Wicked Becomes You

by Meredith Duran

  What was he looking at? She tracked his stare but could see nothing remarkable, save a sea of gaping mouths that sharpened and dimmed in time to the roar in her head. Her eye landed on the second-to-last row, and the sight of four brown heads, the Ramseys, briefly penetrated her panic—Caroline hiding her face against Belinda’s neck; Belinda, bright red, twisting away to speak into her husband’s ear (oh, she had no patience for shenanigans, she would not forgive Thomas for this); Lord Weston scowling; and in the aisle seat, Alex, lifting his hand to disguise a yawn.

  The sight jolted her. Alex was back in London?

  He was yawning?

  Was he bored by this?

  Their eyes met. His hand dropped. He gave her a slight, one-shouldered shrug, as if to say, What of it?

  Her thoughts jumbled. Did he mean that gesture to be comforting?

  Why, no, he did not. He simply looked sleepy. Did nothing surprise him? Her brother had always claimed so. Unaccountably, Richard had loved him precisely for that—his unflappable, inhuman cool.

  He transferred his gaze to Thomas. His mouth curled.

  She drew a startled breath. The sight of his scorn acted like ice water on her sleeping wits. Because—really, why shouldn’t he sneer? The buzz was mounting to a clamor. Thomas was having cold feet at the altar.

  What sort of woman let this happen to her twice?

  She pivoted back to Thomas. Sandy hair and a ruddy complexion grown ruddier for his sudden, slack-jawed madness. “I will,” she hissed. “Say I will.”

  His lashes fluttered rapidly. Someone in the audience called out, “Say it!”

  From the audience! It was beyond humiliating; their wedding had turned into a sideshow! Yet all he did was stand there like some gawking chicken!

  She cleared her throat. Her knees were trembling. “Viscount,” she managed. Oh dear Lord only make him say it and I will knit a hundred sweaters! And never again sleep till noon, or think a single unkind thought about anyone—“Will you not answer the vow?”

  Thomas stumbled back a pace. “Forgive me,” he choked, and turned on his heel. Turned—away from her.

  Mr. Shrimpton made a lunge for his arm, but Thomas shoved free and bolted past his groomsmen, then leapt the rail into the nave.

  The crowd rose amidst a great communal shriek. “Swine!” someone shouted, and “Catch the cad!”

  Thomas sprinted across the nave and cut a sharp left toward the arcade. Someone made a grab for him; he ducked into a somersaulting roll, shot to his feet, and bounded out of sight behind a row of pillars.

  At her side, Mr. Shrimpton gave a low whistle. She turned, the world trailing sluggishly past her eyes, to look at him.

  His brows were at his hairline. “Had no idea he could run like that,” he said.

  Vises clamped onto her arms. She glanced down. Hands, they were—pale, slim fingers, wrists bound in fluttering ribbons and white tea roses. Oh, she thought. Her bridesmaids were trying to draw her away from the altar. Again.

  God above. It had happened again.

  He actually let me walk up the aisle.

  Even Lord Trent didn’t do that.

  “Oh,” she said, and the sound startled her. “Oh,” she whispered, as she tripped over her train and the candles seemed to brighten and the scent of flowers sharpened, pricking her eyes and making her nose run. She shook off the grasping hands. This was new; it really was. At least Lord Trent had the decency to have jilted her before the wedding day, to let her cry off the betrothal. A terrible mess, informing four hundred guests that their attendance would not be required; the number of notes she’d penned had left her hand cramped for weeks. But this?

  Oh, this was quite different. Twice, now.

  She stumbled back a pace, and then another.

  The altar began to recede.

  There could be no recovery from this.

  Chapter Two

  “Please, miss. Madam is determined that you come downstairs.”

  Gwen pulled her knees closer to her chest. She was buried beneath the covers, with a pillow atop her face, but it still wasn’t enough. What she needed was a shell. Then she could crawl into it and hide, no matter where she found herself. How lucky turtles were, in that regard. “Once again,” she mumbled, “I send my regrets.”

  “Miss, she insists! There is company!”

