by Eloisa James
One had to wonder what led to that hard chin and hard eyes to match. The way he carried silence with him like a weapon.
Perhaps he was interested in power, although that Times article had described the owner of Sterling Lace as one of the most powerful commoners in Britain.
Or perhaps he wanted more money, although it sounded as if he had more than one man could use.
“I hope you find it,” she said, turning her head and smiling at him.
“What?”
“That thing you’re looking for,” Willa said. “Since you have searched in the manure wagons of China, and the lace factories of England.”
He stared at her.
“I hope you find it,” she repeated.
Chapter Twelve
After Aunt Knowe decided to join the vicar for tea, Alaric set out on the path leading to the castle, walking at a brisk pace. Smelly Sweetpea was as good as a suit of armor—his admirers decided they would prefer to walk back to the castle in the company of Willa’s suitors.
A few minutes later, he caught up to Parth, walking behind Lavinia and Willa, who had their heads bent together, talking.
“That’s a skunk,” Parth observed, gesturing toward the basket. “American sable, my ass! That’s a skunk.”
Alaric nodded absently, watching Willa lean close to Lavinia.
Willa didn’t know it, but she’d sealed her fate when she kissed that little skunk on the nose. She was curious, adventuresome, and not put off by stinky creatures. Damned beautiful as well, but did that really matter? Catherine of Russia was beautiful, and she was—well, sexual curiosity was something, but not what a man wanted to spend his life with.
Spend his life with?
The phrase dropped into his head with no warning. And now there was no way of unthinking it. He wanted her.
He wanted to spend his life with her: a sharp-tongued, self-contained, prim miss who—according to his aunt—ruled London high society. He hated society.
This meant marriage, children, death in England, not abroad. Buried in the family chapel alongside all the other Wildes, most likely. With God’s luck, he’d breathe his last as an old man, surrounded by those he loved.
Not lost to the snow in the Steppes, or eaten by the cannibals he’d never met.
“I can’t believe you gave Miss Ffynche a skunk,” Parth was saying. “You’re out of your mind, and so is she.”
“Scent glands removed,” Alaric reminded him. “Perhaps.”
“You’re supposed to give ladies flowers. Gloves. Lace. Pretty things for pretty people.” His voice conveyed disgust.
“Willa smells like orange blossoms,” Alaric observed.
Parth grunted. “She likely has a bar of soap that cost a guinea.”
“If she bought it from you, then you made money, so stop griping,” Alaric said. “My point is that Willa is also smelly. In a good way, but smelly.”
“You’re an odd man.”
“A smelly pet for a smelly woman.”
Lavinia turned about and looked at them. Alaric waved.
“You’re taking the only acceptable one,” Parth said grudgingly. “I assume that you’re taking her?”
“Yes.” The word hit the bottom of his soul with a satisfying clunk. A good feeling, a grounding feeling.
“Good luck,” his friend said. “She’s an odd woman.”
“Willa is beautiful. Intelligent. Not too frilly. Not as frilly as North’s fiancée, Diana, for instance.”
“More beautiful than Catherine of Russia?”
Alaric glanced sideways and found his friend had a wicked smile.
“I bought a very interesting print that suggests you know the empress. Intimately, shall we say. England Takes Russia by Storm.”
“North told me about that particular print. It’s untrue.”
Parth shook his head. “I don’t believe it. The notorious Lord Wilde didn’t bed the empress?”
“All I’ll say is the opportunity was there,” Alaric said dryly. “She issued a public invitation, in the interests of raising Russian morale.”
Parth gave a shout of laughter. “The burden of improving national morale would put some pressure on a man’s performance, I’m guessing.”
“I declined the challenge and took the first ship out of Saint Petersburg.”
“Fearless when faced with a herd of elephants, yet he flees a lascivious empress,” Parth mocked. “A sad reflection on England’s greatest adventurer since Sir Walter Raleigh.”
“I avoid man-eating tigers as well,” Alaric said.
