Your Wicked Heart

  “At least he knew you existed !” Charles’s hand closed on his arm, urgency in the strength of his grip. “At least he t-talked to you! Spoke to you l-like a man! I w-was invisible! But you never were. In his eyes, I was—nothing.”

  An unpleasant sensation stole over Spence. Unwelcome knowledge. He tried to push it down. “He was a rotter. None of us escaped unscathed.”

  “No.” Charles’s hand fell away. “We didn’t.”

  “Yet none of this excuses your behavior. You left her. An act of cowardice more egregious than—” He shook his head, wordless. There was no comparison.

  “D-don’t you think. I’ve hated myself ? Every night—I lie awake. Cursing myself ! Spence—h-help me m-make it right. It’s a s-sign. That you found her. I still want. To marry her. Help me win her.”

  Spence recoiled. “What?”

  “I d-don’t care if you . . . touched her. I love her. G-give me your support!”

  A disbelieving laugh tore from him. Even the most luridly melodramatic of playwrights could not have come up with a better twist. To be asked to support an offer of marriage, by another man, to the woman he—

  What? The woman he loved ?

  He pressed a hand over his eyes, squeezing his temples hard, as though he could force a single syllable of reason out of his aching brain.

  Love. Yes. God’s name. It could not happen so quickly. He barely knew her. What did he know of her? Nothing save that she was beautiful. That taking her to bed had been the single most wondrous experience of his life. Nothing but that she was brave, and sharp-witted, and resourceful, and kind—and that she was lonely, because the universe was unjust.

  A woman like her, a woman of such worth, deserved far more than the slim hope of a position. She deserved a man who would make her happiness the center of his life. Who would make her feel so safe that she forgot she had ever longed for safety, that safety was a thing to be longed for at all . . .

  I was an idiot to trust you. But I have made that mistake before.

  The broken sound of her voice as she had spoken those words . . .

  It came to him that he knew how to heal that injury, at least. He knew what it required, and he would give it to her, even if it . . . shattered him in the process.

  He took a long, hard breath. “All right, then,” he said. “Come with me.”

  “C-come where?”

  But he had already grabbed his cousin’s arm, was hauling him quickly down the deck. “You are going to tell her everything you just told me. That you love her. And that she was not wrong to believe you when you said you meant to marry her. And by God, you will make it convincing, or I will tie lead weights around your ankles and throw you overboard, and applaud as you drown.”

  * * *

  Amanda had congratulated herself, these last few days, on the cool dignity of her composure. Barring the single time when her fury had overset her—and her coffee cup, to Ripton’s marked discomfort—she had managed to present a facade of cool indifference to both him and his rat of a cousin.

  But inside, her bones seemed to be breaking in small increments, random twinges of pain that would grow abruptly, unbearably sharp when she glanced up and saw Ripton nearby. It was never by accident, his lingering so close. His eyes always rested upon her. And in his tense, dark face, she saw pain.

  Pain! Ridiculous. Even now, furnished with the full proof of his black heart—the evidence that he had swindled her just as thoroughly as his cousin had—she still ached for him. She wept at night, burying her face in the feather pillows lest somebody overhear her from the corridor.

  She’d thought herself prepared for heartbreak. But she had imagined the world would inflict it on her—his world, to which he must return.

  She had never dreamed he would break her heart with his own hands.

  Now, on the final day of the journey, with England lurking just beyond the thick mist over the strait, she reminded herself again that this feeling was nothing new. Perhaps it wasn’t even heartbreak. She had been made a fool before. Perhaps it had hurt just this much, and somehow she had forgotten.

  Why it should hurt so much more now, she did not want to understand. She did not want to look deeply into herself. It was a jagged place, inside her. She did not want to know it.

  And so, when she opened the cabin door to find both her former fiancé and her former kidnapper waiting for her, she did not hesitate before stepping backward and pulling the door shut.

  Or attempting to, at any rate. Ripton reached out and caught the door by its edge. His cousin slipped beneath his arm to duck into the room, and she—gasping at the audacity, at this, the very last straw—turned around for something to throw.

