the knife? To twist it a bit?”

  She was exhibiting an enormous amount of rage, but deep down, she wasn’t incensed. She was heartbroken.

  The past few weeks, she’d been able to rationally appraise her situation, admit to her mistakes, and begin to move on. It hadn’t been easy, but it had had to be done. Yet now, with him blustering into her small bedroom, she couldn’t breathe. Regret was devouring her like a sea monster.

  She wanted to grab him by the lapels of his coat, to shake him and say, How could you hurt me? But she didn’t know how to have that discussion.

  “First of all,” he said, “she was never more to me than Vicar Oswald’s spoiled, fussy stepdaughter.”

  “A likely story! After you slinked away to London, Mr. Oswald told me everything.”

  “He did, did he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, guess what?”

  “What?”

  “Your cousin, Lucas Drake, told me a few things too. Interesting how you never revealed a kinship with him.”

  “Why would I confess a relationship with a complete wretch?”

  “Point taken, Miss Ralston, but be that as it may, Lucas shared some tidbits that he learned while you were slinking off to this decrepit old school.”

  “Me! Slinking off!” She grumbled low in her throat. “I promised my cousin if I ever saw you again, I’d shoot you. Too bad for me that he took his pistol with him.”

  “But not too bad for me—for I refuse to be blamed for sins I didn’t commit.”

  “You’re the innocent party, are you?”

  “Absolutely.” He motioned crossly to the chair. “Sit down, Miss Ralston!”

  “I prefer to stand.”

  “Are you always this obstinate?”

  “Are you?”

  He reached into his coat and pulled out a letter. He waved it under her nose. “Since you’re so thoroughly convinced you know all, read this, then—if you still wish to ride your high horse—you can harangue at me a tad more.”

  She tore the letter from his hand and scanned it, assuming she’d quickly peruse it, then toss it back, but as the meaning dawned, she slowed to a halt.

  “This was written by Veronica Oswald,” she mumbled.

  “Yes. To her stepfather.”

  “She’s run off with a traveling peddler,” she muttered like a dunce.

  “Yes.”

  “She says she’s blissfully happy, and he shouldn’t try to find her.”

  “And I might add, it’s precisely the sort of end Stanley and I predicted for her. I wouldn’t have touche
d that girl with a ten-foot pole.”

  She scowled, her mind whirring as she struggled to decipher what she was supposed to glean from the information.

  “Mr. Oswald told me,” she hesitantly started, “that you were sweet on her. He told me you’d seduced her.”

  “I don’t fault you for believing him. He’s an accomplished liar.”

  “He begged me to be quiet about when you’d left the manor so he could thwart the vicar on your behalf.”

  “Yes. He was also desperately anxious for me to leave Summerfield, and like the silliest fool in the world, I let him pressure me into going.”

  “Why would he want you to leave?”

  “For some reason, he got the idea that I was sweet on you. Not Veronica. You.”

  “Where would he get an idea like that?”

  “How would I know? But he was afraid you might elope with me and refuse to give him what he’s craved forever.”

  Her scowl deepened, her confusion growing. Mr. Oswald yearned for a child, an heir, but in order for him to obtain his heart’s desire, Rose would have to be increasing.

  “How are you feeling, Rose?” James inquired.

  “Fine.”

  “That’s not what I heard.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean your cousin spent several days traveling with you.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “He claims you suffered dizzy spells the whole trip.”

  “So…?”

  “I’m not an expert on female bodily conditions, but I am aware that one of the first signs to appear when a woman is carrying a child is for said woman to be constantly overcome by dizziness.”

  “I’ve just been tired,” she insisted, a horrid inkling creeping over her.

  It was more than the vertigo. Her breasts ached, she was frequently nauseous—especially in the mornings—and she felt different, as if she possessed a new and exciting secret.

  “Tired? Really?” he smirked. “Is that what you presume is happening?”

  “Yes. I’m exhausted by you and Mr. Oswald. Who wouldn’t be worn down by what I’ve endured?”

  “Who wouldn’t indeed?”

  She glared up at him, hating his smug expression, his handsome face.

  She’d loved him so much that there had been days she couldn’t breathe with being so happy. She’d pinned her hopes on him, had staked her future, had ruined herself with the foolish belief they’d be together forever.

  All of that jumbled sentiment was still roiling her, and she kept trying to convince herself that time was the cure she required, yet she hadn’t been granted any time. She’d barely left Summerfield, and he was already here, destroying her equanimity, stirring up every raw, bald emotion that had to remain buried.

  The dizziness he’d mentioned raised its ugly head. It always came on so suddenly. She swayed to one side, then the other, and he clasped her arm and eased her down into the chair.

  “You claim you don’t need anything from me, Rose, but there seems to be one thing you need very, very much.”

  “What is that?”

  “A husband.” He grinned. “I’m available.”

  She gasped. “You think I’m having a baby?”

  “No, I think we are having a baby. You and me, Rose”—he gestured from her to himself—“having a baby.”

  “You said it couldn’t occur from only doing it once!”

  “No, I said it didn’t usually occur. I didn’t say it couldn’t.”

  She gaped at him, wishing the floor would open and swallow her whole. What on Earth was she to do now? Her plight had been bad enough when she was simply penniless and unemployed. With a baby on the way, her problems would grow and grow until they became insurmountable.

