Wayward One

by Lorelie Brown

  She looked to the door, worried the reverend would burst in. “You can’t say such things in this place,” she whispered.

  He didn’t seem to hear her. His gaze turned inward, contemplative. “I can’t remember the last time I received a present all prettied up in bows. Maybe never.”

  A profound sadness struck her. Suddenly she knew with crystal clarity why she intended to marry him. So they could create together the sort of simple home life they’d never had. Her purpose and intentions had been floating just out of reach. At the same moment that he gave her the most perfect wedding gift, he also gave her the rest of her life. What she would work toward.

  “Oh, Fletcher,” she murmured.

  He waved off her concern. “I don’t need sympathy. It occurs to me, probably too late, that I likely should have wrapped this.”

  From his pocket he withdrew an object. At first it was only a tumbled glint of gold in his large hand. But he tugged free a chain and dangled a locket.

  She took it with hands that shook. A haze of tears clouded her vision. “Is this…is it really…?”

  “Your mother’s locket.”

  She fumbled at the clasp, but her gloves, which had seemed sinfully thin when she’d purchased them, were too thick to work it. She yanked one off with her teeth. It fell to the ground unheeded by either of them. The warmth of Fletcher’s body seeped into the gold.

  The thickness in her throat became a knot she couldn’t swallow away when she finally got it open. Her mother’s face smiled out at her. The same dark slashing eyebrows she saw in the mirror every morning, the same full mouth. In the miniature portrait, she looked years younger than Sera remembered, which was unsurprising. The shocking part was the faraway absentness that turned her brown gaze into a fairy girl’s eyes.

  Sera had always assumed Mama had developed that floating insouciance as a defense against the reality of their situation. Perhaps it had been what got her in trouble in the first place.

  Fletcher smiled down at her with a palpable pleasure. She stroked her free hand over his cheek. He had every right to look so smug, having given her such a gift. “Where did you find it?”

  “Rick gave it to me after the fire. It was found with them.” A slightly chagrined smile curled his lips. “I know I should have given it to you immediately, but first I worried about it being stolen at that school. By the time I could afford to move you to the Waywroth Academy a year later, I’d got rather used to carrying it around.”

  “It’s all right,” she breathed. She leaned up on her tiptoes to kiss him. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  As fleeting as that kiss was, he insisted on more. One big hand wrapped around the back of her neck and held her still for a swift assault. Her mother’s locket clutched in one hand, she thrilled to giving him whatever he wanted, no matter their location.

  “You’re not mad that I failed to wrap it?”

  She shook her head. “Not mad at all. You could have thrown it into the fireplace cinders and I’d have still fished it out.”

  He laughed. “I’d never put my angel through that.”

  The locket felt so unsubstantial in her hand. A simple engraved heart with a starburst inside decorated the oval surface. She flipped it open again, just because she could. It seemed a minor miracle that she could look on her mother’s face anywhere outside her memories.

  At the outside edge, near the clasp, a thread of her glove caught on a rough patch. She held it up closer to her face. No bigger than a hair’s width, a tiny gap seamed through the gold. She scraped it and was shocked when another layer fell open. Her breath caught in her throat.

  Another miniature portrait nestled inside the hidden compartment. This one was a young man barely on the cusp of manhood. A happy smile turned out from the tiny gold frame. Otherwise unremarkable features assembled within a lean face. On the opposite side curled a lock of brown hair.

  Fletcher leaned over her shoulder. “Who is that?”

  She touched a fingertip to the brushy ends of the keepsake. It was softer than a watercolor brush. “I don’t know.”

  Fletcher’s hand cupped hers, the better to angle the picture to the gaslight sconce on the wall. “He looks a bit familiar, doesn’t he?”

  “About the mouth, maybe?”

  “I think that’s it. He looks like he’s about to start laughing at any moment.”

  Something soft and sweet bloomed inside her. “He does at that.”

  “I feel like I ought to know him.”

