SLIGHTLY WICKED

by Mary Balogh

  There was a lake down below. It looked neglected and overgrown but rather lovely nevertheless. He was surprised it had not been connected to the wilderness walk. He was trying to decide whether to go down there or not when he saw her. She had just appeared from beneath the overhanging branches of a willow tree. Swimming. She was on her back, kicking lazily, her hair spread about her like a dark cloud.

  Ah. She had come here to be alone.

  He should respect her privacy.

  But he found that his legs were carrying him down the far side of the hill nonetheless.

  Chapter X

  It was a feeling rather than anything she saw or heard—a feeling that she was no longer alone. She opened her eyes and turned her head with some dread, fully expecting that Horace had somehow followed her here.

  For a moment she felt intense relief when she saw that it was Lord Rannulf Bedwyn who was sitting beside the pile of her clothes under the willow tree, one leg stretched out before him, the other bent with one arm draped over his knee.

  Her clothes! She moved swiftly until she was treading water, only her head above the surface. She lifted her arms to sleek her hair back over her head and then, seeing them bare, returned them hastily to the water, spreading them out below the surface to balance herself.

  How foolish, foolish of her to risk swimming here in her shift.

  “I am not,” he said quietly though his voice carried clearly across the water, “going to run off with your clothes. Or force myself on you.”

  “What do you want?” she asked him. She was intensely embarrassed even though they had spent a day and two nights... But that seemed like more than a lifetime ago. It seemed like something that must have happened to someone else.

  “Some quiet time,” he said. “Did he harm you?”

  “No.” Except that she had splashed around for several minutes, trying desperately to get herself clean.

  “I would come and join you,” he said. “But alas, my absence will appear ill-mannered if it is too lengthy. Why do you not come here and join me?”

  She was amazed—and alarmed—at how very tempting the suggestion was. They had nothing more to say to each other and yet... and yet he had saved her from a potentially nasty situation on the wilderness walk. And despite his admission a few days ago that he was a philanderer, she knew somehow that she could trust him not to force unwelcome attentions on her. He had just said so.

  “Is it the fact that I will see you in your shift?” he asked when she did not immediately approach the bank. “I have seen you in less.”

  If she told him to go away, would he go? She believed he probably would. Did she want him to go? She swam slowly toward him. No. If she was perfectly truthful with herself, the answer was no.

  She set her hands on the bank and hoisted herself up, setting a knee on the grass when she was able. Water streamed off her. Her shift clung like a second skin. She turned and sat, her feet still dangling in the water.

  “Perhaps,” she said without turning, “you would be good enough to hand me my dress, Lord Rannulf.”

  “You would only get that wet too,” he said, “and be no better off than you are now. It would be wiser to leave it until you are ready to return to the house and then remove the shift first.”

  “Are you suggesting—” she began.

  “No, I am not,” he told her. “I did not come here to seduce you, Miss Law.”

  Why had he come? For some quiet time, as he had claimed? Was it pure coincidence that he had found her here?

  She was aware of him getting to his feet and shrugging out of his coat. A moment later it landed, wonderfully heavy and warm, about her shoulders. And then he sat down beside her, crossing his legs and looking both informal and relaxed.

  “Has he bothered you between three evenings ago and this afternoon?” he asked.

  “No.” She shook her head. “And I do not expect him to bother me again. I believe I made myself clear today.”

  “Did you?” She was aware that he was gazing at her profile even though she did not turn her head to look at him. “Why did you not make yourself clear to me?”

  “Just now?” she said. “You told me—”

  “When I offered you a ride,” he explained. “When I suggested that we take a room together at the inn by the market green.”

  She could not think of a suitable answer even though he waited for her to speak. She drew her feet out of the water, clasped her arms about her raised knees, and lowered her head to rest her forehead against them.

  “That was different,” she said lamely at last. But how was it different? Perhaps because she had sensed from the very first moment that if she had said no he would not have pressed the point? But how had she known it? And was it true? “I wanted the experience.” But it was a dream she had wanted.

  “You would have taken that experience with Effingham, then, if he had come riding along instead of me?” he asked.

  She shivered. “No, of course not.”

  He did not speak again for a while and when he did, he changed the subject.

  “Your brother is a fashionable young gentleman,” he said,

  “and moves in fashionable circles. Even fast circles, if one may judge from his friendship with Horace Effingham. He is enjoying the idle life of a guest while you are here as a type of glorified servant. Do I detect a story behind those contrasting details?”

  “I do not know,” she said, lifting her head and staring across the water. “Do you?”

  “Is he the black sheep of the family?” he asked. “But do you love him nevertheless?”

  “Of course I love him,” she said. “He is my brother, and it would be very hard to dislike Bran even if he were not. He was sent away to school and university for a gentleman’s education. It is only natural that he would wish to mingle with other gentlemen on a basis of equality. It is only natural that he be somewhat extravagant until he discovers what he wants to do with his life and settles to some career. He is not vicious. He is just...”