“A touch of Casanova in your writing wouldn’t go amiss,” Parth said. “Enough with the hardship, woe, and duels with two-headed men. On to randy royalty. If I were you, I would have bedded the empress and called it research.”
“As soon as you take to the roads and head for Russia, I’ll make an introduction. I’m sure you’d love to bed a woman who addresses you as a badger of delight,” Alaric retorted.
Parth let out a crack of laughter. “Badger? Are you sure she didn’t mean stallion? Imagine the book sales for Wilde Stallion of Delight. To say nothing of the prints.”
Just then a ragged woman with unkempt hair stepped from behind a hedge and onto the path. It was Mrs. Ferrus. Years ago, when they were boys, her husband had been arrested and hanged on a charge of treason.
After that, she went mad, and now some called her a hedge-witch, and worse.
“Mrs. Ferrus,” Alaric said, stopping, “how are you?”
She looked at him from strangely lightless eyes.
“I’m as limp as a piece of seaweed.” She turned to Parth and scowled. “You!” she said. “I remember you.”
Parth’s body went utterly still, a knack Alaric remembered from innumerable boxing matches as children.
Mrs. Ferrus spat words at him. “The angels will come at dusk, their wings ragged as crows—”
“That may well be,” Alaric said, cutting her off. Then, more kindly, “May I offer you something for your supper, Mrs. Ferrus?” He held out a couple of shillings.
Her eyes moved from Parth’s face to his own, and she took the money.
The young ladies turned around, and before Alaric could catch Willa’s eye to warn her, she returned, bringing Lavinia with her.
Mrs. Ferrus looked like an aged stork. Her hair stood in nests around her head, one knot over her right ear and another toward the back. Her dress looked as filthy as her skin.
Neither Lavinia nor Willa flinched. Instead, they smiled, as if they were encountering a duchess.
“Won’t you introduce us, Lord Alaric?” Lavinia asked.
“This is Mrs. Ferrus,” Alaric said. “She lives in the village. Mrs. Ferrus, these are friends of ours, Miss Ffynche and Miss Gray.”
“Do you have children, Mrs. Ferrus?” Willa asked, nodding to her.
It was hard to say whether Sweetpea or Mrs. Ferrus were the more pungent, but Alaric thought Mrs. Ferrus had the better odds. Her glassy eyes slowly focused on Willa.
“Two boys,” she answered.
She did? Alaric had no idea. Those sons must have grown up by now.
“Do they resemble their father?” Lavinia asked.
“Me mother’s eyes,” Mrs. Ferrus said. “And their father’s chin. They like potatoes and mash. Aye, and I’d better be cooking for them. I don’t always …” Her voice trailed off.
“Do you live close by?” Willa asked.
“On the other side of the church.” She jerked her head and looked down at her skirts for the first time, as if realizing how she was dressed. “I’d better go,” she said. “I haven’t made any bread.”
“Permit me to walk you to your cottage,” Alaric said. He handed Sweetpea’s basket to Parth.
Willa watched Alaric escort the madwoman away. It was her impression that Mrs. Ferrus had been raving when they first walked toward the men, but she was quiet now, looking up at Alaric and shaking her head to whatever he had asked her.
“When d
id she become mad?” Lavinia asked, as they set off on the path again. “Are her boys still living at home? Is her husband alive?”
“Do you ever ask one question and wait for an answer before the next?” Mr. Sterling met her questions with his own.
Lavinia considered it. “Not usually. I have five or six questions at any moment, so I try to marshal the two most compelling.”
“When we were boys of around ten, Mr. Ferrus attempted to blow up the king, his court, and all of Lindow Castle,” Mr. Sterling said.
“The king!” Willa exclaimed. “How awful for everyone involved.”
“He was hanged, deservedly so,” he said.
“Everyone says that about a man who tries to blow up the king,” Lavinia said to him, her voice irritated. “They ignore what his deed did to his family. Willa and I have noticed it time and again.”
“He should have stayed away from gunpowder,” Mr. Sterling stated.
