The Wicked Sister

by Lancaster, Mary

  “No need, Perkins!” Michael was already leaping upstairs two at a time. “Thank you!”

  The footman outside the blue salon only just managed to open the door in time for Michael to fly through. But there, he was brought up short. Several pairs of eyes turned on him with degrees of alarm, amusement, and curiosity. And fear.

  He should have known that Braithwaite would not be alone. That this was the time of society’s formal morning calls. And that Maria was likely to be with him. But never had he imagined he would inspire fear in those soft, beautiful, laughing eyes.

  His heart twisted in pain. Since he had seen her last, he had been elected a member of Parliament. He had moved his old rooms and taken others nearer Westminster. He had made his maiden speech, which had been reported in several newspapers. He had got on to several committees and was working closely with Braithwaite and others on important proposals. In all that time, he had seen Maria only twice, once in the park, at a distance, and once when he arrived just as she had been leaving the house with her mother. She had not looked at him, merely said cheerfully, “Mr. Hanson!” as she passed.

  This time, their eyes met, and his breath caught. In those six weeks, he had never stopped thinking about her, never stopped wanting her. Her beauty still made him ache. But the new frailty in her face and body hit him like a blow in the stomach.

  The alarm in her eyes quickly vanished as she blinked and tore her gaze free.

  Hastily, Michael bowed to the company. Braithwaite rose to greet him, and Michael noticed that the man beside Maria was Lord Underwood. Jealousy clenched his fist, and he had to force it to relax.

  “Hanson,” Braithwaite greeted him. “You look like a man with news! Is it private?”

  Michael pulled himself together and grinned. “No, sir. There is still no official dispatch from Wellington, but the word is now definite.”

  “Sit,” Lady Braithwaite commanded. “Tell all!”

  Michael sat on the edge of the seat indicated. “After the jostling and skirmishes, a decisive engagement was finally fought near the village of Waterloo on the eighteenth. It was a bloody battle with horrendous losses on both sides, but the outcome was victory for Wellington and the allies. Bonaparte has surrendered.”

  Voices broke out all over the room in a babble of cheers and exclamations.

  “Oh, thank God!”

  “I knew it! Never doubted for a moment!”

  “Are we absolutely sure of this?”

  “At last! Now it is finally over!”

  “What of the casualties?” Braithwaite asked, breaking into the euphoria.

  In the sudden silence, Michael delved into his coat pocket. “We don’t really know yet. But our man had spoken with Colonel Gordon of the 44th and knew several others. I made a list of those whose names I thought you would know. These are apparently definite survivors. The names of the dead aren’t yet posted.” He unfolded the paper. “Major Doverton, Captains Grantham, Greene, and Smith, all of the 44th. Also, Major Conway, a guardsman on Wellington’s staff, and a Captain Lawrence—I believe they are both cousins of yours.”

  “Thank God,” Braithwaite said heavily. “I only hope there are more names added to that list, though from what you say, there will be all too many families grieving soon enough. What of your brother, Hanson?”

  Suddenly, he couldn’t stop smiling. If he did, he thought he would cry like a baby. “My messenger actually spoke to him. He’s alive and well, save for a ball through the shoulder.”

  Braithwaite gripped his shoulder hard, steadying him. He felt Maria’s eyes on him, knew she, too, must understand the depth of his relief, his joy. Even if she hated him.

  “Let us celebrate victory,” Lord Underwood declared.

  In the general air of excitement, Lady Braithwaite ordered tea. More callers arrived and were given the news. Lord Underwood and others departed, having reached the end of the prescribed length of their visits. Michael would have gone, too, for he had work in the commons he meant to complete before dinner, but being in the same room as Maria at last was too beguiling.

  She rose to help Eleanor distribute cups of tea, and inevitably came eventually to him.

  “Thank you.” He took the cup from her, searching her face for signs of illness or happiness. But it was she who spoke.

  “Are you well, Michael?”

