Wicked (2 page)

As I sit here facing the end, I have come to regret that I did not marry or have any children. I don’t want you to make my same mistake.

I’m certain it will come as a great surprise to learn that I have arranged a marriage for you and used your bequest to pay your dowry. Your future husband’s name is Mr. Stanley Oswald. Initially, you may be a tad disturbed to learn that he is quite elderly. However, he is very rich, and old men don’t live forever. Many brides would say you are entering into a perfect situation, especially for a woman like you who is very firm in her attitudes and opinions.

I know you will be concerned by what I have done, but please know that I acted with only the best of intentions. I hope you will strive at all times to be the bride Mr. Oswald desperately needs. And please also know that—of all the girls who ever boarded at my school—you were always my favorite.

Your very dearest friend.

Miss Peabody

* * * *

“I’ve gone stark raving mad.”

It was the only explanation. Rose glanced around the spacious, pretty bedroom suite to which she’d been escorted, and shuddered with dread.

When she’d still been at the school with Amelia and Evangeline, her choice hadn’t seemed real. She might have been speaking lines in a staged play. She’d finally shrugged and thought,
Why not?

What was there to keep her at the school? It was closing, and if she didn’t agree to wed, what would become of her?

She’d have had sixty days to find another situation, and as a woman who’d never lived on her own, she hadn’t the foggiest idea how to make such a huge change.

Miss Peabody had understood Rose. She’d recognized how Rose regretted her estrangement from her relatives, regretted the fact that she was so alone. Mr. Thumberton had said Miss Peabody interviewed the candidates, that she’d specifically selected Mr. Oswald to be Rose’s husband.

Rose had come to Miss Peabody’s when she was four. Her parents had died, and her merciless grandfather had declined to bring her to his home and had promptly shipped her off to Miss Peabody.

During all those years when Rose’s family had never contacted her, invited her for a visit, or stopped by to check on her condition, Miss Peabody had been Rose’s rock and foundation.

She’d never steered Rose in the wrong direction, so Rose had no reason to doubt or fear Miss Peabody’s plan.

A husband—at long last! A home of her own. Children. They were boons Rose had never dreamed she would receive.

Throughout the journey to Mr. Oswald’s Summerfield estate, she’d counted her blessings. She was so lucky that Miss Peabody had been concerned and had arranged Rose’s future! But now that she was on the premises…well…

The suite was spacious and grand, complete with sitting room, bedchamber, and dressing room. The sitting room had a small balcony, and she went over and stepped outside. The rolling hills of the estate stretched to the horizon. It was a warm and sunny afternoon in May—the sky so blue, the grass so green—that her eyes ached from trying to take it all in.

Off to her left, she could see the spires from the church in Summerfield village. Off to her right, a lake shimmered, the water lapping on a sandy shore. Cattle grazed in the pasture. A horse kicked up its heels behind the stables. The scene was so picturesque, she felt she’d fallen into a landscape painting of the perfect afternoon in the English countryside.

She’d arrived earlier than expected, so Mr. Oswald hadn’t been there to greet her. He was away from the property and wouldn’t return until the next morning.

She was desperate to learn more about him. Was he kind? Was he stern? Did he have a sense of humor? Did he enjoy music or art or books? Was he learned? Was he charming?

Before she’d passed away, Miss Peabody had written Rose a letter, urging Rose to accept the match. She’d claimed it would bring Rose happiness and security, and Rose wanted to believe her. There were just two pesky details that rankled: she hadn’t met the man and he was seventy. She hated to suppose looks or vigor could matter so much, but she was a romantic at heart.

In her private moments as a spinster and schoolteacher, when she’d pondered the sort of husband she would like to have, she’d never envisioned an elderly fellow. And she refused to remember Miss Peabody’s cryptic comment about how an aged spouse wasn’t the worst fate for a young bride, that older men didn’t live forever. As the remark wormed its way into her mind again, she shoved away from the balcony and proceeded into the bedchamber.

Her portmanteau was on the bed. She opened it and peered down at her pitiful pile of clothes. There were just her three gray and black work dresses, with their white collars and cuffs at the sleeves. Her shoes and undergarments were sturdy and functional.