  “Thoughtless and self-absorbed?” he suggested when she could not think of a suitable word. “Does he know that he is responsible for your being here?”

  “He is not—” she began.

  “You do altogether too much lying, you know,” he said.

  She turned her head to look indignantly at him.

  “It is not your business, Lord Rannulf,” she said. “Nothing to do with my life or my family is your business.”

  “No, it is not,” he agreed. “By your choice, Miss Law. Have your sisters suffered a similar fate to your own?”

  “They are all still at home,” she said, feeling such a wave of homesickness suddenly that she had to dip her forehead against her knees again.

  “Why you?” he asked her. “Did you volunteer? I cannot imagine anyone was eager to come here to suffer the kindly affection of your aunt.”

  She sighed. “Cassandra is the eldest,” she said, “and our mother’s right hand. Pamela is the third of us and the beauty of the family. She could not have borne to leave, not to be the center of everyone’s admiration—not that she is unduly vain about her looks. And Hilary is too young. She is only seventeen. It would have broken her heart to have to leave our mother and father—and it would have broken all of our hearts too.”

  “But no one’s heart will be broken by your absence?” he asked.

  “One of us needed to come,” she said. “And they did all shed tears over me when I left.”

  “And yet,” he said, “you would defend that extravagant young puppy of a brother to me?”

  “I do not need to,” she said, “or to censure him. Not to you.”

  And yet she was not really angry with him for prying or for understanding the situation so well. It felt treacherously good to have someone interested enough in her life to ask questions about it. Someone who understood, perhaps, the extent of the sacrifice she had made voluntarily . . . though of course she would have been the chosen one even if she had not
offered to come.

  “Where did you learn to act?” he asked. “Does your family engage in amateur theatricals at the vicarage or rectory or wherever it is you live?”

  “Rectory,” she said, lifting her head again. “Oh, dear, no. Papa would have an apoplexy. He is fanatically opposed to acting and the theater and declares that they are the work of the devil. But I have always, always loved acting. I used to go off on my own into the hills, where I would be neither seen nor heard, and throw myself into different roles I had memorized.”

  “You seem to have memorized a great deal,” he said.

  “Oh, but it is not difficult to do,” she assured him. “If you act a part as if you are that character, you see, then the words become your own, the only logical ones to speak under those particular circumstances. I have never consciously memorized a part. I have simply become various characters.”

  She fell silent, rather embarrassed by the enthusiasm with which she had just explained her passion for acting. She had wanted desperately to be an actress when she grew up until she had learned that acting was not a respectable career for a lady.

  Lord Rannulf sat quietly beside her, one wrist draped over his knee, the other hand absently plucking at the long grass. She thought of him as he had looked earlier, his head bent over Julianne, listening attentively to her chatter.

  “Does it amuse you,” she asked, “to toy with Julianne’s affections V The words were out before she fully realized she was about to speak them aloud.

  His hand stilled. “Does she have affections to be toyed with?” he asked in return. “I think not, Miss Law. She is after a titled husband, the richer and more socially prominent the better. I daresay a duke’s son who is independently wealthy seems like a brilliant catch to her.”

  “You do not believe, then,” she said, “that she looks for love or at least hopes for love? That she has some tender feelings? You must be a cynic.”

  “Not at all,” he said. “Merely a realist. People of my class do not choose marriage partners for love. What would happen to the fabric of polite society if we started doing that? We marry for wealth and position.”

  “You are toying with her, then,” she said. “My uncle is a mere baronet. His daughter must be far beneath the serious notice of a duke’s son.”

  “There you are wrong again,” he told her. “Titles do not tell the whole story. Sir George Effingham’s lineage is impeccable, and he is a wealthy man of property. My grandmother believes that the alliance will be perfectly eligible.”

  Will be?

  “You are going to marry Julianne, then?” she asked. She had not fully believed it until this moment despite all Aunt Effingham and Julianne had said.

  “Why not?” He shrugged. “She is young and pretty and charming. And well born and rich.”

  She did not know why her heart and her mind raced with such distress. She had been given her own chance to have him and had refused him. But of course she knew. She could not hear the thought of his being with Julianne. She is young and pretty and charming. And also empty-headed and vain and selfish. Did he deserve better, then? Everything he had told her about himself said no. And yet. ..

  “Of course,” he said, “Miss Effingham and her mama will be disappointed if they hope to see her a duchess one day. I am second in line now, but my elder brother married recently. In the nature of things it is altogether probable that his wife will be breeding soon. If she produces a boy, I will be pushed back into third spot.”

  She knew the look that would be on his face, and sure enough, when she glanced at him she saw the familiar mockery there.

  “Perhaps,” he said, “Lady Aidan will do her duty consummately well and produce twelve sons in as many years. That will leave me almost without hope. What is the opposite of hope? Despair? Each of Aidan’s sons will plunge me deeper into despair.”

  She realized suddenly that his intent was not so much to mock either her or himself as to amuse her. And she was amused. What an absurd picture he painted. She laughed.