  “Mostly. Are you?”

  “Mostly.” She drifted back to Eleanor for her own tea and retreated to the sofa she had occupied before. Conversation continued around the room, discussing the victory, and what would be done with Bonaparte this time, and officers they knew who had been with Wellington.

  After a few moments, Michael rose and went to sit beside Maria. There was no sign of fear in her now, but the quick movements of her fingers on her lap betrayed her agitation. He wanted to take her hand and kiss it.

  “Are you truly well?” he asked.

  “Is that a polite way of telling me I look haggard?”

  “You could never look anything other than beautiful.”

  “Don’t,” she whispered.

  Stricken, he stared at her. “Maria, have I made you ill?”

  She met his gaze, with a familiar tilt of her chin. “You have made me unhappy. It is not the same thing.”

  He swallowed. “It is to me. Forgive me.”

  “I don’t know that I do.”

  “I wanted—I still want—to do the right thing.”

  “I know. I suppose I just did not expect you to be like all other men.”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, in believing that as males you must know better than we mere females what is good for us.”

  “Straight for the gizzard,” Michael said slowly.

  She smiled and changed the subject. “I have not yet congratulated you on your election. But I was delighted. I read your speech.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “I did.”

  “I’m glad.” He bit his lower lip, knowing he was not going to like whatever answer she gave to his next question. “And what have you been doing in London?”

  “Annoying my poor mother,” she replied, surprising him yet again.

  He couldn’t help smiling. “In what way?”

  “Missing expeditions of pleasure and falling asleep at parties because I have been so busy all day.”

  “Busy? You have new interests?”

  “I have. I pestered Mr. Grant for a letter of introduction to a friend of his who organizes several charities for the poor. I have been helping and learning—that charity is good but not enough.” Her gaze flickered away and then determinedly back to his. “It was one of your pamphlets that made me think. For what that is worth.”

  “A great deal,” he said warmly.

  “I know you must have been busy, too,” she said quickly.

  “Almost dementedly so.” The work had stopped him pining, had made him tired enough to sleep—mostly—when eventually he collapsed on his bed.

  Movement around them distracted him, and he realized the last of the callers were departing.

  “I see I’m in danger of committing a social solecism,” he said, rising to his feet. “I have overstayed my welcome.”

  Maria smiled. She still had a beautiful smile. “Oh, I think the man with the news everyone has been waiting for is granted an extra ten minutes.”

  “Thank God,” he said flippantly. He hesitated, then, “It’s good to see you again.”

  She kept the smile on her lips but did not answer.

  “Are you going, Michael?” Lady Braithwaite asked. “I suppose it’s useless to remind you of our reception this evening? It is a special occasion, and you will know many of the guests.”

  “Thank you!” he replied as he always did, without any intention of being there. Only as he descended the stairs to the front door did it strike him that he did not need to avoid it. Attending was an option.

  *

  To say that Maria was disturbed by seei
ng Michael again was an understatement. Apart from her charitable work, she had felt curiously distant from people and events. She ate and slept little, since her mother’s demands and her charitable commitments gave her little time for either. In this way, she had thought she was dealing with her broken heart. Until he had breezed into the salon without warning, and she had been terrified it was all starting again, terrified it might not. All the love and hope and sweetness…and rejection.

  She understood the rejection of course. She had asked Gervaise quite bluntly if he had scared Michael off.

  “I asked him to wait,” Gervaise had replied irritably, for he was trying to work at the time. “That is not too much to ask considering your age and the length of time you’ve known him.”

  “You hope I’ll meet someone else,” she had accused.

  “It’s possible you will. At least this way, you can.”

  Part of her was furious that they had conspired together against her happiness, against Michael’s. Part of her remained unsure of him, for surely if he had loved her enough, he would have defied Gervaise. He was not worthy of her, either.

  But now, after seeing him again, reading the worry and uncertainty in his eyes, and the pleasure he could not hide, the most dangerous emotion of all was working its insidious way into her heart. Hope.