None of it was fine enough for the opulent surroundings, and she hoped she wouldn’t disappoint Mr. Oswald or shame him with her shabby attire.

She walked to the dressing room and peeked into cupboards that were filled with towels. There was a silver bathing tub in the middle of the floor—a luxury Rose hadn’t anticipated and couldn’t fathom using.

She stared at the tub, trying to imagine it full of hot, steamy water, her hair piled on her head, her naked self immersed up to her shoulders. But the notion was too fantastic to consider.

A wave of exhaustion swept over her. Too many things had happened too quickly, and she still wasn’t entirely convinced she’d made the correct choice—especially now that Mr. Oswald hadn’t been present to welcome her. It seemed an ill omen, as if they were off to a bad start.

She went to the wardrobe and retrieved her silk robe. It was the only truly elegant item she’d ever possessed, having been her mother’s back in the day when she’d been the favored daughter of Rose’s much-loathed grandfather, Lord Sidwell.

Her mother had been charmed by Rose’s father, an inappropriate preacher with a missionary zeal. She’d run away and married him without Lord Sidwell’s permission, so she’d been disowned and disinherited. The breach had never been repaired.

Her parents had travelled to Africa to distribute Bibles to the natives, where they’d contracted a plague and passed away within a week of each other, leaving Rose stranded in Egypt. Somehow, she’d managed to conceal the robe in her bag, and she’d held on to it as she’d been shipped to England, then to Miss Peabody’s School for Girls.

Her parents were dead, her grandfather too. Her Uncle George was now the family patriarch. She’d never met him or her cousins, had never so much as corresponded with any of them. All she had to connect her to them was her mother’s robe. She had a vague memory of herself when she was tiny, perched on her mother’s lap and gliding her hands across the soft fabric, and occasionally, she thought she could smell her mother’s perfume in the fabric. But she was never sure.

Feeling reckless and momentarily wild, she stripped off her clothes. At Miss Peabody’s, there had been few chances for privacy, and with modesty expected at all times, she’d rarely had the opportunity to be totally alone and do whatever she liked. She couldn’t recall when she’d previously shed every stitch, and there was a heady freedom in the act that surprised her.

She slipped into her robe, relishing how the slinky material slithered over her bare skin. She didn’t tie the belt and let the lapels flop open so her front was visible.

In the mirror, she studied herself, and it wasn’t vanity to acknowledge that she was pretty.

Her eyes were green, merry and arresting, her face heart shaped and inviting, with two pert dimples curving her cheeks. She was five feet five in her shoes, her body shapely and rounded in all the right spots, and she prayed Mr. Oswald would be pleased with the bride he’d found.

Her hair was an unusual shade of auburn, and when she was younger, she’d fussed and fumed and hid it under scarves and bonnets. Every other girl in her world had seemed to be blond, but she wasn’t, and the odd difference had vexed her.

But as she’d grown older, she’d realized the color was striking and remarkable, and she told herself she’d inherited it from her deceased mother whose features she didn’t recollect.

There was a brush on the dresser—another of her mother’s belongings. She pulled the pins from her chignon, the lengthy tresses swinging down her back, then she grabbed the brush and began tugging the bristles through her hair. As she wandered toward the bedchamber, she quietly mused, “Oh, I hope he likes me.”

“I’m sure he will,” a male voice replied. “He’s never met a female he didn’t try to seduce.”

She halted, frowned, her mind struggling to register the fact that someone had spoken. Had she imagined it? It was an ancient mansion. Were there ghosts?

She tiptoed to the door that separated the two rooms and peeked out. Her brush fell to the floor with a muted thump. Frantically, she yanked at the lapels of her robe, tied the belt with a tight knot.

She wasn’t hallucinating. A man—a very handsome, very roguish man—had made himself at home in her bedchamber. He lounged on the chair by the bed, slouched down, his legs stretched out.

He was about her same age of twenty-five, but there was a hard edge to him, as if he’d seen trouble in his life, as if he’d persevered through adversity. But there was mischief lurking too, as if he would engage in any tomfoolery and enjoy it very much.

