by Cheryl Holt
She had staggered to a stop, when suddenly, a man stepped from the shadows.
“Miss Ralston, Rose,” James Talbot said. “Why are you out here? Has something happened? You look upset.”
“Don’t call me by my given name.”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Because it’s wrong. Because it confuses me.”
“Good. I want you confused.”
He came to her, quickly covering the ground that separated them. The moment she’d recognized him, she should have fled. But she hadn’t, and now, she couldn’t move. She was frozen in place, watching him approach.
“Why are you out here?” she asked, anxious to break the tension festering.
“I was thinking about you.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“I was. I was thinking about you with Stanley. I was thinking about you marrying him.”
“Don’t say that. Don’t pretend you care about me.”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Because I want someone to care! I’m so alone, and I need a friend, but it can’t be you.”
“No, I never have female friends, and friendship isn’t what I’d like from you. Where you’re concerned, I have more despicable ideas.”
“I have to go back inside.” Still, she didn’t move.
He leaned in, standing so close his boots slipped under the hem of her skirt, his legs tangled with hers. He drew her to him, her entire front—breasts, stomach, thighs—crushed to his.
Sparks ignited, and she felt thrillingly alive in a manner she never previously had. Sounds were clearer. Colors more vibrant. The night air pressed down, and a sense of expectation arose, as if any wild, heady conduct would be allowed.
Before she realized what he planned, he dipped down and captured her lips in a torrid kiss, stirring a desire she hadn’t understood herself to possess. She yearned to do things and try things she didn’t comprehend. Her body seemed to reach out with longing, as if it instinctively knew there was a way to connect with him on a deeper, more potent level.
His hands were in her hair, and he was plucking out the combs that kept the weighty mass anchored in its tidy chignon. Fleetingly, it dawned on her that she didn’t have any others, that she’d have to sneak out in the morning and hope she found them before a gardener stumbled on them and wondered what loose woman had been misbehaving in the dark.
She’d never carried on so brazenly, and she truly intended to pull away, to stop him, but she couldn’t bring herself to make him halt.
She couldn’t predict what might have occurred, what she might have permitted, but his naughty, crafty fingers had drifted to her chest and were unbuttoning her dress. Every inch of her being, down to the tiniest pore, shouted for her to encourage the reckless liberty, but she knew better, and she yanked away.
They were breathing hard, as if they’d run a long race. He was staring at her, looking angry, looking as confused as she always was in his presence.
She lurched away, and he grabbed for her. Her mind screamed for her to let him hold her, to begin again, but she simply couldn’t.
“I can’t do this,” she murmured.
“Yes, you can.”
“No. This isn’t the way. This could never be the way. You said so yourself. You don’t want me.”
“I do want you,” he vehemently replied, and he certainly appeared to mean it.
“Yes, here in the garden where no one can see, where no one will know, but nowhere beyond that.”
“No,” he coldly said. “There’s no room for you in my life.”
“And there is no room for you in mine.”
She turned and dashed away as she should have from the very first.
“Rose!” he called, his daring to loudly speak her name only underscoring how matters were escalating.
But she ignored him and kept on.
CHAPTER SIX
Rose heard a noise, and she tensed, but it was only the floorboards creaking. She breathed a sigh of relief that it wasn’t Mr. Oswald sneaking into her bedchamber so they could march down the road to perdition.
She’d agreed to his scheme. She shouldn’t have, but she’d struggled and fretted and couldn’t think of a viable alternative.
She’d humiliated herself by asking James Talbot to rescue her, but he’d had the sense to refuse. Then, she’d briefly flirted with the notion of revealing her identity to Lucas Drake, throwing herself on his mercy and begging for assistance, but he was even more of a reprobate than Mr. Talbot—if that was possible.
Her final choice would have been to borrow coach fare from someone and travel back to Miss Peabody’s school. But to do what? She didn’t know if Amelia and Evangeline were still in residence, and even if they were, how—precisely—could they help Rose?
If they hadn’t already left, they would shortly be on their way to meet their new husbands, and Rose couldn’t tag along on that journey. She had to hope that both women had a better conclusion than Rose had had. She would hate to suppose it would be awful for all three of them.
She was twenty-five and had no family to claim and no place to call her own. If she could furnish Mr. Oswald with an heir, she would belong at Summerfield. The solution was that simple. She was an optimist, and she would bear him a child. She would give him what he wanted and get what she wanted in return.
Then, for the rest of her life, she’d pursue ethical causes, praying that a plethora of good deeds would erase whatever sins she committed with Mr. Oswald at the very beginning.
Another noise echoed, and she braced, positive he was arriving. But again, the house settled, and she relaxed on the pillow.
It was late, and she was in her bed, wearing her nightgown and naught else. Her hair was down and brushed out, a blanket over her lap. She hadn’t a clue what was about to transpire, but it couldn’t be too horrid. Women throughout history had experienced it and survived.
Mr. Oswald insisted it was simple to accomplish, and she took him at his word. He was much older than she was and would be able to quickly and deftly show her how it was done.