  Ripton did not duck as quickly as his cousin. But the pillow—for everything else was bolted down, drat it—bounced harmlessly off his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “But we must speak to you.”

  She could not even look at him. One glance was enough to burn her, to open a terrible pulsing wound deep in her chest. He wore a suit she had never seen before, a fine dark suit, the pinstripes emphasizing his height, the leanness of his body. City clothing designed for a man of power, who knew it was his role in life to impress, to influence and intimidate.

  She focused instead on his cousin, whose weak chin afforded the proper inspiration for her sneer.

  “Ah, yes,” she said. “You must talk, and so you barge into my room. I suppose this rotten streak, this willingness to bully women, is a family affair? You must tell me, sir.” Her former fiancé’s true name was Charles; he had attempted, very sheepishly, to introduce himself anew, two days ago. If she’d had a hot cup in her hand then, she would have aimed it at his galling, lopsided smile.

  He shifted now, flicking an uncomfortable glance toward Ripton. She would not follow that glance. “W-well, th-the thing is—it’s only th-th-that—”

  And he stuttered now. What a strange development! But she supposed she could not blame him. With a cousin like Ripton, she probably would have grown up stammering as well. Cad, ass, liar, seducing rake—

  But that last bit wasn’t true. She had seduced him. It had been she who kissed him first, that night in Gibraltar. She who had told him she was certain.

  What an infuriating fact to be unable to forget! If she were wise, she would find a rock to knock her head against as soon as she set foot on land.

  “It’s only that my cousin has something to tell you,” Ripton said brusquely, interjecting for his cousin, who ceded immediately to this interruption (spineless, she thought in disgust, Charles St. John was spineless). “It seems that you were not misguided, after all, in trusting his promises.”

  Baffled, she turned to look at Ripton. His expression was shuttered, his mouth a flat line. He did not seem to be happy about his own tidings.

  “I do not follow,” she said. “I do not wish to follow. I want you both to leave.”

  “I love you!” Charles burst out. “D-d-desperately, Amanda! I l-love you and I would m-marry you in a heartbeat!”

  “And will,” said Ripton, still in that cold, dead voice, “within the hour, should you choose. The captain stands ready and willing to perform the ceremony.”

  She was gaping. As though she had stepped outside herself and floated somewhere above, she could see herself clearly: the slack jaw, the stunned blankness in her face.

  “He has done wrong by you,” Ripton said. “But it was out of fear and cowardice—fear, I am afraid to say, that you would not find him worthy of your attention, were he to court you as a mere gentleman. But I have assured him that I will make a provision for you—a very handsome one—should you agree to wed him. Enough to set up a comfortable household and to live without worries or cares.”

  Now feeling rushed back into her. On a red tide of rage, she realized there was something else not bolted down: the chair at the writing desk. Her hands closed hard on it. “How dare you—”

  “My God!” Charles sprang forward, attempting to wre
st the chair from her grip, and the clammy touch of his hand against hers was so repulsive that she sprang away, letting him have the thing.

  “Get out!” she yelled.

  Charles cast aside the chair. “Amanda, please! Every w-word he says is true. I was a c-c-coward, I admit it, but I p-planned to tell you the truth, once you were back in London. I left m-money for you, m-money for y-y-your p-passage—”

  She thrust out the flat of her hand, wanting to push him away, to physically stop his words. Did he think she cared what his intentions had been? Or what he felt now? Perhaps he did, the fool! But Ripton should have known better!

  Ripton. Spencer, his cousin called him. Yes, no wonder Charles stuttered, with such a hound stalking him through life! Stalking and judging him—managing him, expertly and mercilessly, the same way Ripton had managed her.

  Her eyes fell to Charles’s hands, which he held clasped to his chest as though in prayer. Her attention fixed on the paler circle of skin around his index finger.

  “That date on the ring,” she said against her will. “What did it mean?”

