CHAPTER THREE
“Brandy?”
“You know I don’t drink alcoholic beverages. I must set an example for the congregation. Why must you constantly torment me about it?”
Stanley glared at his brother, Oscar, and smirked. “Maybe if you tippled hard spirits now and again, you wouldn’t be such a sanctimonious ass.”
Oscar pursed his lips, which made his face look like a wrinkled prune. “If you summoned me to the house simply to insult and offend, I’ll go.”
“Feel free.” Stanley waved to the door. “You’re not chained to the furniture.”
Of course Oscar didn’t leave. He was always having a tantrum, threatening to stomp out in a huff, but he never did. Besides his being a pretentious dolt, he was the worst penny-pincher. He was more than happy to dine at someone else’s table, to stay late and burn someone else’s candles.
They were in Stanley’s library, with Stanley seated at his desk and staring at Oscar across the long swath of mahogany. It was a petty vanity, but Stanley couldn’t help it. There was no spot at the estate that better underscored their disparate positions than Stanley’s large desk and the fact that he sat behind it and Oscar didn’t.
Supper was over, the guests scattered to talk and mingle. But with Oscar in residence, no one would dare engage in any of the devil’s handiwork such as cards or singing. And dancing was out of the question.
Oscar was a stick in the mud, a douser of fun, a complete and utter bore, but he was the vicar at the parish church, so Stanley had to entertain him occasionally—such as when he was introducing his potential bride to the important people in the neighborhood. Oscar couldn’t have been excluded.
He was Stanley’s only sibling, younger by fifteen years, and from the day of his birth he’d been prickly and unpleasant. They were both bald and shared the same short height, but while Stanley was slender and spry from work and activity, Oscar was lazy and fat as a sow, growing obese from the largesse bestowed on him through his position as vicar.
With Oscar’s nasty ways and vindictive character, he was the very last person who should have been a minister, but Stanley refused to pay Oscar’s bills. The parish was rich due to Stanley’s efforts at Summerfield, so Oscar was well-off financially, and Stanley never had to lay out a farthing of support.
Oscar would like to have more money, but he was too proud to ask for any. For all his pretense and posturing about the saintly state of poverty, he liked his material possessions as much as the next man, and he would have bled the estate dry if Stanley had let him. Oscar was greedy and covetous, always casting his sly gaze around as if assessing worth and trying to decide how wealthy he’d be once Stanley died.
Stanley planned to live forever merely to spite Oscar, merely to ensure that Oscar would never inherit Summerfield.
Their father had been very astute. He’d recognized his sons’ strengths and weaknesses and had left the entire place to Stanley, having grasped that Oscar would have been an awful steward. Their father had pushed Oscar into the ministry where he could wallow in the bounty of parishioners rather than earn his own income.
Summerfield had belonged to the Oswalds for two centuries, and Stanley didn’t have anyone to whom he could bequeath the property. The whole bloody family had barely procreated. There were no uncles or distant cousins. There was just Stanley and Oscar.
Stanley had had the one son with Edwina—Charles—who’d been a pathetic boy with a pathetic moral constitution. The moment he was old enough, he’d fled to London and taken up with actresses and gambling—so he’d been promptly disowned.
Ultimately, he’d gotten himself shot by an angry husband, killed while pursuing a torrid affair with the man’s wife. Since the day that terrible news had arrived, Stanley had never spoken Charles’s name again, and despite Stanley’s exhaustive efforts with Edwina and all the brides that followed, Charles remained the sole child Stanley had ever sired.
Oscar had performed no better. After having wed three times himself, his only claim to parentage was his eighteen-year-old stepdaughter, Veronica. With Veronica’s mother deceased, Oscar was saddled with the girl’s care and upbringing.
She was a spoiled, annoying menace, and after listening for decades to Oscar rail over how Stanley had failed in his raising of Charles, it was delightful to see that Oscar had failed miserably too. Oscar hoped to marry her off and constantly hinted that Stanley should dower her.
But if Veronica had a dowry, she’d be able to convince some hapless fellow to marry her, and Stanley wouldn’t play such a cruel trick on any unsuspecting man.
“I suppose you’re determined to wed,” Oscar said.
“Yes.”
“We’ll be saddled with Miss Ralston whether we wish it or not.”
“Yes.”
“Should you pass away, and there is no child from the union —and considering your history, that will likely be the case—what will be done with her?”
“I’ll provide for her in my will.”
“Out of the estate?”
“Of course out of the estate, you idiot. From where else would the money come?”
Oscar’s sour expression grew even more disagreeable. Though he avoided discussions of birthrights and legacies, he viewed himself as the heir apparent and found every expenditure by Stanley to be a squander of his own fortune.