Lavinia shrugged. “That’s the easy response, isn’t it? He should have stayed away from gunpowder. But he didn’t, for whatever reason. And the people who were hurt most, since he was caught before he could do damage, were his family. Those boys grew up the sons of a notorious, albeit failed, assassin.”
“As well as a mother maddened by grief,” Willa added.
“I suppose you’d put that at Mr. Ferrus’s feet as well?”
“Wouldn’t you?” Lavinia retorted.
“It’s hard to say,” Mr. Sterling replied.
Willa walked between them, feeling as if she were a wall between two warring nations.
Chapter Thirteen
In the drawing room that evening, the marvel that was Mr. Calico’s wagon was the principal topic of conversation. He had driven up in great style and proceeded to sell most of his inventory to those house-party guests who hadn’t walked to Mobberley.
“Tell me about your American sable,” Lady Knowe said to Willa. “I didn’t get more than a glimpse of her.”
Sweetpea was upstairs, having been bathed in Mr. Calico’s soap, then given a second bath in chamomile-scented water. She had showed herself a curious little animal who loved to rise up on her back legs and grab a treat from Willa’s fingers.
“Lord Alaric insists that ‘American sable’ is a misnomer,” Willa said. “ ‘Skunk’ is less grand-sounding, but more accurate.”
“How are you managing her necessaries?” Lady Knowe asked.
“We put a box filled with earth on the balcony,” Willa explained. “Once Sweetpea understood what it was for, she appeared happy to use it. She’s the most intelligent animal I’ve ever seen.”
Lady Knowe put a hand to Willa’s cheek. “You are a darling girl,” she said. “I’m so happy that my nephew gave you Sweetpea.” Her hand was large and rough, presumably from riding. But her smile was beautiful.
“Thank you,” Willa said. “What did Mr. Calico bring you, Lady Knowe?”
“A hat with a wig attached,” Lady Knowe said. “Or perhaps one could call it a wig with a hat attached? It’s for riding, because hats and wigs aren’t designed to stay together in the midst of a stiff breeze.”
“How clever!” Willa exclaimed.
“Are you talking about Lady Knowe’s cunning new hat?” Lavinia asked, joining them. “I mean to buy one for myself, as soon as we return to London. It’s absolutely darling, Willa. The hat is set at a rakish angle.”
“I mean to have a habit designed to match,” Lady Knowe said.
“Did Mr. Calico sell you the fabric?”
Lady Knowe grinned. “Certainly. I can’t think why the man hasn’t retired his wagon on the basis of the hundreds of pounds that I have given him over the years.”
Lavinia had a mischievous look. “I can tell you who spent the greatest sum of money this afternoon.”
“Who?” Lady Knowe asked. “I happily bought a stack of books, so I retired to my bedchamber and paid no attention to everyone else’s purchases.”
“Mr. Sterling bought every Lord Wilde print in the wagon!” Lavinia said. “He said they were for darts practice, which does not surprise me. A more disagreeable man I never met.”
“You wound me,” said a sardonic voice. Mr. Sterling stood just behind her.
“You truly mean to throw darts at Lord Wilde’s image?” Willa asked him.
“If he does, I’ll use his arse for archery practice,” Alaric growled, joining them.
His big, warm body crowded behind Willa’s, though the drawing room was large enough that no one need touch.
Her heart hammered in her chest, but she steadied her voice. “What would you prefer Mr. Sterling do with the prints he bought?” she asked, stepping to the side.
“Burn the confounded things,” Alaric said without hesitation. “If I’d known Mr. Calico had them on the wagon, I would have bought them myself.”
“He’s sold hundreds in the last few years,” Mr. Sterling said, laughter running through his words.
“So there is something that makes you smile,” Lavinia said to him. “I am astonished.”
What about these particular men was making both Willa and Lavinia forget the exquisite manners that had carried them through the Season? The sweet smiles and thoughtful replies?
“That, and foolish women,” Mr. Sterling retorted.
Alaric groaned.
“I deposited the prints in the nursery,” Mr. Sterling continued. “My favorite depicts you on a boat with an enormous tentacle curled around the stern. How did you escape that particular predicament, Alaric?”