His hair was dark, worn too long and in need of a trim, and his eyes were incredibly blue, his gaze curious and bored. He hadn’t shaved so his cheeks were shadowed, giving him a reckless, negligent air.

Attired in a flowing white shirt, tan breeches, knee-high black boots, his color was high, as if he’d been out riding.

He appeared lazy and windswept and dangerous, and she probably should be terrified, but she sensed no menace. He was watching her as intently as she was watching him.

“I believe you’ve wandered into the wrong room,” she sputtered.

“I don’t think so,” he responded. “This has been
my
room since I was a boy. I’m positive I’m not mistaken.”

“No, you’re wrong,” she firmly said. “The maid brought me here directly from the coach. I’m certain
she
wasn’t mistaken. She was very clear. This is my room.” She made a shooing motion with her fingers. “You have to leave.”

“I could say the same to you.”

“Listen, Mr.—”

“Talbot. James Talbot.”

“I’m only newly arrived at Summerfield, and I’m not dressed. If you were any sort of gentleman, you’d do as I’ve requested.”

“There’s the rub for you, darling. I’m not a gentleman, and I’ve never aspired to gallant tendencies.”

“You sound proud of it.”

“I guess I am.”

“What type of person would boast of low character?”

“My type, I suppose.”

“I say it again. Go away!”

“No.”

There was a decanter of liquor on the table next to him, and he poured himself a glass and sipped at the amber liquid. He looked vain and imperious and completely in the right, and she had no idea how to proceed.

As an orphan, then a spinster schoolteacher at an all-girls academy, she’d had very restricted interactions with men. It was a rare occasion when a male crossed her path. She’d never been kissed, had never walked down the lane with a sweetheart. She’d never ordered a man to do something and had him do it.

How did a woman make a man behave? Rose had never been told how it was accomplished. In her humble and somewhat limited opinion, men were obstinate, arrogant, and overbearing. They shouted and blustered and acted however they wished. Women had few weapons to fight against their worst conduct.

She should have hurried into the dressing room and put on her clothes, but she was already sufficiently unclad and didn’t want to exacerbate the situation. Her other option was to stomp out, to summon help, but she didn’t dare inform the servants that there was a stranger in her room.

She hadn’t met Mr. Oswald yet. If he learned of the scandalous exchange, what would he think? Her betrothal would end before it began.

She pulled herself up to her full height and mustered her most condemning expression.

“Mr. Talbot, we’re at an impasse.”

“Yes, we are.”

“I’m not in any condition to receive you.”

“I see that.”

His hot gaze took a slow meander down her body, lingering at several spots where he had no business lingering, and her cheeks flushed bright red. She’d never been ogled, and she scowled and stood even straighter.

“You must depart,” she fumed. “I’ll repair myself, and then we’ll call on the housekeeper to resolve our quarrel. I’m sure she knows to which rooms we’ve been assigned.”

“I wouldn’t agree to that.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t need that old biddy scolding me because I’m sitting in my own room. Nor do I need her to tell me where my bed is located.”

“Mr. Talbot! Please!”

“I love it when a woman begs.”

He unfolded himself from the chair. He was six feet tall at least, broad shouldered, trim and fit and vigorous, his skin bronzed from the sun, as if he labored strenuously to earn his living. But his clothes were sewn from an expensive fabric, his boots obviously expensive too, so he wasn’t a working man.

Who was he? What was he? If the room was actually his as he kept claiming, he had the superior right to occupancy, so he resided in the house and she’d constantly be bumping into him. The thought of him being on the premises, of having to see him day after day, was more than she could abide.

He came toward her, approaching deliberately, like an African lion stalking its prey. She should have shrieked with alarm and fled, but still, she felt no sense of menace. Clearly, he was trying to scare her, to intimidate her, and in some intuitive part of her being, she realized that she shouldn’t let him rattle her.

He continued until they were toe-to-toe. He was standing so close that his thigh touched hers, and she was frozen in place, having no clue as to what he intended or what she should do. A more volatile female probably would have slapped his face and accused him of misconduct, but she’d never been keen on theatrics and couldn’t imagine she’d pull it off with any aplomb.