“And if,” Oscar seethed, “I feel you shouldn’t proceed, I imagine my opinion will be discounted.”
“Not only discounted but completely ignored.”
“You’ll leave me to pick up the pieces.”
“As if you could. You’re a total incompetent. I’ll make sure my affairs are arranged so you won’t be in charge. The last thing I need is you mucking up my funeral.”
“This is so like you, Stanley, so absolutely typical.”
“What’s that? That I’m marrying?”
“Yes. You’re deliberately cheating me out of my inheritance.”
“If I have a son, there will be no cheating involved. He’ll be my heir.”
Oscar smirked. “Why must we maintain the pretense?”
“What pretense is that?”
“We’ve all heard the rumors—even at the rectory.”
A deadly silence fell, and Stanley let it fester before he asked, “What rumors would those be?”
“Your prior wife was extremely vocal in voicing her complaints about you.”
“And they were…?”
“Everyone knows you can’t sire a babe, Stanley. It’s hardly a secret.”
“Are you accusing me of impotence?” Stanley exuded calm and disinterest, though a wiser man would have noticed the ire in his gaze. A wiser man would have shut the hell up.
Oscar chuckled meanly. “Let’s just say that if Miss Ralston suddenly turns up with child, there will be whispers of an immaculate conception.”
Stanley leapt up so quickly that his chair toppled over. He was around the desk in an instant, his hand on Oscar’s throat. He squeezed, cutting off Oscar’s air, and Oscar gasped for breath and pried at Stanley’s fingers.
“Listen to me, you pious little shit,” Stanley fumed. “I allowed you to remain at Summerfield because Father demanded I be kind to you. I swore I would be, and I take my vow seriously. But I don’t think people would care if I decided I’ve done more than enough and you’ve overstayed your welcome.”
Oscar shoved Stanley away and rose to his feet. They were toe-to-toe, eye to eye, but Oscar had always been a coward and was too gutless to throw a punch.
“I want what’s mine,” he whined. “You own everything, and you lord it over me like a king. It’s only fair that I receive my share, and here at the very end, a stranger is jumping in line ahead of me.”
“Well, you irritating gnat, perhaps I’ll drop dead planting a babe in Miss Ralston’s belly. I’m certain my poor heart won’t be able to stand the strain.”
“I’m a man of the cloth,” Oscar huffed. “How dare you be so crude in my presence?”
“Should I expire while sawing away between her shapely thighs, I’ll instruct the butler to send you a note right away so you can be the first to know the method of my passing.” He whipped away and went to sit behind the desk. He straightened his coat, his cravat, and flashed a malevolent grin. “Now then, I’ve extended sufficient courtesy for one evening. Find that annoying tart you call a daughter and get your ass out of my house.”
* * * *
“It will be wonderful to have a woman’s touch at Summerfield. I’m so glad Uncle Stanley is marrying again.”
As she told the lie, Veronica Oswald smiled at Miss Ralston.
“How long has he been a widower?” Miss Ralston inquired.
“A decade? More? He’d never admit it, but he’s been very lonely.”
Veronica thought nothing of the sort.
Stanley Oswald was a vindictive cur who never considered anyone but himself. He controlled and nagged and berated, and he’d never had a kind word for Veronica.
Her mother had wed Oscar when Veronica was five, so she’d been living in the vicarage forever. She and Stanley had always loathed each other. She recognized his penchant for malice and manipulation, and he recognized her lack of morals and flair for duplicity. While most people at Summerfield saw her as winsome and remarkable, he saw to her rotten core.
She detested her stepfather, Oscar, even more than she detested Stanley. She hated his pious posturing and fussy manner, and no matter how fervidly he scolded, she would never be the modest, humble daughter he demanded. On the outside, she pretended to be, but deep down, she was very wicked.
Oscar didn’t get it, but Stanley did, and that’s why she despised him.
Throughout supper, she’d been dying to speak with Miss Ralston alone so she could delve into her past. They were walking in the garden, Veronica feigning friendship, when in reality, the last thing she wanted was a fetching female on the property.
With her black hair, violet-colored eyes, and curvaceous body, Veronica was the prettiest girl in the neighborhood. All the boys doted on her—well, doted as much as they could with Oscar being her father—and she didn’t relish any competition.
Veronica was eighteen, and Miss Ralston a very mature twenty-five, but still, the other woman seemed very grand. At the supper table, all the guests kept sneaking glances at her, particularly James and Lucas, and Veronica was determined that neither of them notice Miss Ralston at all.