“I haven’t got that one!” Lavinia exclaimed.
“You’re part of the puling parade?” Mr. Sterling said, deep disgust in his voice.
“ ‘Puling parade’?” Lavinia repeated, narrowing her eyes.
“Ladies, weeping every time the newspapers announce that Lord Wilde is lost at sea, which means every three weeks or so, or more often when Parliament isn’t in session and there’s nothing else to report.”
“Who wouldn’t admire him?” Lavinia demanded. “Lord Wilde is such a gentleman, if you’ll forgive me, Lord Alaric, for referring to you by your alias. Wherever he goes, he rescues people. He’s so chivalrous.”
The full force of her admiring smile was directed at Mr. Sterling.
Whose face darkened as a muscle ticked in his jaw. “Perhaps I should clarify—” he ground out.
“Lord Wilde is a credit to the English people,” Lavinia said, cutting him off. “He neither hoards money nor tramples those—including children—who get in his way.”
“God almighty,” Alaric breathed into Willa’s ear. “I don’t remember anyone taking on Parth since we were in the schoolroom together.”
“And I do?” Mr. Sterling inquired.
Lavinia smiled at him, the smile a tiger gives a rabbit. “Is that not an apt summary of your philosophy of life?”
At that, Mr. Sterling and she launched into a ferocious argument, Lavinia all the sweeter for being utterly furious.
“I’m a little afraid of Lavinia,” Alaric said, displaying a useful instinct for self-preservation.
“She doesn’t usually lose her temper,” Willa observed.
A large hand curled around her waist. “We should leave them alone.” He tugged her backward. “It’s like watching a husband and wife fight: intriguing but awkward. Would you like some sherry?”
She nodded, grateful for his ignorance of the societal rules that dictated she drink ratafia. He moved his hand to her back and guided her toward the butler and his tray of crystal glasses.
Willa decided that she absolutely must make Alaric stop touching her, because it was befuddling. All the same, she allowed herself to be drawn away.
“Did you notice that I called Miss Gray by her first name?”
“Yes, I did.”
“That means you should call me Alaric.”
After all, he had given her Sweetpea. She yielded. “Very well.” He looked at her steadily, so she added, “Only in private. Alaric.”
“I have a private question. Do you have a temper like Lavinia’s, which you are keeping leashed?”
“No,” Willa said. “I’m a very tidy, boring person.”
“You are not boring,” he said. “Whatever you are, you’re not boring.”
The compliment sank into Willa’s bones, but she refused, absolutely refused, to allow pleasure to show on her face. The man was entirely too confident as it was.
“Have you seen any of the prints they’re talking about?” he asked.
“Lavinia had a few on the wall of her bedchamber when we were in school,” Willa admitted. The shudder that went through him was small but visible. “She kept her favorite in her Bible,” she added, enjoying the look in Alaric’s eyes.
He handed her a glass of sherry, and took a healthy swallow from his own. “I could never have imagined all this nonsense when I left England.”
“The way prints are bought and traded is new,” she explained. “The mania began around three years ago, I believe, but of course the play brought you into even greater prominence.”
His mouth twisted with disgust. “Surely they’ll forget about me soon.”
Willa felt an unnerving wish to soothe him, although she had the distinct impression that even if he wrote no more books, a significant number of people would adore him for the rest of their lives.
“Have you ever seen salmon flop their way upstream in a spring frenzy? Or geese migrating as winter approaches?”
“That bad?”
“Think about migrating geese. The foremost goose flies at the top of the V, but they’re all intent on the same goal.”
He gave her a reluctant grin. “You are the promised land,” Willa said. “And, Alaric, don’t forget all the clamor they make as they pass overhead.”
“Oh, bloody hell.” But his eyes had cleared. “It’s almost worth it to hear you call me Alaric.”
She shook her head at him. “That means nothing.”
“So, Lavinia is one of my geese?”
Willa opened her mouth, and shut it again.
“Let me guess,” Alaric said, his voice full of mock resignation. “After meeting me, her adoration has waned.”