  She sensed Ripton stiffen. But Charles looked as hopeful as a puppy reprieved from a scolding. “My birth date,” he said. “M-my . . . it was a g-gift to me f-from my father. Cast the d-day I was born.”

  Sympathy stirred, unwelcome, detestable. The ring had meant a good deal to him. That was clear from the tone of his voice.

  Perhaps, in his mind, he had loved her—even if it had been a foolish and cowardly kind of love. Meanwhile, her reasons for accepting his suit had been impure, guided by self-interest.

  She felt, suddenly, uncomfortable with her own anger. “I bear you no ill will, sir.” To her amazement, as she spoke the words, they felt true to her. She had no moral high ground on which to resent him. “But you abandoned me, you know.” She had intended to strike a bargain with him—her eternal loyalty and affection in return for his name and steadfast love. And he had broken that bargain. “Had you not done so . . .” They would be married now.

  The thought appalled her, but it was true. And the very fact that it appalled her brought the steel back into her voice, for she knew that her new view was owed to Ripton. Ripton, who had scrambled her brain! “But you did leave me. You lied to me, sir, and then you abandoned me. And that’s the end of it. I cannot marry you now.”

  Charles’s face fell. But she put the full force of her conviction into her stern look, and after a moment, with a small nod, he lowered his head.

  There. That was done. But one task yet remained. She faced Ripton squarely. “You,” she said through her teeth, “are a different matter. You are an ass. You would pawn me off on your cousin, would you?”

  His eyes widened. “What? No! You misunderstand this entirely. I wanted you to see that you weren’t wrong to—”

  “I was wrong in every way,” she said. “Wrong to admire you. Wrong to like you. Wrong to trust you! Wrong to ever have wanted . . . anything of you.” Her voice choked; on a great ragged breath, she swallowed the lump that had come into her throat. “Wrong,” she managed, and then dashed an angry hand over her eyes, for he did not deserve a single tear.

  “Amanda. I . . .” He drove a hand through his hair, then let it drop like a dead weight to his side. “God above, I cannot deny any of what you say. I have done a terrible wrong by you. We both have done wrong by you. And no apologies will ever be sufficient. I know that. But you must let me atone. Charles stands willing to wed you—”

  “Did you not hear me? I said—”

  “And if it is your preference, so do I.”

  She could not have heard him right. “What?”

  “What?” Charles gasped.

  Ripton did not look away from her. “I will marry you within the hour. I will gladly make you my wife, if that is your . . . preference.”

  In her shock, she barely registered Charles’s protest. Her heart was pounding so loudly that she could hear nothing else. His wife.

  And then she shook her head, hard, to punish herself and to wake her wits. “My preference?” As though the two men were loaves of bread, and it fell to her to choose which was more to her liking?

  “What a fine proposal,” she said, attempting to make her words sound scathing. But they faltered at the end.

  Oh, God. Something in her was crumbling now. Heartbreak was supposed to feel grand, momentous, a tragedy of epic proportions. It was not meant to feel humiliating.

  “You think you ruined me,” she said through tears. “And so now one of you must purchase me. Is that it?”

  “No!” burst out Charles, but Ripton gave him a black look and came toward her.

  Shaking her head harder, she retreated into the corner. “Don’t touch me.” If he did, the last bit of her would break. God help her, she might even fall into his arms. She might even let him marry her. She might . . .

  “You will be safe, protected,” he said urgently. “I promise you. All of my days, I will keep you safe.”

  And that was what she had needed to hear—the offer that snapped steel back into her spine.

  She would not return to England unchanged. For she was not a coward: she knew that now. “I am done trading my dignity for safety.” The steadiness of her voice amazed her. Pain was a vise on her lungs, but she sounded . . . strong.

  She was a woman of courage now in truth.

  “I want nothing to do with you,” she said. “Ever again.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  London, England

  “I’ll be needing the coming month’s rent from you by tomorrow morning!”

  “You’ll have it,” Amanda called over her shoulder. The landlady, a perpetually harried-looking woman by the name of Primm, gave a skeptical nod before turning back down the staircase.

