Wicked (7 page)

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.”

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.

Though she’d had misgivings about the match, she’d suffered a secret joy at knowing she’d been wanted, at knowing she’d been picked. From the moment her parents had died when she was four, she’d never been wanted. Even her own family hadn’t cared about her.

Marriage would have supplied a home of her own, a place where she belonged, but he’d snatched it away. He expected her to perform like a brood mare, like a slave birthing a baby for her master. If her womb could catch a child, she’d get what he’d promised to Miss Peabody in their furtive negotiations, but if Rose was barren, she’d slink away, having failed at her essential task.

It was galling to have the burden dumped on her shoulders. Everyone insisted that—if a union generated no offspring—it was the wife’s fault. Why was that? Why was the woman to blame? It certainly seemed as if Mr. Oswald should be questioned on his ability.

He’d either been extremely unlucky in selecting his brides or he carried some of the responsibility. Which was it? And why was it Rose’s duty to fix his problem? How was it fair for her to be cast aside?

“I don’t know what to think, Mr. Oswald,” she murmured.

He increased the pressure, raised the stakes. “If you’ll agree, and we’re not successful, I’ll add five hundred pounds to your dowry. You’ll be able to establish yourself elsewhere and start over. I’ll help you to relocate. If you’d like to teach again, I’ll find you a position—and you’ll have a fat nest egg too.”

She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, and she stared at the grass. She was buying time, delaying as she struggled to dissect his sordid proposal.

She didn’t understand what marital behavior entailed, and she wished there was someone in whom she could confide. But there was no one, and the very idea of discussing such a squalid plan was too humiliating to consider.

“Could I have the dowry money now?” She peeked up at him. “Could I leave?”

“No. I fully intend to marry you if you conceive.” He gestured to the house, the park. “If you prove fertile, Miss Ralston, all this will be yours for the rest of your life, and it will be your son’s for the rest of his. Wouldn’t such an outcome be worth any price?”

“I don’t know,” she murmured again. “I truly do not know.”

“Come to church with me.”

“What?” The abrupt change of subject was disconcerting.

“Come to church.”

“When?”

“This evening.”

“Why?”

“My brother is the vicar, and he holds a Wednesday night service I want you to witness. You’ve met him, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You must hear him preach, must listen to his brand of piety as he rails about sin and damnation. Rumor has it that he will shame a young girl who’s gotten herself in trouble with a local boy. Rumor has it that she will be publically whipped by him. I’d like you to see it.”

“To what end, Mr. Oswald?”

“If you can’t birth me a son, Miss Ralston, then my brother is my heir, and I can’t imagine a more horrid conclusion for the people of Summerfield. Can you?”

“I don’t believe it’s for me to say.”

“Well, it’s definitely for
me
to say. He can’t inherit. He will
not
inherit. It will not happen, Miss Ralston. My family has owned Summerfield for two centuries, so I can hardly bequeath the place to strangers. Watch my brother’s service, then give me your answer in the morning.”

They stared and stared, his expression intractable, his stubbornness crushing her.

Then, without another word, he spun and walked away, and she was left to fret and stew by herself.

* * * *

“Hello, Miss Ralston.”

“Ah!” she shrieked and leapt with fright.

James couldn’t help but be humored by her reaction.

He’d sneaked into her bedchamber again and was seated in the chair in the corner. He hadn’t seen her all day and was worried about her condition. She wasn’t any of his business, but he’d felt the strongest urge to check on her anyway.

After decades of living under Stanley’s thumb, James knew what it was like to deal with the man. Stanley was adept at artifice and tricks, at putting a person in an untenable position.

Poor Miss Ralston was a quick learner. She was beginning to realize that Stanley might not have her best interests at heart. She could never win against him and would most likely never attain any of what she’d sought through matrimony.

James was involved in his own scheme with Stanley and desperately craved the money and information he’d been promised. James would only receive both if he used Miss Ralston in the worst way. So what was he doing? Why stop by to chat?

“We’re becoming so intimately acquainted,” he said. “I should probably call you Rose.
Miss Ralston
sounds ridiculously formal.”