  It was only the Ramseys, who would forgive her. Nevertheless, the maid’s wheezing voice made her lift the pillow for a peek. An unhealthy flush blotched Hester’s cheeks. No wonder! Aunt Elma had sent her scrambling up the staircase five times in the last half hour.

  Gwen threw off the pillow and sat up. “The next time my aunt sends for me, you’re to pay her no heed. Just wait a bit in the hall, then tell her I refused again.” When Hester looked hesitant, she rose to her feet for the added air of authority. “I assure you, that’s exactly what I’d do if you came anyway.”

  The maid gave a little panting moan, then ducked a curtsy and withdrew. As the door closed, the room sank again into darkness.

  Gwen swayed indecisively. There was no desire in her to do anything. Her whole body ached. But she did not think she would manage to go back to sleep now.

  She crossed to the window and pulled open the curtains.

  Surprise stopped her breath. Bits of mild blue sky showed through the green leaves that brushed the glass. Still daylight! How was that possible? It felt as though the day should have been over years ago.

  She glanced disbelievingly to the clock on the mantel. Only a quarter after five! Why, people were strolling through the park still! They hadn’t taken their afternoon tea yet, while already she’d woken, breakfasted, nearly been married, cried herself to sleep, and been rousted five times by an aunt who wished her to go downstairs and contemplate, amongst company, her public humiliation.

  Quite a lot to fit into a day, really.

  Tears pricked her eyes. Not again! She dashed them away. Stop crying, she thought. You did not love him. She had liked him very much, and she had hoped and vowed to grow to love him, but these endless tears were not for the life they would have shared. They were for humiliation, she thought. And betrayal, and shock. And they had already given her an awful headache and she didn’t want it to worsen.

  Her hand fell from the drapes. With a sigh, she turned away from the window. A piece of paper lay discarded on the carpet. After a startled moment, she recognized it: her anonymous admirer had sent another note today; it had been waiting on her return from the church. Had she read it earlier? It looked as if she had, but she couldn’t remember doing so.

  She took it up and sat down in an easy chair. Yes, there was a tearstain near the top. She swallowed and decided to ignore that. The script was very elegant, wasn’t it? Oh, she would not fool herself. With her luck, the author probably had gout, six children, and no hair.

  For fear of offending you I have hesitated to write another letter, but my ardent admiration overwhelms the bounds of propriety. Herein I intend to contemplate a question that has haunted me for some time: How could I not have fallen in love with you, Miss Maudsley?

  Her admirer needed to have a chat with Thomas. Thomas could advise him on this question. For that matter, Lord Trent could as well.

  What was wrong with her? Jilted twice!

  She laid down the letter and stared blankly at the window. Some awful flaw lurked inside her. That was the obvious conclusion.

  But the obvious conclusion made no sense! It was not immodest to acknowledge herself passably pretty, reasonably charming, and very well liked. Moreover, she had done everything right. Everything! Obeyed every rule. Smiled at insults. Charmed all the snobbish gorgons who’d caviled at her lowly background. Refused every second glass of wine! Forgone cycling because it required split skirts, refrained from singing in company, declined all wicked parlor games. Cheered up sourpusses and swallowed retorts, forgiven ill tempers, and never—not once!—taken the Lord’s name in vain. Embroidered thirty handkerchiefs in three weeks! Why, she’d bee
n stitching in her sleep by the end of that!

  And for what?

  Not for this.

  The lump was forming in her throat again. Very well, if she wanted to cry, she would cry for her parents. They had given up so much to ensure her prospects! They had given her up. After she’d gone to school, all she’d had of them were letters and the holidays—so brief, never enough. They’d claimed to want a different fate for her than their own. Having come into wealth as adults, her parents had lost their old friends—some of whom had no longer felt comfortable with them, others of whom had sought to take advantage. But new friends of equal fortune had not lasted, either. Their manners, customs, attitudes and interests had been too different to support true friendship.

