Wilde in Love

  When the butler mentioned that he had a visitor, he’d seen a flash of something in Willa’s eyes that he chose to think was jealousy. It was cheering to see that trace of possessiveness.

  He opened the library door, expecting to find his father on his high horse, every inch the duke. In fact, he thought His Grace and Lady Knowe would be towering over the visitor.

  Instead they were all seated. He approached them, his shoes making no noise on the thick Aubusson carpet covering the library floor. Their visitor was talking in a soft voice, her back to the door.

  Soft brown ringlets, unpowdered and unadorned, fell to her shoulders. She was wearing a gray dress, cut high around her neck and made of cloth that had no interest in the shape of a human body, but formed a box that hung from the shoulders.

  That dress advertised itself and its wearer. It was a dress that might be worn by a missionary’s daughter.

  The thought, and a second look, sent a sickening jolt through him.

  Unless he missed his guess, the woman sitting in his father’s library was Miss Prudence Larkin, who had neither been given a locket, nor—obviously—been eaten by cannibals.

  He’d last seen her years before, when she was fourteen, and although the skin that had been spotty then was now milky white, her snub nose and slightly protruding teeth were unchanged.

  Prudence turned her head. “Alaric, my dearest,” she cried, springing to her feet, her eyes shining. She dropped into a low curtsy, head bent as if she were greeting royalty.

  Why in the hell was she addressing him with such familiarity? “Good evening, Miss Larkin,” he said, bowing. “I see that you have met my father and aunt.”

  They had risen as well; she turned to them with a smile. “I was just telling your family everything that passed between us in Africa.”

  “You were?” Alaric’s mind reeled. In his opinion, a woman would be humiliated by the memory of their last, profoundly awkward encounter—when she had stolen into his bed and had to be unceremoniously ejected. Yet here she was, beaming at the duke.

  “At times the heart can mend itself only in silence.”

  The duke frowned. If there was a man in the world unimpressed by vague metaphysical statements, it was His Grace. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I was dead, you see.” She took a step toward Alaric. “Verily, I know that you must be shocked to the very core. But I lived … I lived!”

  After a moment’s silence while everyone digested the fact that, indeed, the lady seemed to be living, the duke said, “Alaric.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Miss Larkin is the daughter of Charles Pearson Larkin, a missionary with whom I stayed in Africa some years ago. I believe she was fourteen years old at that time. I know nothing about her death nor, indeed, her return from it.”

  Prudence gave him a beatific smile. “Alaric and I shared a special …” Her voice dropped. “A special bond.”

  Bloody hell.

  “No, we did not,” Alaric stated.

  She gave him a sympathetic look. “I understood that you would have tried to raze me from the tablets of your heart after discovering that I had passed from this earth.”

  There was silence again as everyone wrestled with her idiosyncratic language.

  “When I left Africa, you were perfectly healthy,” Alaric observed.

  The duke said, “May I say that for someone who claims to have died, and lived again, you are looking remarkably well.”

  “It was a miracle,” Prudence said. Alaric was starting to find her glowing smile unnerving. “I came here, among the tents of the wicked, with sobriety and humbleness, not taking pride in my love for Lord Wilde, but certain of it.”

  “A Puritan, I gather,” his aunt said.

  Prudence turned her head and her eyes narrowed as she looked closely at Lady Knowe. Then she said, with a little gasp, “Let not your eyes be drawn aside with vanity, Prudence, nor your ear with wicked noises.”

  “I beg your pardon, but did you just address yourself?” His aunt seemed to be working out how best to handle this eccentric stranger.

  While Lady Knowe appeared undisturbed by Prudence’s rudeness, Alaric was appalled. What in the devil was Prudence doing, insulting his aunt and raving about a “special bond”?

  He had clear memories of her as a spotty young girl who prayed more loudly and fervently than did her parents. All the same, she’d had an unhealthy anger about her, as if she was always on the verge of loud sobs.

  Then the night came when he’d discovered her tucked under his sheet—belying her claims to godliness. He had pried her from the bed, escorted her to the door, pushed her out of his bedchamber, and left the next morning.