  Sera certainly shared the feeling, though perhaps for an entirely different reason. Maybe he’d been the star of all the romantic fairy tales her mother had regaled her with. “I think I’ll ask Victoria. She knows everyone in the ton.”

  “Do you think…?” Fletcher’s gaze turned to her. Worry and concern commingled in his pulled-flat mouth. “Do you think he might be your father?”

  She couldn’t seem to stop touching the little painting. The boy—because he could hardly be called a man—wore the round-collared waistcoat of the previous generation. “I don’t know. Perhaps. But even if he wasn’t, he’s still important to me.”

  He curved a hand over her neck and used a thumb to gently force her chin up. “Why?”

  “Because he was important to Mama. That’s enough for me.” She smiled. Looking at the man who would become her husband in a matter of minutes, it suddenly became easier to understand how her mother had managed to maintain her optimistic outlook. She’d carried her love with her daily. “I can’t believe it managed to escape any effect of fire.”

  “It was a little sooty when Rick gave it to me, but I polished it up.” A boyish smile crossed his features. “I take it I provided an appropriate wedding gift? I thought about showering you in jewels befitting a princess.”

  “Nothing could have been more perfect.”

  “I’ll provide the jewels later, I suppose.”

  She didn’t need ostentatious fripperies. They’d make her stand out more than was comfortable. “Will you put it on me?”

  He eyed her gown dubiously. “Are you sure? It might be a little out of place.”

  She smiled. Everything within her had finally calmed. She hadn’t been more sure of anything else in her life. “Absolutely.”

  Quick motions stripped his gloves in order to work the small clasp, and he shoved them inelegantly in a pocket. He stepped behind her to loop the slender chain around her neck. He wasn’t so much taller than her that they would look like a caricature when making appearances in society, but he certainly was tall enough that she felt her own femininity.

  She grasped the locket once again to reassure herself it was still there, then tucked it out of sight.

  Fletcher’s blunt nails scraped lightly over the nape of her neck as he fitted the necklace to her. She shivered and let her head bend under the weight of his intense focus. Once the necklace was secure, he folded his hands around her shoulders. Even through the thick silk and layers of lace he evoked thoughts absolutely unsuitable for a church’s anteroom.

  “Miss Miller,” he whispered. His breath floated over the shell of her ear.

  “Yes, Mr. Thomas?”

  He feathered kisses over a sensitive spot behind her earlobe. She ought to push him away, but flying high on the pure romance of the moment, she tilted her head to allow him freer access. Her mother would have approved and cooed about how they’d live happily ever after. Too bad she seemed to be lacking her mother’s eternal optimism.

  “Are you ready to become my bride?”

  She held on to the magic locket and its hidden secret. “I’ve never been more ready.”

  The wedding itself passed Sera by in a rush of vows and prayers that seemed anticlimactic compared to Fletcher’s gift. To her, that would always be the moment they’d cemented their union. The quiet, spartan room had been the beginning of the rest of her life.

  Even after Fletcher kissed her before the altar and they’d descended the aisle arm in arm, there was the wedding b
reakfast to get through.

  The party proceeded en masse to Fletcher’s house—her house now. She was no longer a guest acting beyond her appropriate purview. She was the mistress of the house.

  A tiny frisson sliced up her spine when she walked in the front door, still on Fletcher’s arm. They proceeded to the gold parlor. She saw the rooms through new eyes once again, worrying how others would see it. The half-undressed Salome had been removed, but with such a time limit she’d had to replace it with an unremarkable landscape that didn’t quite match the colors.

  Luckily the party was small. Lottie and Victoria would shake off anything short of dancing monkeys, with laughs and teasing to come later. Mrs. Waywroth had declined to attend the celebration, saying that it pleased her enough to see one of her favorite students married—which had given Sera a giddy rush of approval—and that she had to get back to the academy before the students ran wild.

  Sera had pressed Fletcher for whom he wished to invite, either to the wedding or the breakfast, but he’d demurred and claimed very few of his acquaintances were appropriate for her company. Part of her had been proud of him for thinking of the rules of society, but the rest of her had chafed under the implication that she might need to be sheltered. As if he’d forgotten the first ten years of her life.

