When She Was Wicked

Chapter Twenty-two

Rose Sherbourne listened to her sister’s even, peaceful breathing. She was probably already dreaming about James. Rose envied her, in a way. Olivia, who expended every ounce of energy she possessed during the day, always fell asleep soon after laying her head on the pillow. Rose tossed and turned, her head full of what ifs, whys, and hows.

At least every night brought her closer to seeing Charles. She’d be at Huntford Manor within the week; they’d be together again. Her heart tripped lightly in her chest.

Until then, she could occupy herself with helping Olivia. Taking care not to bounce the mattress, she slid off the bed and slipped into her robe. Quietly, she padded across the bedchamber, entered the sitting room, and found it empty. Perhaps Anabelle had taken Olivia’s advice and had gone to sleep early. No, a soft light shone beneath her door. She must be working on the ball gowns.

Rose raised a fist to knock on Anabelle’s door, but hesitated. It was only a trip to Lord Harsby’s library. He’d told the girls to avail themselves of all the dusty tomes they wanted. They’d already borrowed several items from his collection, and Rose knew the exact shelf where the travel journals were housed. It would be a simple matter to return the volume of poetry she’d borrowed and select a book or two on ancient Egypt for Olivia.

The house party represented a week of firsts for Rose, and in spite of the awful sense of foreboding she’d felt upon learning that the Earl of Winthrope was a guest, nothing untoward had occurred. The earl had been the model of civility all week long, doting on his wife and their daughter, Margaret.

So much time had passed since the fateful night Rose stumbled into her mother’s room. Sometimes she wondered if her overactive, adolescent mind had imagined the whole sordid thing.

But every couple of months, she awoke in the dark of night, fists clutching the sheets. In her nightmares, she relived every awful detail: the earl’s flabby, pale chest, glistening with sweat; his mistress’s head, bent over his lap; her mother lying prone as the earl pawed at her breasts. The spectacle was all the more shocking because Rose had believed her mother the perfect lady. Never before had she seen her mother with her hair down. The air was thick with their bodily scents. And no wonder they hadn’t heard Rose’s gentle knock—the bedchamber had echoed with the primitive moaning and grunting of wild beasts.

The most haunting part of the dream, however, was when Mama turned her head, opened her heavy-lidded eyes, and stared directly into Rose’s. Alarm, denial, and self-loathing flicked across Mama’s face in quick succession. She must have known there was no way to explain her behavior. Before she could try, Rose fled. She left the house and the estate and ran and ran, as though running could erase the horror of the scene from her mind and perhaps undo it completely.

That image of her mother was the one she remembered most clearly. There’d been happier times—walks in the park, ices at Gunter’s, and skating on the river. But those memories were colorless and unfocused, like she was viewing them through gossamer. No, the sharpest recollection Rose had of her mother was from that terrible night.

The last time she ever saw her.

Rose shook her head to clear it and breathed deeply. She was no longer a green girl but a woman, and it was time for her to face the truth. Life was sometimes ugly and unpleasant. But she didn’t have to dwell on those bits.

Instead she imagined how delighted Olivia would be to see a book on James’s favorite subject—Ancient Egypt—beside her bed when she woke.

Rose quietly retrieved her slippers, clutched the book of poetry to her chest, and headed for the library. The corridor was dark; one lamp flickered halfheartedly on a small table at the top of the landing. She picked up the lantern and tiptoed downstairs, grateful that the entire household seemed to be asleep.

Running into someone when she was alone was… awkward. They would politely greet her, and she would murmur something unintelligible, smile, and nod.

Her sudden withdrawal from the world over two years ago was a source of grave concern to Olivia and Owen, and she regretted worrying them. But something inside her had fragmented that night.

She vaguely recalled having been a happy, whole person before. Sometimes, in her dreams, she was transported to a time when she’d laughed with Olivia and Owen, hugged Papa, and played the piano for Mama. But the memories were murky and distorted—as though she gazed at her reflection in a muddy, swirling lake.

She hadn’t yet figured out how to put herself back together again. Some days, when her emotions were calm and quiet, she felt certain it was only a matter of time before she’d be able to fill the cracks and return to the person she’d been before. Other days, it seemed there wasn’t enough paste in the world to mend her, especially without either Mama or Papa there to help her.

She entered the second-floor room, inhaling the familiar musty smell all self-respecting libraries possessed. Lord and Lady Harsby’s collection was impressive, and the room was well-appointed—thick carpets begged one to walk barefoot and plush armchairs invited one to test their soft cushions.

The travel guides stood in militarily neat rows on a bottom shelf, ready to serve. Finding a couple of books about pharaohs and mummies was an easy matter. Tucking them under an arm, she proceeded to the large bookcase dedicated to poetry. She returned the volume she had and plucked another—a rich leather volume of Donne’s.