  She dressed for Eleanor’s reception without much care, allowing the maid to do more or less as she wished. The result was pleasing enough—a gown of white sprig muslin, as suited a debutante, trimmed with rose and matching ribbons in her hair—so she smiled faintly at the girl and made her way downstairs to the drawing room in time for the guests to arrive.

  The conversation was, inevitably, almost exclusively about the recent battle at Waterloo. Wellington’s dispatch had finally arrived and the vaguer details of Michael’s information confirmed. Maria’s fellow debutantes pretended to be as interested as everyone else, but their talk was all about heroes, interspersed with remarks on the dress of Miss X or the turban of Lady Y, and the delightful love poetry of Mr. Z.

  Maria, trying to smother a yawn, wondered if she could insinuate herself into a more sensible conversation. Looking around her, she saw Eleanor with two of Gervaise’s parliamentary colleagues. And Michael Hanson.

  Her heart leapt into her throat, but she walked toward them anyway, remembering in time to excuse herself to the debutantes. Michael saw her at once, and the smile which lit his face was both spontaneous and dazzling.

  Oh, yes, hope was rising, and she didn’t know if she could live with it being ripped away again.

  But it was true he never normally attended such social gatherings…

  He stepped aside to admit her to the group, but instead, she halted just outside it to address him.

  “Unprecedented, Mr. Hanson—two meetings in one day,” she said lightly when he bowed to her. “Have you come to hear the latest news?”

  “No,” he murmured. “Mostly, I came to see you.”

  Don’t do this to me again… “Why?” she asked baldly.

  “What you said this afternoon made me think…in a different way. I wanted to talk more about it.” He held out his hand as though they were being introduced.

  She regarded it warily. “Why?”

  He lowered his voice even further. “Because I miss you, horribly, every hour of every day. You had better take my hand or people will talk.”

  She inclined her head regally and accepted his hand. To her astonishment, he slipped something against her palm. Paper?

  Bewildered, she passed on, the folded paper seeming to burn a hole in her glove. When she reached the quiet corner near the fireplace, she opened her reticule, and while pretending to rummage for something inside, she unfolded the note and read it.

  One last elopement?

  She snapped her reticule shut and stared indignantly across the room at him. He was waiting for her reaction, for he met her gaze at once. His lips quirked upward, and quite suddenly, she saw the joke. Laughter took her unaware, and she had to walk away, her shoulders shaking.

  She walked right out of the room before it came to her she should have kept him waiting for the sake of her pride. However, it was too late to go back, so she decided to give him two minutes and made her way to the library.

  It was not as large or as impressive as the library at Braithwaite Castle, but two of the lamps were lit, and it supplied enough familiarity to calm her—at least for the first minute.

  What the devil am I doing here? she wondered then, in panic, and fled to the door. She reached for the handle just as it opened, and Michael stood right in front of her. She backed away and he came in, closing the door behind him.

  Her breathing came in short, shallow gasps as he advanced upon her deliberately, holding her gaze. She refused to retreat, although her heart hammered so hard, she was sure he must hear it. He stopped in front of her and took her hand, before he bent slowly, giving her time to avoid him, and kissed her lips.

  It was like neither time he had kissed her before. Those kisses had been wild, fierce, almost bruising. This was so gentle it made her want to weep, and yet so sweet she could not end it. She had to curl her fingers into a fist so prevent herself reaching up to his cheek.

  He released her, searching her eyes and then lowered his head for another kiss.

  Her breath caught, and she stepped back. “No.”

  He straightened. “No, don’t kiss me? Or no, I won’t elope with you?”

  “Both,” she said flatly.

  “You’re right,” he agreed. “We have much talking to do, the talking we should have done six weeks ago, perhaps.”

  Since he still held her hand, she allowed herself to be led to the sofa, and they sat down together. He kissed her gloved hand, but still did not release it. Instead, he peeled off the glove and turned her hand over. The ugly little wound there had largely healed, leaving only a faint red scar that almost blended with the creases in her palm.