  “Why are you here, Miss Larkin?” he asked.

  “I came for you, dear one.”

  “I am not your dear one, and there is nothing between us.”

  “It is a sin of obstinacy, great obstinacy, high and horrible obstinacy, to deny the truth.”

  “There is no truth in what you are saying.” He’d heard enough. Prudence was more than eccentric; she was deranged.

  “What I wish to know,” his father said, intervening, “is whether there is a connection between you, Miss Larkin, and the play depicting a missionary’s daughter that is currently on the stage in London.”

  Prudence turned to Alaric with a gentle smile. If it was a mask, it was a complete one, one which the woman herself believed in. “Indeed, there is,” she said. Her smile widened. “I wrote Wilde in Love.”

  “You wrote that play?” The words grated from Alaric’s chest.

  Her eyes fell. “You are right to admonish me, husband.”

  “Husband?”

  “I think of you as my husband, though I know the word is an ensign of pride, a banner of pride,” she said, stumbling over her words for the first time. She squared her shoulders and that eerie sweetness stole over her face again.

  To Alaric, she looked like a woman smiling at a baby, rather than at a small circle of hostile aristocrats.

  “My father calls the theater the smoke of vanity, made by Satan himself to draw us to fleshly errors, things of the world, of the devil, and the flesh.”

  “Does he indeed? And I would call your play a tissue of lies,” Alaric said. He crossed his arms over his chest. “I feel myself justified in calling the sheriff.”

  “Do not be angry with me,” Prudence pleaded. “Everything I have done, I did for the pure love of you.”

  This was an unmitigated disaster.

  “Where is your father?”

  “After you left, I fell into such a fit of longing that I was deemed not likely to survive.” Tears glimmered in her eyes. “I died, verily, I died. When I awoke, I knew that I had to follow you, though you went to an impure place, yea, even into the fires of hell itself.”

  “She’s deranged,” Lady Knowe said, bluntly but not unkindly. “Daft as a brush, and that’s the truth of it. I always said those Puritans prayed too much. Fasting isn’t good for a body either.”

  “You should not address me,” Prudence said, her chin firming. “You have the marks of the devil about thee. You partake of pitch. You—”

  “Do not speak to Lady Knowe in that tone,” His Grace said.

  He did not raise his voice, but something about the duke made Prudence instantly fall silent.

  “Where is your father?” Alaric repeated.

  “I ran away. I came here, not to partake of sin, but to cleanse you of it.” A silence, and then she added practically, “You weren’t in the country when I arrived.”

  “So you wrote the play?”

  A hint of pride crept into her face. “I composed it on the voyage. The men aboard the ship were quite unkind and forced me to keep to my room.”

  “You had no right to make a play out of my nephew’s life,” Lady Knowe said.

  “I had every right,” Prudence retorted. “I am his wife.”

  “I have no wife.” Alaric didn’t allow himself to move a finger.

/>   “Yes, you have,” Prudence insisted. “We may not have exchanged words in the presence of a minister, but we were moved in the Spirit together, and God rewarded our zeal and glory.”

  Alaric shook his head. “I have no idea what you are talking about. After you crept into my bed, I put you out directly. I did not tell your father about your actions, though I see now that was a mistake.”

  “You took my heart with you when you left … I died. But I live, and die, every night in the play that I wrote for you. All that remains is for us to say the words in our heart under a sacred roof.”

  “You can’t possibly think that Alaric would actually marry you,” his aunt said, visibly surprised.

  “He will marry me because he loves me.”

  Silence.

  What in the hell could he say that would convince her? What did one say to a woman who seemed to think that she’d been brought back from the dead? “I will never marry you.”

  “I will wait for you,” Prudence cried, her voice trembling. “I will wait until you change your mind. I will wait my entire life.”

  The duke moved forward. “Miss Larkin—”

  “Thou canst not rule my tongue,” she said desperately. “My tongue is my own, and so is my pen, and with it I will keep loving you no matter how often you slay me, reject me, hate me.”