If she’d once had romantic notions of wedding a dashing swain—someone like Mr. Talbot for instance—she shoved the thought aside. She wasn’t a naïve girl, wasn’t a foolish dreamer.
This was reality. This was Rose taking charge of her future, and the reward for her efforts would be motherhood.
Suddenly, a door opened and closed, and her pulse raced with alarm. The sound had come from her dressing room so, apparently, there was a secret door she hadn’t noticed. Footsteps tiptoed across the floor, and momentarily, Mr. Oswald appeared. She’d been expecting to see him in his nightclothes, but he was attired as he’d been earlier at supper, coat, cravat, trousers, shoes.
“Miss Ralston.” He gave a slight bow.
“Mr. Oswald.”
“You look very pretty,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Are you nervous?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t be. It will be over in a thrice, and the first time at any endeavor is always the most difficult, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Once you learn the ropes, you’ll think back on tonight and wonder why you were ever afraid.”
“I’m not afraid,” she claimed, though she was. “I’m just anxious over what I don’t know.”
“Every bride is. It’s the nature of the beast, I suppose.”
She blushed. “I hope I please you.”
“I’m very pleased. You suit my purposes.”
High praise indeed!
He walked to the bed and eased a hip onto the mattress, but he didn’t touch her. He simply stared, then stared some more.
The strain was too onerous to be believed. She’d assumed he’d grab her and push her onto her back, or…some such behavior. Yet nothing happened.
He laid a palm on the top of her head and stroked it down her hair, his fingers riffling the auburn tresses. To her shame, she jumped.
; “Sorry, sorry,” she hastily said, struggling to calm herself sufficiently that she didn’t slap him away and leap off the mattress.
“It’s all right,” he soothed.
“I guess I’m a tad more distraught than I realized.”
He nodded. “That’s perfectly normal.”
Still, he didn’t proceed.
“Should I…do something?” she finally asked. “I must remind you that I’m quite ignorant as to what’s required of me.”
“No, no, there’s nothing you need do.” He clasped her hand in his. “There is another detail I have to confide.”
“I see,” she slowly responded, but she didn’t see at all.
“Initially, it may seem odd to you, but you must trust me. You trust me, don’t you?”
She absolutely didn’t, but could hardly say so. “Yes, I trust you.”
“You can’t ever tell anyone about what occurs in this room.”
“I won’t. I already gave you my word.”
“Yes, but there’s a second part to it I didn’t share.”
“What is it?”
“Give me your promise again. Swear that I have your complete discretion.”
“Of course you have it.”
“This won’t go in the exact direction you’re envisioning, but I’m sure—once you’re cognizant of the facts—it will be much more enjoyable for you this way.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
Motion in the doorway caught her eye, and she glanced over to discover that James Talbot had entered. He was silent, leaned on the doorframe and watching her as Mr. Oswald had been watching her. He appeared bored, as if he’d rather be anywhere else in the world but in her bedchamber.
Rose blanched with surprise, her thoughts chaotic as she tried to unravel the sudden turn of events. What was happening? What scheme were they hatching?
“Why is Mr. Talbot here?” she hotly inquired.
“Remember when I told you,” Mr. Oswald replied, “that the marital act is very physical?”
“Yes, yes, I remember.”
“I am an old man, Miss Ralston, and it is not possible for me to perform as I must in order to sire a child.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There is a…situation that must arise for me to accommodate you, but my body can no longer achieve it. I haven’t been able to in years.”
“So…what are you saying?”
Mr. Talbot answered for him. “He’s saying that I will do it for him. My body is working just fine.”
Rose peered at Mr. Talbot, then Mr. Oswald, then Mr. Talbot again. Their expressions were unreadable, enigmatic, revealing no detail, and she was perplexed over what her response should be. There were a thousand questions she should ask, but she was so unschooled in amour that she couldn’t imagine what they should be.
From the very first, she’d been uneasy about the betrothal. Yet she’d agreed to the terms—despite her misgivings. Then Mr. Oswald had changed the terms, refusing to marry her unless she proved fertile. She’d agreed again.
She’d been stupidly accommodating throughout, and this—this!—was what he proposed? That she engage in marital relations with Mr. Talbot?
It was sordid and immoral and despicable. How dare he demand it of her!
Mr. Oswald was the one who couldn’t procreate, but he’d put the burden on her shoulders, pretending it would be her fault if no babe was conceived. He was contemptible and shameless. He was wicked and disgraceful and dishonorable and…and…and…
She couldn’t count the derogatory adjectives needed to describe him. And as to Mr. Talbot…well…
“No,” she firmly said. Mr. Oswald was still holding her hand, and she yanked it away and repeated, “No.”
“Now Miss Ralston,” Mr. Oswald simpered, “if you’ll just—”
“No!”
“You must listen to me.”
“Get out of my bedchamber. Both of you get out.”
“If you’ll let me explain.”
“You couldn’t—not if you had a hundred years to try.”
“Our bargain will be exactly the same, except you’ll proceed with James.”