It had been an eternity since James and Lucas had had a furlough from the army, and she’d been desperately waiting for them to return and enliven the place. Years earlier, she’d decided to marry one of them, and she was finally old enough. She didn’t have a dowry, but she’d been whispering with her housemaid and had learned a dozen ways she could force a marriage.
Veronica wasn’t averse to trying any of them. In her opinion, any ruse that could extract her from Oscar Oswald’s dreary home was worth it.
“Uncle Stanley tells me you were a schoolteacher,” Veronica said.
“Yes, I was.”
“It must have been exciting to…work.”
“I wouldn’t call it exciting. Most times, it was rather dull.”
“But to earn your own salary! How exotic of you.”
Miss Ralston chuckled. “I guess it was exotic—especially when we women have such limited choices.”
“Where are you from? Who is your family?”
“No one you’d know.”
“Are you sure? My stepfather travels a good deal in his ministry.”
She was fishing for information that Miss Ralston seemed disinclined to provide, which was infuriating. There’d been no mention of her history, and people were abuzz over where Stanley had found her. Veronica wouldn’t be surprised to discover that Miss Ralston had had a scandalous past.
Stanley needed a fertile bride, and Veronica was convinced he’d picked a doxy for the part. In her discussions with her housemaid, the girl had confided that a loose woman was more likely to conceive, a virtuous woman less likely.
From how her stepfather harangued at the pulpit, Veronica would have thought it was the other way around, that a virtuous female would get the baby she deserved, but to Veronica, the world never furnished what a person expected.
She lied and cheated and stole, and she had plenty of fun misbehaving. She couldn’t imagine embracing the tedious existence Oscar touted as a goal.
“I’m an orphan,” Miss Ralston said. “My parents died when I was small.”
“I’m very sorry to hear it.”
Miss Ralston shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”
They were approaching the manor, and up on the verandah, James stepped outside.
“There’s James,” Veronica gushed without remembering to hide her interest.
“Are you acquainted with Mr. Talbot?”
“Yes. Have you met him?”
“Briefly, but I didn’t catch his connection to the household.”
“He doesn’t have one, I don’t think. Stanley rescued him from an orphanage in London when he was a baby.”
“Mr. Oswald did that?” Miss Ralston sounded skeptical.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To keep his wife company. I guess she was lonely.”
“So…he’s not kin to Mr. Oswald?”
“No.”
They reached the verandah, but James had already come down and sneaked off into the garden, which was so aggravating.
Since he and Lucas had arrived back from Spain, James hadn’t spent two seconds with Veronica. During her adolescence, he’d scarcely noticed her, but she was all grown up now and eager for an intimate relationship to commence.
Oscar was sequestered in the library with Stanley, so it was the perfect time to have a few private minutes with James. But first, she had to be shed of Miss Ralston.
“It was lovely to meet you,” she falsely said.
“And to meet you.”
“I hope we’ll be friends,” Veronica fibbed.
“As do I. It will be wonderful to have a companion in the neighborhood. I’ll look forward to your visits.”
Veronica escorted her up the stairs and into the parlor, nearly pushing her through the door in her haste to escape. Then she slipped out and raced into the garden. Off in the shadows she spotted the glowing tip of a cheroot, and she followed the scent of smoke to where James was lurking in the grass.
“Hello, stranger,” she cooed as she sashayed up.
“Veronica.”
“Where have you been? I’ve hardly seen you since you returned.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“With what?”
He stared at her, moonlight gleaming off his hair, making his blue eyes sparkle like diamonds.
He didn’t answer her question, but asked instead, “Why are you out here by yourself? Oscar would have a fit if he knew you were with me.”
“He won’t find out. Besides, I’m eighteen. It’s not his business if I talk to you.”
The summer would be thrilling. She and James would flirt and tease, and ultimately, he would propose. Yet if she couldn’t get him to agree to be alone with her, how would they ever take matters to the next level?
“I have a lot on my mind, Veronica,” he said. “I don’t want any trouble with you.”
“Who’s stirring trouble? We’re just chatting.”
“In the garden, in the dark. I’m not in the mood to tangle with Oscar.”
“Let me have a puff of your cheroot.”
“No.”
“I can smoke. I’m not a child anymore.”
“No, you’re not, and that is precisely the problem.”
She beamed with mischief. “You’ve noticed that I’ve grown up, have you?”
“Oh, I’ve definitely noticed.”
Up on the verandah, a door opened, and suddenly, her stepfather called, “Veronica! Where are you? We’re leaving.”
James motioned toward the stairs and mouthed, “Go.”
She hesitated, pretending she might not, pretending she might linger and be caught with him, but his steely frown informed her that she’d pushed too far.