  Her appreciation of polite society had nothing to do with her forgetting those years. Rather, it was in celebration that there was a more beautiful kind of life possible.

  Worry plucked at her nerves. There were so many things that could go wrong, even when it was among her friends. At least Mr. Raverst had pleaded work and chosen to abstain from the gathering. Though Mrs. Farley had said he’d near on lived at the mansion previously, he’d been conspicuously absent since Sera’s arrival.

  She couldn’t help but think she must have offended him somehow, and that was unacceptable. It was one thing to give a person an intentional snubbing based on their unfitness to good company. To give accidental insult was unspeakably rude.

  Fletcher walked over to the sideboard and poured them both glasses of sherry. He pressed one into her numb fingers.

  She swirled the liquid against the sides of the glass. “I wonder what’s keeping them. It wasn’t so far to the church.”

  Since Sera hadn’t wanted to raise a fuss, the church where they’d married had been at the very edge of acceptable London, which also meant it was less than fifteen minutes away. She and Fletcher had made the journey in his carriage, and Victoria, Lottie and Victoria’s aunt were to have ridden in a second directly behind them.

  “They seem like smart girls,” Fletcher said, though Sera didn’t know where he’d have formed that impression. They hadn’t done any more than glare at him during his visit to the factory girl’s school. From what she’d been able to gather, they’d passed barely a handful of words before the ceremony.

  Sera rubbed at the sharp pain in her temples. Ridiculous to realize exactly how much rode on a simple breakfast. If Fletcher didn’t get along with Victoria and Lottie, she didn’t know what she’d do.

  Her chin jerked up at a terrible thought. Good heavens, what if he didn’t like them and tried to put a stop to her involvement with the school?

  “Here,” Fletcher said. He pushed the hand holding the wine up toward her mouth. “I know you don’t like it, but drink some. Consider it medicine.”

  She looked up but couldn’t quite seem to focus on him. Perhaps she should go to the kitchens to ensure everything ran smoothly. Lord only knew what would happen if she weren’t there to make sure Betsy kept her fingers out of the pudding. “Medicine?” she echoed. “But I’m not ill.”

  Fletcher chuckled and urged her to drink. She obeyed, letting the tart taste roll through her mouth.

  “No,” he agreed. “But you do look about as tense as a trebuchet.”

  “A trebuchet?” A helpless laugh spilled from her. It was a silly-sounding word, after all. She took another deep drink of the wine. “What in the world is that?”

  Fletcher shook his head with mock disgust. “What in the world did they teach you at that school of yours?”

  “Mrs. Waywroth is a model of proper governance,” she replied, but she couldn’t quite keep the smile off her face. Since she so seldom indulged in alcohol, the wine was having quick effect on her spine, loosening it until her corset remained the only thing holding her up.

  “I suppose one could call a trebuchet the predecessor to the modern cannon.” He took the empty glass from her hand and set it on a table to the side. In her palm, he traced out a pattern to match his words. “Many had an A-frame, with an arm that extended and held the load to be lobbed at the castle one wished to besiege. The arm was locked down before a rope was wound and wound tight, until the force could barely be held in.”

  Little tingles wove under his finger, across her palm and up the length of her arm. Fletcher still maintained the same strange, nearly mystical effect on her. She shouldn’t be surprised since they’d barely gotten used to each other. She pushed away the fluttery feeling that took up residence low in her body.

  “I’m this trebuchet? How romantic. I do believe that’s what every woman desires to hear on her wedding day.”

  “Hmm. Perhaps you’re right.” He pursed his mouth faintly as he played at considering her words. “I’m terribly sorry, my dear. I should never have compared you to a trebuchet.”

  “That’s much better,” she said, but even she heard the laugh lurking in her voice.

  “Most certainly, you’re the castle instead.”

  “A castle.” She lost control of the laugh. It poured from her, sounding hysterical at the edges. “How am I a castle?”