  “This is turning Shakespearean,” Lady Knowe observed. “I think she’s threatening to write more plays about you, Alaric.”

  “I rejoice in my afflictions,” Prudence said. Then she scowled at Alaric’s aunt. “Thou, thou art all abomination!”

  The duke sighed. “Miss Larkin, I’m afraid you must go your way now. You’ve said enough.”

  “I’ll pay for your passage back to your father,” Alaric said. “I would guess that he’s worried about you.”

  “No, he isn’t,” Prudence said, her voice trembling. “He knows we are to be married, because of our love. Because I came to you, and spent the night with you, and married you in my heart.”

  “We did not spend the night together.” Behind Miss Larkin, his father shook his head, and Alaric realized the duke was right. There was no point in attempting to reason with her.

  “I shall find you a ship headed for Africa,” he said, schooling his voice to what he hoped was a persuasive key.

  “I was terrified in my inner heart that you would have found someone else, but now I see that my prayers are answered. You are mine, and though you may not—”

  “No,” he said, “I am not yours. I have found someone else.”

  Her eyes narrowed for a second and then, like a veil, the sweetness fell back over her expression. “You are teasing me, dear one. It isn’t kind. Not after the privations I’ve suffered for your sake.”

  “A rest cure might help,” Lady Knowe suggested, sounding unconvinced.

  Behind them the door opened and Willa entered. Alaric’s heart bounded at the sight of her. She was so frank and honest in comparison to this frighteningly strange madwoman.

  “Please forgive my interruption,” she said, once she reached the group. “I came to fetch a book that Miss Gray left here earlier in the day.”

  Alaric held out his hand. “Miss Ffynche, please join us.” Then he held his breath. Willa had theretofore refused his courtship in no uncertain terms. But there was something between them … an invisible bond as strong as steel.

  He needed her help.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It seemed to Willa as if she’d entered a theater after missing the first two acts of a melodrama.

  Before her stood the brave heroine, amidst a circle of uncaring aristocrats. This would be the scene in which the hapless, seduced maid denounces the evil squire for taking her virginity and getting her with child.

  That speech was typically capped by the squire’s rejection, leading in Act Five to the heroine’s tragic plunge from a high tower, cliff, or church steeple.

  But in this scene the evil squire was Alaric, and he was holding out his hand. He needed her. Her heart was pounding in her chest, even though there was no logical reason she should be so thrilled by the expression in his eyes.

  “Lady Knowe, Your Grace,” she said, dropping a curtsy. Then she came a few steps closer and murmured, “Lord Alaric.” He promptly reached down, caught up her hand, and held it to his lips.

  Willa felt herself turning pink. The duke was looking at them, his eyes speculative, but unsurprised. Lady Knowe outright winked at her.

  “I cannot and will not marry you, Miss Larkin,” Alaric stated. “I did not seduce you, or even spend time with you. I do not know you, and you are clearly disturbed.”

  Marriage? Willa’s guess at melodrama seemed correct; the state of affairs was not as simple as an enthusiastic pilgrimage to Lord Wilde’s birthplace.

  Alaric would never act in a shabby way toward a woman. For a fleeting moment, Willa thought about how much her opinion of him had changed since they’d met. He was no longer Lord Wilde, the famous explorer.

  He was Alaric. Alaric of the honorable eyes and hungry kisses.

  “Even as you say that, I just love you more,” Prudence breathed, moving a step toward Alaric. Her voice dropped. “Think of me as your spaniel.”

  Goodness.

  Hadn’t Miss Larkin noticed the object of her devotion was pressing kiss after kiss on another woman’s fingers?

  It seemed not. Willa withdrew her hand; it was awkward to stand there and be theatrically kissed when the designated audience was paying no attention.

  “The more you beat me, the more I will fawn on you,” Miss Larkin said in a panting voice.

  Ugh.

  Willa instinctively moved closer to Alaric, her arm brushing his. She caught Miss Larkin’s eye and gave her a direct stare that she hoped would clarify that there was to be no “beating” in Willa’s presence.

  Nor fawning either, to be frank.