  “I should have made Mr. Drake leave that pistol.” She shook her head with disgust, as tears flooded her eyes.

  “Oh, Rose, don’t cry.”

  “I will if I want to.”

  “You’re not playing fair. You know I can’t bear to see you sad.”

  “Then go away. I didn’t invite you here.”

  “No, you didn’t, but how could I stay away?”

  He was standing much too close, their feet entwined, the tips of his boots slipped under the hem of her skirt.

  She didn’t understand why he’d journeyed so far just to speak with her, didn’t understand what he sought or why he’d come. He wasn’t a chivalrous person, had no desire to be leg-shackled, and it was ridiculous to suppose he’d wed her merely because she was in a jam and he was the culprit.

  She simply needed to be alone, needed to ponder and plan and accept her situation. Her woe was visible. Why didn’t he have mercy on her and depart?

  “Back at Summerfield,” he said, “I asked you a question.”

  She could hardly remember that last, revolting night. Was that to when he referred?

  “What question?”

  “I asked you to marry me.”

  “And I said no.”

  “Well, I’m asking again.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “Why shouldn’t I? In case it hasn’t dawned on you, you’re having a baby, and you have to wed. Right away, Rose. There’s no time for dithering.”

  “But…you don’t want to ever marry, and you most especially don’t want to marry me. You told me so over and over.”

  “Can’t a fellow change his mind?”

  “Not you. If you tried, I wouldn’t believe you. You insisted you were poor and hadn’t the funds to support a wife.”

  “What if I was wrong?”

  She was still seated, and he was still standing. She stared up at him, and his expression was warm and affectionate. It perplexed and rattled her as she recollected those bliss-filled weeks at Summerfield when she’d been so happy, when she’d felt so vibrant and alive.

  “You left Summerfield so fast,” he stated, “that I didn’t have a chance to explain a few things to you.”

  “What things?” she inquired.

  “I’ve now had several heart-to-heart chats with Stanley.”

  “What about?”

  “It seems, my dear Rose Ralston, that Stanley Oswald is my grandfather.”

  “Your grandfather?”

  “Yes, and like the ass you and I know him to be, he kept it a secret.”

  “But…why?”

  “Simply to torment me—and to prove a point.”

  “To you?”

  “No, to my parents, who’ve been dead for over two decades.”

  Rose rubbed her forehead. “That makes no sense.”

  “You’re correct, but when has Stanley ever made sense?”

  “Why did he finally break down and tell you?”

  “He’s old and alone and he’s regretting his choices.”

  “He should regret them.”

  “My feeling exactly,” James said. “Guess what else.”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “I’m Stanley’s heir. He’s rewritten his will and publically claimed me.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “He’s having trouble with his health, which is why I didn’t come for you sooner.”

  “What trouble?”

  “He’s had a collapse. His doctor has diagnosed a minor apoplexy.”

  “He’s incapacitated?”

  “Bedridden for now anyway.” James shrugged. “So I’m in charge at Summerfield, and my first act was to convince the vicar to retire and move.”

  “Vicar Oswald is gone?”

  “Yes. The estate will be mine once Stanley passes, so Oscar realized there was no reason for him to stay. I saved the community from him, so at the moment, I’m very popular. I am also being lauded as Stanley’s grandson and heir—with people insisting they’d suspected all along. Do you know what this turn of fortune indicates, Rose?”

  “No, what?”

  “All of a sudden, I’m a rich man.”

  “You’re not,” she breathed.

  “I am,
and I’ve decided I should bring home a bride to help me rule at Summerfield. Are you acquainted with anyone who might be available? How about a very pretty, very kind woman who is having a baby and needs to wed right away?”

  Rose started to tremble, the shuddering increasing until she could barely remain in her chair. He dropped to a knee and clasped her hand.

  “Will you marry me, Rose Ralston?” he said again. “I never used to view myself as much of a catch, but my situation has drastically improved. How about yours? Has it changed?”

  He reached out and laid a palm on her belly, reminding her of the child that was very likely growing there.

  She frowned. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m deadly serious.”

  “If you’re truly wealthy, I couldn’t possibly be your bride. My father was a penniless missionary.”

  “At least your parents were lawfully wed. My father was an adulterer, and my mother—his mistress—was a notorious actress.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I told you: Stanley confessed all.”

  “You should select someone who suits you, someone who could be your equal.”

  “I agree. I also think I should marry for love. Don’t you?”

  She scowled. “What?”

  “I love you, Rose,” he shocked her by declaring. “Tell me you love me too.”

  “What? You love me?”

  “More than I can say. Please have me. Please tell me you’ll be mine.”

  He leaned down and kissed the spot where their hands were joined, then he stood, and he was smiling, his affection washing over her like cool rain.

  “If you refuse me,” he continued, “if you force me to leave without you, the rest of my life won’t be worth living.”

  “Oh, James…” she sighed.

  “I couldn’t go on without you. Don’t make me.”

  He drew her to her feet, his beautiful blue eyes holding her rapt.

  She remembered those wild, ecstatic days at Summerfield, when she’d peek around corners or stare out windows, hoping for a glimpse of him. She remembered those seductive, marvelous nights when he would sneak into her room, when he would cajole and entice her to wicked conduct.

  She’d never been happier. She’d never felt more desired.

  If she sent him on his way, what would happen to her? Could she cast herself out into the world to face the hard choices of a woman alone, of a woman in peril?