“Goodbye,” she whispered. She flashed her most enticing grin, then flounced off, giving her hips an extra sway to emphasize her shapely backside.
* * * *
“I’m sorry no one bothered to introduce us.”
“So am I.”
Rose smiled at the handsome blond man she knew only as Lucas. He smiled in return, appearing much too charming, much too amiable.
“You won’t swoon because I’m being forward, will you?”
Rose chuckled. “I’ll try not to.”
“A fellow can never be sure with females. I’ve spent enough time in London ballrooms to have learned many of the absurd rules of etiquette.”
“And what are they?” Rose asked.
“A man should never brazenly introduce himself. He must have someone else intervene—someone who knows the lady and can vouch for his stellar character.”
“I’m told that’s important.”
“It’s a great breach to forge ahead, but I figured you could stagger through.”
“I would hope so.”
“In this house, if I waited for people to remember their manners, I’d be ninety years old before it was accomplished.” He took her hand and made a very polite, very proper bow over it. “Lucas Drake, at your service, Miss Ralston.”
Her heart literally skipped a beat. “Lucas…Drake?”
“Yes. Of the very lofty, very pretentious, very patronizing Sidwell Drakes. No doubt you know of us. Please say you do. If I have to tell my father, George, Lord Sidwell, that you haven’t heard of his exalted self, I can’t predict how he’ll bear up.”
“No,” she lied. “I’m not acquainted with your family.”
“How awful of you not to pretend.”
“I guess I need to develop some guile.”
“You certainly do—if you expect to swim in this ocean of sharks. You’re much too nice. You’ll be eaten alive.”
A young lady hailed him from across the room, and he smiled at Rose again. He was such a charismatic rogue, but he was fully aware of his allure. She imagined he’d broken hearts all over the kingdom. What girl could resist such a devil?
“The vicar has departed.” He murmured the news to Rose as if they were conspirators. “With him having left, we can start dancing.”
“He doesn’t approve of dancing?”
“He doesn’t approve of any frivolity, so we have to behave until he’s gone. Then the fun can begin.” He stepped away. “I promised to help move the furniture in the parlor to clear the floor. When there’s dancing, I usually play the pianoforte—I know all the bawdy songs—but you must drag me away at least once so I can be your partner.”
“I will,” she lied again.
His smile became even more beguiling, and he swept off. She stood, frozen in place until he vanished around the corner, then she slipped out the French windows onto the verandah and fled to the garden.
She wasn’t sure where she was headed. Reeling with emotion, she couldn’t decide whether to be furious or humored. But why would she feel anything at all? What was Lucas Drake to her?
Her cousin, that’s what.
The old Lord Sidwell had been her grandfather, the man who’d disowned her mother and dumped Rose on Miss Peabody when she was four. The current Lord Sidwell was her uncle, the man who’d never contacted her, who’d never visited, who’d never invited her for a single holiday.
Lucas Drake was so oblivious and self-centered that he didn’t note their close relation. It was outrageous. It was humiliating. It was galling.
Had Lucas never been told about Rose’s mother who was his aunt? Had he never been told he had a cousin? If he’d been informed, had he never been apprised of Rose’s name? Did he know her name—Rose Ralston—but was so maddeningly dense that he didn’t grasp their connection?
She was in a blind temper, marching along in the dark and angrier than she could ever recollect being. What with her having agreed to wed Mr. Oswald, she had enough on her plate. Must she deal with Lucas Drake too?
When he’d provided his surname, she should have curtly and succinctly notified him of precisely who she was, but she’d been too stunned to speak up.
Having discovered his identity, she would find it excruciating to socialize, and she wasn’t certain she could be civil. Rumor had it that he and Mr. Talbot were to leave shortly for London. How soon would that be?
She rounded a corner and, to her horror, crashed into a man who was approaching from the opposite direction. She hit him so hard that she nearly knocked him down.
“Oh, oh, pardon me,” she gasped. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”
“You’re in quite a hurry, aren’t you?”
“I wasn’t watching where I was going. I’m sorry,” she repeated.
The man straightened, and he was rubbing his chest where her forehead had smacked into him. As she peered up into his face, she was vexed to see that it was James Talbot.
He’d attended the supper, and they had studiously avoided each other through the entire ordeal, a boon for which she’d be eternally grateful. Now he’d turned up—like a bad penny—to plague her.
“Miss Ralston”—he was grinning—“what’s the rush? Are you running away?”
“No, I’m not running away. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You’re just out for a leisurely stroll?”
“Well…yes.”
“For a moment there, you looked ready to commit murder.”