  “Lord Alaric, won’t you introduce me?” she asked.

  “Please forgive me,” Alaric said. “Willa, my love, this is Miss Prudence Larkin, whom I knew exceedingly briefly when she was a young girl in Africa and her father, a missionary, showed me hospitality. We have just learned that she traveled to London some time ago, and is the author of that wretched play.”

  All signs of fawning love fell from the playwright’s face. “My play is not wretched!” she snapped. “It has been widely proclaimed as brilliant!”

  Alaric’s adjective had certainly been less than tactful, though most people would agree that he had reason to be annoyed. “I must congratulate you on your extraordinary success, Miss Larkin,” Willa said. “I have not been lucky enough to see the production myself, but it is certainly popular.”

  Miss Larkin glanced at her. “Yes, well, the tickets have been sold ahead for months. I suppose I could find you a ticket or two if you happen to be in London.”

  That was so extraordinarily rude that Willa bit back a smile and Lady Knowe actually guffawed.

  Ignoring them, the playwright took a step toward Alaric, her hands clasped before her. “Spurn me, strike me, neglect me, lose me,” she said in a low, broken voice. “Only give me leave, unworthy as I am, to follow you.”

  Oh, for goodness’ sake.

  “That sounds awfully familiar,” Lady Knowe muttered.

  “Because the speech was written by Shakespeare,” Willa pointed out. “It first appeared in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, as did most of her lines since I entered the room.”

  “What worser place can I beg in your life than to be used as you use your dog?” Miss Larkin cried, her voice rising feverishly. She swayed and Willa had a horrible sense that she was about to fall to her knees. “I am sick when I—”

  “I am betrothed to Miss Wilhelmina Everett Ffynche,” Alaric said, cutting her off.

  Willa let out an involuntary gasp. Lady Knowe broke into another bellow of laughter, and even the duke smiled.

  “Miss Larkin, this is not a stage, nor are you in a Shakespeare play,” Alaric conti
nued. “I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.”

  The lady’s eyes grew round. She slapped her hands to her cheeks, falling back a step.

  Overacting, Willa thought unsympathetically. What could you expect from someone who adopted Shakespeare’s wilder lines for her own? If Willa remembered correctly, this particular character, Helena, was drugged with a love potion when she said those foolish things.

  Shakespeare was a good example of why Willa disliked fiction. Helena ran around on stage abasing herself. There was enough of that in real life.

  “I expect this is a shock,” she said.

  A large tear rolled down Miss Larkin’s cheek. “Verily, it breaks me. I think I will die again.”

  She was a terrible actress. Perhaps she was a brilliant playwright, but Willa was beginning to have suspicions about that too. The cannibal stew pot had sounded dubious, and it could be that Wilde in Love was utter rubbish.

  Perhaps even plagiarized rubbish.

  “Dying is not allowed in Lindow Castle,” Lady Knowe said. She wasn’t laughing anymore; instead she looked sympathetic.

  Alaric’s aunt was eccentric, brusque, and funny, but Willa was also starting to think that she was one of the kindest people she’d ever met.

  “You proposed marriage to this woman before you knew that I still lived,” Miss Larkin gulped. “You will change your mind because you loved me first, and I know you still love me. I saw how many times you glanced at me across the table in Africa. I’ve read every one of your books!”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Lady Knowe asked.

  Alaric had the feeling that he was caught in a nightmare. Willa was the only stable fulcrum of his world.

  “Alaric left clues for me in his books,” Prudence cried. Eerily, that sweet smile broke over her face again. “As I read his lines over and over, I came to see that he spoke to me through the pages.”

  “Why would I be speaking to you if I believed you dead?” Alaric asked.

  “Love is eternal,” Prudence explained. “You were talking to my soul, little knowing that I had survived the tempest.”

  “Alaric and I are betrothed,” Willa said, putting a hint of outrage in her voice. “It is presumptuous, not to mention inaccurate, to suggest that my fiancé might fall out of love with me and marry you. Lord Alaric is mine,” she concluded, nudging him with her elbow.