  In these tribulations, her parents had seen a lesson for her. A girl dowered so richly would have to associate with her peers—the best and wealthiest members of society. But in such circles, a girl raised in Leeds, with a northern accent and rustic ways, would never flourish. Thus they had sent her to school, and after their deaths, according to their wishes, Richard had found a well-born family to raise her during holidays and guide her successfully through her debut.

  And she had succeeded. She had! For her parents’ sake as much as her own, she had tried her best and triumphed in every way.

  Every way but one.

  A choked laugh escaped her. Only one matter remained outside of her control. And Thomas had seemed such a safe choice for it! So gentlemanly, so reliable, so . . . desperate. Oh, the monster! The sight of him bounding away from the altar was stuck in her head; in her half-sleep, it had unfolded over and over, as taunting as a snippet from some irksome song. He loved her, did he? She’d prayed it to be true, but had feared that he loved her fortune better. And in the end—how odd!—neither idea had proved right.

  Three million pounds he had left at that altar! It was beyond a fortune. And he was dead broke! What else could he want from a woman?

  It was very difficult not to believe that something was wrong with her.

  Some flicker of movement caught her attention. She realized it had been her own reflection in the looking glass, as she’d shoved her fist against her mouth. Why, she looked like a madwoman—chignon collapsing, eyes wide and crazed, her simple green morning dress rumpled beyond repair.

  She lowered her fist, exhaled, and forced her attention back to the letter.

  Of course, I do not need to mention your kindness. Your benevolence to the orphanages is legendary; you are a bosom friend to all who have the good fortune to know you. The entire town praises your chaste, moral rectitude and your unshakable good temper. Even the wicked columnists in the newspapers can find no wrong in you.

  A wild feeling tightened her throat. Yes, any number of anonymous journalists had testified in print that she was a paragon. How would they describe her now? Not only “dreadfully disappointed by the treacherous Lord T——,” but also “abominably abused by the perfidious Lord P——.” They would run out of ink for her, maybe. Or adjectives.

  But no, of course they wouldn’t. Pitiable: that was the word they would use. It was the next step up from beleaguered; it conjured a more permanent condition. One broken engagement was shocking. Two spelled damaged goods.

  She pushed the letter to the floor. Anonymously penned—what did it signify? It was only another piece of cowardice from another penniless blackguard.

  Men! All of them, spineless.

  Springing to her feet, she began to pace. Well, she had no use for spineless curs. In fact, she pitied the poor girl who purchased Thomas. That girl would not get value for her money! When Gwen thought of all the objections she had swallowed during their courtship—his habit of leering at ladies’ bosoms, which Elma had persuaded her was natural for a man; his execrable fondness for bad puns, which she’d told herself she found charming; his taste for gambling, although the roof on his country estate had fallen in for lack of funds to repair it; his snobbery toward the lower classes, as if her parents hadn’t once belonged to them—why, she felt quite lucky that he’d jilted her!

  She came to a stop. How astonished he would be to learn that. He probably imagined her prostrate with grief, wailing and rending her hair. As if he were such a prize to lose! A man who bolted from church like a rat from the light!

  Perhaps she should inform him of this. Yes, what a brilliant idea! She could write him this very instant, chronicling the many reasons she was so glad not to be wed to him.

  She threw herself down at the writing table.

  You fancied yourself a fine dancer, but you stepped on my feet at every turn.

  The scratch of pen across the paper sounded pleasingly violent.

  Your breath so often reeked of onions that I wondered if you ate aught else.

  She did not think her handwriting had ever slanted so boldly!

  I nearly gagged every time you kissed me. In fact, I think you the worst kisser I have ever encountered.

  That was saying something, for although she only had one other kisser to go by, Lord Trent’s performance had not recommended itself either. Very . . . slobbery, had been Lord Trent. Paired with all the nipping, he had put her in mind of a terrier.

  Oh, surely she could . . . extrapolate a little?

  In fact, with all your slobbering, you put me in mind of a terrier.

  There. That would make him wonder!