  He kissed that, too. “I’m glad.”

  “I refused to injure myself over you.”

  “I’m very glad!”

  She dropped her gaze. “If you want the truth, you are the strength I hold on to.”

  His breath caught. His fingers tightened on hers. “You know I love you,” he said huskily.

  She swallowed, afraid to believe. “No. I don’t know.”

  “I do,” he whispered. “I always did, from the moment I first looked at you, I think, and yet I always knew it was wrong. Our stations in life were too far apart. I had nothing to give you. And there was Judith.”

  “Everyone is allowed one mistake,” she said. “Mine was Gideon. Judith was yours.” Of course, there would have been other women before Judith, she was sure. He had mentioned a dancer once…

  “Lord Braithwaite spoke to me,” Michael said abruptly.

  “I know.”

  “When he asked me to wait before I spoke to you, I realized that the hopes I’d been harboring were pure fantasy. I had to—I thought I had to—give you the chance to meet someone more suitable. I knew you would. Knew my moment would be gone if I didn’t seize you then. And I couldn’t do that to you.”

  “You think me fickle,” she said flatly. “Because of Gideon.”

  “I think you have the right to be at seventeen!”

  “I’m eighteen now.”

  His lips curved, “Many happy returns.”

  “Thank you. I’m not fickle. And I am mature enough to know the difference between childish infatuation and love!”

  “Love,” he repeated, staring at her. “Do you love me, Maria?”

  She jerked up her free hand and pushed him hard in the chest. “Of course I love you, you stupid, blind, imbecilic man! Why do you—” The rest was lost in his mouth as he swooped and kissed her long and passionately.

  Her arm crept around his neck. She gave in and kissed him back, smiling with pure happiness.

  Maria was so lost in the kiss that she didn’t register the faint rush of the open
ing door until Michael released her mouth and looked up. “My lord,” he said.

  Maria leapt to her feet, startled into speech. “Gervaise! We love each other and we’re going to elope!”

  Closing the door behind him, Gervaise walked into the room. He looked more rueful than angry.

  “No, we’re not,” Michael argued, rising more slowly. “At least not unless you forbid the banns.”

  “I won’t,” Gervaise said.

  Maria’s mouth fell open. “You won’t?” She frowned. “You’ll make us wait another year?”

  “No, I won’t do that either. I’ve watched you, Maria. I’ve seen you pine, and I saw the way you lit up as soon as he came into the room. I’ve watched Hanson work himself to exhaustion, believing no one noticed his misery. I respect him, and I’ve always known he is no fortune hunter.” He glanced from Maria’s no-doubt dazed face to Michael’s. His lips twitched. “I have no objection at all to your marriage. In fact, I propose to return to the castle for a while next week. If you wish, you can be married in Blackhaven.” He turned to leave the room once more. “If you can still stand each other after the journey.”

  Maria laughed, hurling a cushion that struck the hastily closed door.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  A little over three weeks later, they were married in St. Andrew’s Church in Blackhaven.

  After a whirlwind of happy activity, in which Michael tried to deal with everything he could at the House of Commons before he left, and Maria sought a replacement for her charitable work, they swept out of London in a little cavalcade of carriages, with Gervaise, Eleanor, and Mama, plus assorted servants and baggage. The last few days in the capital had been much more enjoyable, with Michael, now her betrothed, a frequent visitor and companion for walks with in the park. In many ways, it was the formal courtship that couldn’t happen before.

  On the first day of the journey, at Maria’s request, they took a detour off the Great North Road to the small town of Shelford. Their coaches, emblazoned with the Braithwaite arms, caused quite a stir as they passed through the streets and halted at the vicarage.

  This was a slightly haphazard building that looked as if it had been built on to several times, but with rather less care than the vicarage in Blackhaven. The church beside it was slightly dilapidated, too.