“Get out!”
“He’s young and handsome, and I’m old and decrepit. You’re a smart girl. Think how it would be with me—and how much better with him! I’m doing this for you.”
With each idiotic comment, Rose’s temper spiked. If she’d been clutching a pistol, she’d have shot him in the center of his cold, black heart.
She glared at Mr. Talbot. “Did he put you up to this or did you conjure it up on your own?”
Mr. Talbot shrugged. “He asked me, and I owe him many favors.”
“You’d do this for him as a…favor? You have the gall to say such an offensive thing to my face?”
He shrugged again. “It’s for the best if it’s me.”
“The best for whom?” she spat. “You? Him? For I certainly cannot imagine where there is any benefit for me!”
She slithered to the other side of the mattress and leapt to the floor.
“Get out of here! Or I will start screaming, and I will continue screaming until the footmen arrive to learn what is wrong.”
“Miss Ralston, honestly!” Mr. Oswald fumed. “I detest female hysterics and won’t tolerate them in my home.”
“Hysterics?” she hissed. “I’ll show you hysterics!”
She went to the wardrobe and jerked it open. She grabbed her shoes and threw them at the two men. Her winter boots were next. She raced to the fireplace, seized the poker and tossed it too. There were logs in a basket, and she pitched them in a wild volley, finally managing to hit Mr. Oswald in the arm.
“Obviously,” Mr. Talbot told Mr. Oswald, “she’s in no condition for rational discussion. Let’s go. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
Mr. Oswald frowned at Rose, exhibiting what appeared to be a huge amount of malice, as if she’d turned out to have every bad feminine trait after all.
“Come on,” Mr. Talbot urged, and Mr. Oswald huffed over to him.
“We’re not finished,” Mr. Oswald hurled at Rose like a threat.
“Oh, yes we are,” Rose replied.
“We’ll see,” he seethed.
They stomped out, and she listened as they departed through the hidden door.
She rushed to her dresser and snatched up the key Mr. Talbot had given her. She ran to the dressing room and searched the walls, locating the door behind a hanging tapestry. She stuck the key in the lock, delighted to find that it fit and it worked.
For good measure, she dragged the bathing tub over to block the entrance, providing herself with even more security.
Then she staggered to the bedroom and sank down on the bed. As the quiet settled, she stared at the wreckage from her tantrum. Footwear and logs were strewn everywhere, and she should have straightened the mess, but she was too astonished to move.
What now? What now?
There was only one answer to that question.
She retrieved her battered portmanteau and began packing her clothes.
Her situation was no different than it had been when she’d first agreed to Mr. Oswald’s absurd proposition. She had no money and no relatives or friends to offer shelter, so she had no idea where she’d go—or how she’d get there—but one thing was certain: She would not remain where she was for another second.
* * * *
“Hello, Miss Ralston.” She ignored James, marching on as if he were invisible, so he tried again. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Sod off, you despicable cur.”
“Miss Ralston! Such language! I’m shocked, shocked I tell you.”
He bit down a chuckle, recognizing that levity would make her even more furious. The angrier she became, the more difficult it would be to mend the muddle Stanley had caused.
Stanley thought he knew best, that his age and maturity conveyed insight into the human condition. But Stanley was a fool.
After s
he’d chased them from her bedchamber, James had told Stanley she’d leave, even though it was the middle of the night, but Stanley had insisted she wouldn’t. James’s current location—out on the road and almost to the village—proved who had been correct.
He jumped down from his horse, reins in hand, and walked beside her, matching her stride for irate stride. It was dark, but the moon was up, so it was easy to see their route.
In the festering silence, her rage was palpable. He deserved her wrath, he supposed. He’d warned Stanley that there were better ways to win her acquiescence, but Stanley’s greatest deficiency was that—when he set himself on an path—he couldn’t be dissuaded.
“If I call you Rose, you’ll probably bite my head off.”
She halted and whipped around to face him.
“Sod off!” she fumed. “What part of that crude insult don’t you understand?”
“Where did you learn such a derogatory phrase?”
“I grew up in a boarding school, Mr. Talbot. I was a teacher there for the past eight years. Do you think boys are the only ones who have a lock on foul speech? Well, I can promise you they’re not. I am fully fluent in epithets and cursing. Should I demonstrate?”
“I wish you’d call me James.”
“In your dreams.”
“Yes, in my very vivid dreams where we aren’t fighting and where you have the chance to discover that I’m actually wonderful.”
“I repeat: You are a despicable cur, now slink back to your master like the wretched dog you are. Leave me be!”
She started off again, her pace more determined, and he remained with her, his mind racing to find words that would calm her, but there weren’t any.
“May I carry your bag for you?” he asked.
“No.”
“I’ll bet it’s heavy. Let me tie it to my saddle.”
“No!” she said more firmly.
She peeked up at him, missed her step, and nearly fell. Her portmanteau tumbled out of her hand and skidded across the dirt.
“Look what you made me do!” she seethed.
“Me? You tripped. I hardly see how it’s my fault.”