  “How dreadfully sad for you,” she said.

  “And if you think my plight desperate,” he said, “imagine that of Alleyne, my younger brother. Aidan busy begetting sons, me twenty-eight years old and in danger of taking a bride at any moment and doing some begetting of my own.”

  She laughed again, looking into his face as she did so.

  “That is better,” he said, a gleam of something that might have been amusement in his eyes. “You need to smile and laugh more often.” He lifted one hand to set his forefinger lightly along the length of her nose for a moment before withdrawing it, adjusting his position, clearing his throat, and gazing out across the lake.

  She felt rather as if she had been branded with liquid fire.

  “Will the duke not marry?” she asked.

  “Bewcastle?” he said. “I very much doubt it. No woman is good enough for Wulf. Or perhaps that is not strictly fair. Since he inherited the title and everything that went along with it at the age of seventeen, his life has been devoted to performing his ducal duties and being head of the family.”

  “And what do you do, Lord Rannulf?” she asked him. “While your brother occupies himself with his duties, what is left for you to do?”

  He shrugged. “When I am home at Lindsey Hall,” he said, “I spend time with my brothers and sisters. I ride and hunt and fish with them and pay social calls with them. My closest friend, Kit Butler, Viscount Ravensberg, lives nearby. We are still close, despite a nasty quarrel a few years ago that left us both bruised and bloody and despite the fact that he is now married. I am on friendly terms with his wife too. When I am not at Lindsey Hall I like to be active. I avoid London whenever I can and soon tire of such places as Brighton, where all is frivolity and idleness. I went on a walking tour of the Scottish Highlands last year and of the Lake District earlier this year. The exercise and experience and company were good.”

  “Do you read?” she asked.

  “Yes, actually.” He looked at her with a lazy smile. “Surprised?”

  She was neither surprised not unsurprised. She knew so little about him, she realized. And she should, of course, be content to let things remain that way.

  “I suppose,” she said, hugging her knees, “the sons of dukes do not have to work for a living.”

  “Not the sons of the duke who sired me,” he said. “We are all indecently wealthy in our own right, not to mention Bewcastle, who owns large chunks of England and part of Wales too. No, we do not need to work, though of course there are traditional expectations of younger sons. Aidan as the second son was intended for a military life and did his duty without a murmur. He sold out only recently—after his marriage. Bewcastle had expected to see him a general in another year or two. I as the third son was intended for the church. I did not do my duty.”

  “Why not?” she asked. “Is your faith not strong enough?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I have rarely known faith to have much to do with a gentleman’s decision to make the church his career,” he said.

  “You are a cynic, Lord Rannulf,” she said.

  He grinned. “Can you picture me climbing the pulpit steps of a Sunday morning, holding my cassock above my ankles, and delivering an impassioned sermon on morality and propriety and hellfire?” he asked her.

  Despite herself she smiled back. She would hate to see him as a clergyman, sober and pious and righteous and judgmental and joyless. Like her father.

  “My father had images of me wearing a bishop’s miter,” he said. “Perhaps even the Archbishop of Canterbury’s. I would have disappointed him had he lived. I have disappointed my brother instead.”

  Was there a thread of bitterness in his voice?

  “Do you feel guilty, then,” she asked, “for not doing what was expected of you?”

  He shrugged. “It is my life,” he said. “Sometimes, though, one wonders if there is any shape, any meaning, any point to life. Do you demand such things of your life, Judith? W
hat possible shape or meaning or point can you discern in what has happened recently to your family and to you as a result?”

  She looked away from him. “I do not ask such questions,” she said. “I live my life one day at a time.”

  “Liar,” he said softly. “What is ahead for you here? Nothing and nothing and nothing again down the years? And yet you do not ask yourself why? Or what the point of going on with life is? I believe you do, every hour of every day. I have seen the real Judith Law, remember? I am not sure, you see, that that vivid, passionate woman at the Rum and Puncheon Inn was the act and that this quiet, disciplined woman at Harewood is the reality.”

  Judith scrambled to her feet, holding his coat about her with both hands.

  “I have been here too long,” she said. “I will be missed and Aunt Louisa will be annoyed. Will you leave first? Or will you—will you turn your back while I dress?”

  “I will not peep,” he promised, resting both wrists over his knees and lowering his head.

  She dropped his coat to the grass beside him.

  “It is damp inside, I am afraid,” she said.

  She peeled off her still-damp shift as fast as she could and pulled on her dress. She twisted her wet hair into a knot and hid it beneath her cap. She put on her bonnet and tied the ribbons firmly beneath her chin.

  Nothing and nothing and nothing again down the years.

  Her teeth chattered as she hurried to make herself look presentable.

  “I am dressed now,” she said, and he got to his feet in one fluid motion and turned toward her.

  “I do beg your pardon,” he said. “I upset you.”

  “No, you did not,” she assured him. “I am a woman, Lord Rannulf. Women are accustomed to boredom, to futures that spread ahead of them without...”

  “Hope?”