The lush imagery and angst drew her in, and before she knew it, she’d settled into a cozy wingback chair, taken off her slippers, and tucked her feet beneath her. Torrents of rain occasionally blew against the large windows, and lightning flashed, providing brief glimpses of the room’s treasures. The minute hand on the grandfather clock made a revolution, or perhaps two. Rose savored the peace and stillness that were so scarce during the daylight hours.

Eventually, however, her eyes blinked in protest. She closed them—just for a moment. After a quick rest, she’d finish the page and sneak back to bed.

But the chair was so comfortable, sleep so seductive.

A tickle on her neck interrupted her slumber. She brushed a hand across her throat, but the sensation persisted. She ignored it.

When a clap of thunder rattled the windows, however, she opened her eyes and bolted upright.

Lord Winthrope leaned over her, his foul breath hot on her face.

A scream rose up in her throat and stuck there. She cowered against the back of the chair and pulled her robe tightly around her. The book of poetry fell off her lap, thudding to the floor.

“So much like your mother.” His words slithered across her skin. “Stunningly beautiful and aloof. But underneath your superior façade lies a woman with a predilection for… naughtiness.” He grasped the base of her throat, putting pressure on her windpipe. Air became terrifyingly scarce.

Trembling, she shook her head. He didn’t know her at all. She was nothing like Mama.

“Oh, but it’s true. She resisted at first, too. Once I introduced her to the more sophisticated pleasures”—he rubbed his crotch—“she couldn’t get enough. You saw us that night, didn’t you?”

She stared blankly, refusing to give any indication of the truth. Inside, though, her heart beat wildly. He knew.

“Your mother worried that you’d tell your father about us. What a ridiculous notion!” He snorted and pointed at the poetry book on the rug by his feet. “You’re reading about sex when you should be trying it. Aren’t you curious to know what all the fuss is about?”

Disgust and the pressure on her throat made her gag.

“You have much to learn, my pretty lass.”

The vein in her neck pulsed frantically beneath his clammy hands. Her feet itched to kick him, but in her vulnerable position, she couldn’t afford to anger him. She pounded the arm of the chair with her fist, desperately hoping a stray servant would hear it and investigate, but the corridor outside the library was void of light or movement.

Frustration welled inside her. A normal girl would scream and awaken the household.

Curse her stupid voice for deserting her. And curse the wretched weakness that prevented her from reclaiming it.

Lord Winthrope leered with undisguised lust and straddled her on the armchair, pinning her to it. He leaned in closer, the rum on his breath stinging her eyes.

She would not be a victim of this grotesque excuse for a human being. Summoning every ounce of courage, she opened her mouth, took as deep a breath as she could, and—

Nothing.

She tried again. Inhaled, and tried to let loose a yelp, a squeal, a grunt. Anything to alert someone to her predicament.

But her windpipe constricted, and the only audible sound she made was a faint gasp—worthless and futile. Oh, why hadn’t she asked Anabelle to accompany her? Tears burned at the backs of her eyes.

Winthrope raised a brow and smiled smugly. “It must be awful for you, being a mute. All kinds of thoughts run through that sweet little head of yours, but you’re reduced to primitive hand signals, much like an ape. I could do anything I wanted to you.” As if to prove his point, he stuck a hand inside her robe and grabbed a fistful of her nightgown. She heard the wrenching of the fabric, and cold air rushed over her shoulder and arm.

Stop. She pleaded with her eyes, but he didn’t look at her face. His lecherous gaze slid over her exposed skin and down her body.

“I believe I shall give you your first lesson. It is called ‘How to Please a Man.’ If you tell anyone of this little encounter, using your odd gestures and pitiful looks, they’ll think you insane. Even if your brother and sister could understand you, which is doubtful, they’d never believe me capable of such atrocities.” He laughed cruelly. “They don’t know the half of it.”

Keeping one hand on her neck, he groped at her breasts, squeezing painfully. She tried to heave him off, but her wriggling only incited him further. He thrust his hips toward her, and his arousal poked her belly, making her want to retch.

If Charles were here, he’d surely snap the earl’s neck. But he wasn’t, and she had to be strong. She couldn’t allow the earl to violate her. Not without a fight.

He lunged forward, his tongue sliding over his teeth like a ravenous wolf.

Blindly, she reached for the table beside the armchair. She knocked over a small trinket; it fell to the rug soundlessly. The earl tightened his hold on her neck, and bright spots shot across her vision like warning flares off the bow of a ship.

She reached again and this time grasped the base of the lantern she’d brought with her. It had some weight to it, and the metal edges were sharp. It was her one and only chance to escape, and unless she acted quickly, blackness would descend. She clutched the thin iron handle and, using all her might, swung the lantern at the earl’s head.