  Also, you talked of all the things you would do for us, as if “doing” were tantamount to “purchasing.” You never acknowledged that it was my money you spent so freely in your imagination—and your own desires, not mine, that you intended to gratify. Why should I desire the addition of a smoking room to your country house? Moreover, why would you not wish first for a roof?

  Some delicious feeling was sparkling to life inside her. It made her breath come quicker and the fog clear from her brain. Her heart was pounding and her skin tingling in the very same manner as when she’d taken that balloon ride across Devonshire last summer.

  As for me, do not think I am crying into my pillow for what happened today. As you wanted my money, so I wanted your name. It was a fair trade, I thought, to achieve my parents’ dream for me.

  Good luck with the roof at Pennington Grange, by the way. I will hope it does not rain too much this season.

  No, no. That sounded too bitter. Also, she had no interest in defending herself through reference to her parents’ hopes. She did not need to excuse herself to him.

  In fact, I will admit that I very much liked the idea of being a viscountess. It seems I am as shallow and vain as you. But at least I can acknowledge it! Besides, I have an excuse: I had no true understanding of how empty and insignificant a title might be, until its worthlessness was demonstrated by your unmanly cowardice.

  Nevertheless, you may persist in thinking me grasping: I simply don’t care.

  “I don’t care,” she whispered. What an astonishing statement. She laid down the pen. Was it true? “I don’t care.” Had she ever said those words before?

  She hoped they were true, for she knew what would come next. All the pity in the world would be directed toward her. After all, she was so very, very nice.

  How undignified. How unbearable! She could not tolerate it again. And it would be worse this time, for she was clearly the victim now.

  Perhaps she should take out an advertisement in the paper: Do not waste your sympathy on me. I don’t require it. I am glad to be rid of the swine. Why not? Surely there was more dignity in being thought rude than wretched. She had spent a great deal of time at Lady Milton’s orphanage; she had seen how the wretched lived, and she had seen with what distaste the other ladies ministered to those children. There was nothing worse than being thought wretched. And she was not wretched! The roof over her head wasn’t collapsing.

  She reached again for the pen, and the shine of the gold band at its base struck some chord in her. She frowned at it, trying to think—

  She sat bolt upright in the chair. He had Richard’s ring! Her fa
ther’s ring!

  She cupped a hand over her mouth. Horror prickled over her, hot and mortifying. What had she been thinking? She had agreed to marry him with no love in her heart, but she’d given him her most precious relic! Even with Trent she’d shown more caution.

  It was unforgivable. Oh, she was low and rotten. And he had worn it at the altar! Bile rose into her throat. He had bounded out of the church wearing her ring!

  She would demand it back instantly. If he dared to give it away or pawn it, she would—why, she would set the police on him!

  The thought astonished her. Police chasing a viscount. A laugh bubbled in her throat. Why, she was not so nice, after all.

  She looked down at the words, scrawled so fiercely that one might think a man had penned them. A terrier! It made her laugh again. Maybe wickedness was more her native talent. After all, where had niceness gotten her? From beleaguered to pitiable, that was where! Slobbered on and nipped by beastly men!

  The deuces with being nice, then! It profited her nothing. It was exhausting! And here was proof: only five minutes ago she’d been exhausted, while now she felt like skipping into the hallway and—yelling! No, yelling wasn’t enough. She felt like smashing something!

  She made a fist and smacked it experimentally against the desktop. Yes, she could smash something. She looked around. The clock? No, no, Aunt Elma admired that clock.

  The mirror? It seemed a bit gothic. Madwomen too often smashed mirrors. She wouldn’t want to give the wrong impression.

  The flower vase? Yes! Yes, she could smash that!

  Over his head!

  Just imagining it made her queer exhilaration redouble. It swelled up so fast and fiercely that she had to swallow to keep herself from—screaming something, maybe. It felt just like that balloon ride, exactly like it: all the strings falling away, and then the sudden giddy lift into the ether.

  Why, she would not knit those sweaters! Lady Anne had made the promise. Let her knit them! Gwen would even supply her with the yarn. Fifty skeins of quality merino currently sat in her dressing room, simply longing for the tender touch of an earl’s daughter.