“I was a bit…undone by a comment I heard inside.” Instantly, she realized it was a stupid admission.
He scowled. “What comment was that?”
“It was nothing.”
“You can tell me. Were you insulted?”
“No, no, don’t be silly, and don’t worry about me.” She forced a smile, struggling to appear a tad less deranged. “I’m merely a little distressed over the changes I’ve endured the past few weeks. I’m not handling all of this with much aplomb. No one could, I dare say. But…I’m fine. Really. I’m fine.”
She was babbling, and he was staring at her with a concerned expression that was unnerving. She could barely keep from flinging herself into his arms and weeping.
She was sad and disheartened and weary. Why was life so difficult? Why was there never any reward for effort and toil? She was a good person, with high moral standards who always tried her best.
She’d had no part in her parents’ folly, yet she’d been punished for it every day. She’d been an unloved orphan, then a spinster schoolteacher, with Miss Peabody being the only one kind enough to offer assistance.
A daughter of the exalted Drake family, she’d had her fortunes descend to the point where she had to wed an elderly stranger to gain some security. It was so unfair, so unjust.
Frivolous, lazy Lucas Drake could wallow in iniquity without consequence. He could behave in any disgusting manner he pleased, then he could go home to his despised father and be welcomed back. He could do those things, but Rose had to marry Mr. Oswald.
Suddenly, tears surged into her eyes and dripped down her cheeks. She swiped at them, but there were too many, and she couldn’t hide them.
He was aghast. “Are you crying?”
“No.”
“You are! You’re crying.”
“I told you I was distressed.”
“You also told me you were fine. You don’t look fine.”
“I am, though. I am.”
She took several deep breaths, wishing the horrid encounter was over, wishing the ground would open and swallow her whole.
“Would you excuse me?” she mumbled, and tried to skirt by him, but he put his hands on her waist, steadying her, stopping her.
“What’s wrong?” His voice was low and seductively compassionate.
“I’m just…unhappy,” she blurted out.
Oh, why couldn’t she be silent? She simply needed to shut her mouth and hurry to her room where she could compose herself, then return to the party without Mr. Oswald being aware she’d been absent.
Yet for some reason, she didn’t want to leave Mr. Talbot. When he stood so close, there was no word to describe the sensations that were stirred. She felt better with him near. She felt less alone and afraid.
He snuggled her to his chest, and though it was recklessly inappropriate, she let him. She didn’t push him away or attempt to maintain any space between them. She wrapped her arms around his waist and held on tight.
She might have been on a ship, riding high waves that were about to crash her onto a rocky shore. At the moment, he was the only stable port, the only safe harbor.
It dawned on her that she couldn’t remember ever being comforted. She supposed it had happened when she was tiny, when her mother had still been alive, but it certainly hadn’t happened at Miss Peabody’s school.
She hadn’t realized that comfort could be so appealing. He had broad shoulders, the type a troubled woman could lean on for support. But they were in an isolated section of the garden, and her emotions were at a dangerous ebb. She gave herself a few weepy seconds to enjoy the embrace, then she eased away.
She peeked up at him, and he was frowning, his brash, egotistical character tucked out of sight.
“You don’t have to marry Stanley,” he vehemently whispered.
“I want to,” she half-heartedly insisted.
“But you don’t have to. Truly you don’t.”
“I think I should. I think I must.”
“I can take you into the village in the morning. The mail coach stops around ten. I’ll buy you a ticket to whatever destination you request. You don’t even have to tell him. You can just leave.”
“Where would I go, Mr. Talbot? That’s the problem. Where would I go?”
They stared and stared, a thousand messages swirling, and it occurred to her that she was incredibly attracted to him. She’d had such limited interactions with men, so it was difficult to recognize it for what it was, but once recognized, it was impossible to ignore.
Was he feeling the same? Was he attracted to her as well?
She grew wearier. It was another calamity heaped on top of meeting her cousin, of having him on the premises and reminding her of the inequities of life.
James Talbot was handsome and virile, the sort of fellow any girl would die to marry, but Rose was marrying Mr. Oswald. Mr. Talbot would be another encumbrance to make her question her choices, to make her rue and regret. How did a woman move forward in the midst of such turmoil? How did a woman thrive under such burdens?
“Don’t let him coerce you, Miss Ralston,” he said.
“I’m not being coerced.”
“Aren’t you? Just say the word, and I’ll send you away from here.”
“There’s nowhere for me to go, Mr. Talbot. There’s nowhere for me at all.”
She spun and ran, a foolish, wild part of her wishing he’d call her name or chase after her, but he had the good sense not to. As she slipped in a rear door, she breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn’t followed.