“We’re not on familiar terms, Mr. Talbot.”

“We could be. Call me James.”

“Absolutely not. Why are you in here again?”

“I was nostalgic for my old room, so I decided to visit.”

“While I am occupying this suite, you are not to barge in. I’m afraid I have to insist.”

“Feel free to order me about, but it’s pointless to boss me. I never listen—particularly to women.”

“Marvelous,” she fumed. “Pray tell, how am I to be shed of you?”

“I’ll go when I’m good and ready.”

“That’s what I figured you’d say.”

As if he were invisible, she marched by him to the dressing room. He pushed himself to his feet and tagged after her. He dawdled in the doorway, observing as she took off her cloak and hat, as she hung them on the hook on the wall.

She went to the dresser, tugged the combs from her chignon and let the auburn mass fall down her back. She ran her fingers through it, shook it a few times, then tied it into a ponytail with a length of ribbon.

“I love your hair,” he said.

“Leave me alone,” she grumbled.

She came toward him, planning to return to the outer chambers, but he was blocking her path. She approached until they were toe-to-toe, and she stopped, expecting him to move. When he didn’t, she snapped, “Do you mind?”

“No, not at all.” He seized a curly strand of her hair and wrapped it around his finger. “This shade of auburn is such an intriguing color. I’ve never seen the likes.”

“I’m delighted to hear it, but I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your hands to yourself.”

She slapped his hand away and shoved him aside so she could proceed to the sitting room. He followed again, finding her leaned against the windowsill and staring out into the park. It was after ten, the lingering summer twilight having faded, so it was dark with just the stars for scenery.

She was so forlorn, and he hated his visceral response to her woe. He yearned to take her in his arms and tell her everything would be all right, but he doubted it would be. He had to maintain an emotional distance, which was extremely difficult.

There was a composure about her that tempted him in a manner he didn’t like or comprehend. He felt as if he were a moth, and she a flame, and she exerted an irresistible pull that would—if he weren’t careful—lure him too close and burn him to ashes.

“Were you hiding today?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“From what? Or should I say
who
?”

“I don’t like you—”

“Me? What’s not to like?”

“—or your friend Mr. Drake. I’d rather avoid both of you, but him in particular.”

The comment surprised him. “Lucas is harmless.”

“I still don’t like him.”

“Was he rude to you?”

“No.”

“Then why the ill will?”

She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Must I state a reason?”

“Yes. Men are never too keen on him, but women usually love him. If he knew you weren’t charmed, he’d be flabbergasted.”

“The poor boy,” she sarcastically oozed. “Not adored by quiet, boring Miss Ralston. How will his enormous ego stand the strain?”

He scowled. “You’re in an awfully feisty mood.”

“If you don’t like it, you don’t have to stay.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it. Actually, I’m fascinated. I didn’t realize you had a temper or were capable of such strong opinions.”

She snorted with disgust. “Oh, you’re being ridiculous. Why is it odd that I would have a temper or strong opinions? I’m not a dressmaker’s mannequin. I’m an adult who’s been on this Earth for twenty-five years. Of course I have opinions.”

“Of course you do.”

“And why is it necessary that I like Mr. Drake? Just because you’re his great chum, doesn’t mean I have to be.”

“Too true.”

She whirled away to stare outside again, and he wandered over until he was near enough to touch her. He didn’t, though. With the snit she was in, there was no predicting how she might react.

He assessed her profile while she studiously ignored him, but she wouldn’t be able to persist for long. He simply took up too much space in any room he entered.

“You didn’t come to supper,” he said.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Where have you been? You seem upset.”

“If you must know, Mr. Oswald and I went to church.”

“Ah,” James mused.

He’d heard there was to be some sort of brouhaha at Oscar’s prayer service.

James had sat through a few of those services. In his younger days, when he’d still felt he had to obey his elders, he’d been the central topic at some of them. There was nothing quite so humiliating as being summoned down to the front of the congregation and having Oscar rant over a minor infraction.