  He leaned near enough that the very warmth of him seeped into her bones and loosened her joints. His voice dropped to a low rumble as fire lit his pale eyes. “Because I intend to lay siege to you tonight. I’ll explore every inch of you until you have no more defenses and I find my way in.”

  The banked embers within her burst into conflagration. “Oh,” she breathed, unable to think of any other reply.

  He bent closer, and she could tell from the way he intently watched her mouth that he meant to kiss her. There was very little she wanted more in the world.

  She spread her hand over his chest and stopped him anyway.

  She’d made that mistake twice before. To do so again, in the bright light of day, in the parlor of all places, seemed somehow wanton. As if that weren’t enough, her friends and Mr. Raverst were due any moment.

  Fletcher stopped at the small pressure upon his chest, but it did nothing to cool his ardor. “I will have you,” he said, and she couldn’t tell if it were a threat or a promise. “Tonight. You’ll be mine. And I’ll take hours at my duties.”

  She swallowed. Surely that wasn’t normal.

  “Now, now, none of that,” Lottie said from the doorway.

  Sera whirled, a smile breaking through the thick atmosphere of lust that had been clouding her mind.

  Victoria peeked around Lottie, who was much taller than the duke’s daughter. Victoria’s aunt Lady Dalrymple was nowhere in sight. With her advanced age, however, seemed to come more frequent visits to the powder room. “There will be plenty of time for that later, I’m sure.”

  Fletcher’s eyebrows went up a fraction. He wasn’t used to hearing a blue-blooded lady speak even obliquely of such matters. Neither was Sera for that matter, but she and her friends had long ago adapted a less formal manner of speech than she’d allow with any others.

  She held out her hands to them both. “I’m so grateful you could come.”

  Lottie’s laugh ricocheted around the room, as wild and raucous as ever. “Like we would miss it for the world.” She bent her head near Sera’s and whispered, “We expect a full accounting later.”

  She shook her head as heat swept across her cheeks. She could not endure that conversation, not even if they begged. They probably would.

  “Lady Victoria, Miss Vale, I’m pleased as well you could
be there in support,” Fletcher said.

  Victoria gave him her most imperial look, the one that slanted down her aristocratic nose. “Rest assured, Mr. Thomas, we would go to any lengths to assist Miss Miller.”

  His smile took on a wicked gleam. “I believe you mean Mrs. Thomas.”

  Lottie laughed from where she’d drifted over to the sideboard. She poured herself a glass of wine. “Touché, sir. But no matter her name, Miss Miller or Mrs. Thomas, as friends we always support each other.”

  “A noble purpose.”

  Victoria beamed beatifically at him. If one didn’t know better, they might believe the surface-level cheeriness all she had. “I’d have thought a man in a position such as yours would be a little more astute. There’s nothing noble about the way my father will destroy you if I wish it so. And please do be assured—if my friend is hurt in any way, I will very much wish it.”

  Oh yes. Her husband and her friends were off to a remarkable start. Marvelous.

  Fletcher hardly seemed to care what Victoria or Lottie thought of him. He smiled and deftly turned the conversation to safer subjects.

  Eventually Sera began to breathe easier. Their smiles became more genuine, and real laughs began to ping around the room. When Victoria took her by the arm for a private chat, she went willingly.

  “Are you happy, Sera?” Concern was writ on her friend’s face in tiny tucks around her eyes.

  Sera wove her fingers together before her waist as she decided how to explain herself. There was still so much they needed to work out, the first of which would be the easing of the desperate hunger she felt for Fletcher. Even now, he stood with one arm resting on the ribbon-draped mantelpiece, and the turn of his thick shoulder was enough to fill her with wicked thoughts. Several long weeks had passed since she’d been privy to the sight of him half naked. Though she shouldn’t long for it, she did. Which was a large part of her problem.

  She’d found occasional trinkets out of place in her room. Nothing substantial, nothing she could swear to—and she’d begun to wonder if her mind had started inventing excuses to seek out Fletcher. As a result, she’d not gone to him at all.