  The groan of the rotting stairs punctuated the woman’s descent. Amanda fumbled with the keys, then dropped them. As she stooped, she saw that her hand shook.

  The interview had not gone as she’d expected.

  The door swung open as she straightened. Olivia Mather looked down at her from a height usually achieved only by men. The girl’s red hair was wrapped tightly around her head and concealed, at present, by a calico turban. This strange new affectation she would not explain. “Good news?” she asked, stepping back to allow Amanda to enter.

  There was not far to go. The little apartment was barely big enough for a grate, two slender cots, and a wash basin. “Mrs. Primm wants the rent,” she said. “I don’t have it. I’ll need to find cheaper rooms.” For the wedding dress had not fetched nearly as much as she’d hoped for, and without Olivia to share the expenses, she would be sunk very soon.

  “I told you I would give you half of next month’s rent.”

  Amanda fell onto her cot and then winced. The bed was made of a wooden board and a mattress not much thicker than paper. Restraining the urge to rub her sore backside, she said, “But you’re leaving. It wouldn’t be right. No, I can’t take a penny from you.”

  Olivia paced a tight circle around the room. In the meager light that fell through the single, murky window, she looked wan and fatigued. “I have been thinking on it,” she said. “Perhaps I can postpone my voyage for another few weeks. I don’t like to leave you until I know you’re well settled.”

  Amanda bit her lip. Olivia’s pressing voyage grew more puzzling by the day. When she had left England with Mrs. Pennypacker, Olivia had been comfortably ensconced in a secretarial position with a society beauty. But now, for reasons she would not divulge, she had quit the position and was determined to go to Paris for a year.

  She had offered to take Amanda with her. But lacking French—and any talent for languages—Amanda knew her future must be made here, or nowhere.

  “You mustn’t stay for my sake,” she said gently. “I will find something. I’m sure of it.”

  Olivia took a seat on her own bed, lowering herself far more cautiously than Amanda had. “I so thought your interview with Lady Forbes would be a success. What happened?
”

  Amanda looked down to her lap, making a braid of her fingers. “Yes, well, she did offer me the position.”

  “What?” Now Olivia sprang up again. “But that’s marvelous!”

  “But I declined it.”

  “What?”

  Amanda sighed. How to explain? She had not told Olivia the circumstances of her abrupt return to England—only the details of why she had quit Mrs. Pennypacker’s service.

  “I felt we would not suit,” she said.

  It was a lame excuse, and Olivia, for all her gifts, was not known for tact. “Well, that was stupid of you,” she said. “Beyond stupid! You must go back to her, Amanda—tell her you’ve changed your mind.”

  “No.” She had realized a minute into her interview that she could not work for Lady Forbes. For one, the woman had not even blinked at the news that Amanda lacked a letter of reference. That suspicious behavior had only been compounded when Lady Forbes dropped word, very casually, of her great desire to see Egypt.

  Olivia was gawking at her. Amanda sighed. “I mistrust the offer. And after the debacle with Mrs. Pennypacker, I must be . . . cautious. You understand.”

  She knew exactly whom she had to thank for the offer, after all. Baron Forbes had confirmed it when he’d stumbled into their tête-à-tête. “Ah,” he’d said, looking her up and down through his monocle. “Is this the one Ripton recommended?”

  “But I don’t understand,” Olivia said flatly. “If you won’t take the position, I will! Fifty pounds a year—it’s a fortune!”

  “Go ahead, then. Take it. Though I thought Mrs. Chudderley paid you sixty. Why did you leave her, then?”

  Checkmate. Olivia sat back onto the bed, her mouth forming a mulish line. “I have no complaint against my former employer. Indeed, if she were not on her honeymoon, I would send you directly to her. She must be in want of a secretary now.”

  “I will keep her in mind once she returns.”

  “You’ll be dead of starvation by then!”

  Amanda could not disagree with that. With a shrug, she reached for her portfolio. “I’ve yet to hear from the school that’s advertising in Manchester—”