Slightly Wicked

Chapter XII

The weather cooperated in grand style for the garden party at Grandmaison. Despite a cloudy morning that looked for a while as if it might have been the prelude to rain, the afternoon was clear and sunny, with just enough heat not to oppress the senses. The sitting room was in use for anyone who felt more inclined to sit indoors than out, but the French windows were opened back and most of the guests remained outdoors, walking the paths of the formal gardens, sitting in the rose arbor, or strolling over the lawns or down along the stream path. On the terrace, long tables covered with crisp white cloths were laden with appetizing foods of all descriptions as well as tea urns and large jugs of lemonade and punch.

Judith was determined to enjoy herself. She was wearing what she had always considered her prettiest dress, the pale green muslin, though like most of her dresses it had not escaped alteration. And she was wearing one of her own caps beneath the bonnet Aunt Louisa had given her. She did not feel pretty, but then she had never been under any illusions about her looks. However, this afternoon she did not feel so very different from a number of the other guests who had been invited from the neighborhood. Most of them did not look nearly as elegant or fashionable as the Harewood set. And Judith had the advantage of having made the acquaintance of some of them the day before when she had delivered invitations to the ball.

She spent the first half hour with the vicar’s wife and daughter and believed that she might in time develop a friendship with them. They in turn introduced her to a few other people who spoke politely to her and did not look at her with disdain or—worse—turn immediately away as if she simply were not there. After an hour or so she went to join her grandmother in the sitting room and brought her a plate of food from the terrace. They sat there, comfortable together until Lady Beamish found them and bore them off to the rose arbor after persuading Grandmama that the air was warm and the breeze really close to being nonexistent.

She was enjoying the party, Judith told herself after leaving the two old friends together to chat with each other. All around her she could hear the sounds of laughter and merriment. It seemed as if the young people were all moving about in groups, sometimes in couples, looking youthful and exuberant, enjoying one another’s company. Even all the older guests seemed to have someone with whom they belonged or felt thoroughly comfortable—as did she, of course. She had her grandmother.

Julianne was surrounded by the closest of her female friends and a few of the gentlemen from the house party. Lord Rannulf was at her side, as he had been almost all afternoon, and she was sparkling up at him though she must have said something to make the whole group laugh.

He really was going to marry Julianne .

Judith longed suddenly for solitude, having discovered— as she had never done at home—that it was possible to feel at one’s loneliest in the midst of a crowd. No one was taking any notice of her at the moment. It was almost a certainty that the back of any grand home would be quiet. She took a path around the side of the house and found the expected kitchen gardens at the back. Fortunately they were deserted and immediately she breathed more easily.

She was going to have to get over this, she told herself sternly—this feeling of displacement, this loss of all confidence in herself, this self-pity.

The stables were at the far side of the house with a paddock behind them. She walked past the fenced-off area, looking at the horses grazing there, relieved that there were no grooms outside to see her and wonder what she was doing so far from the party.

Beyond the stables the ground fell away down a steepish grassy slope into a wooded area. Judith half ran down it and found herself among rhododendron bushes, surrounded suddenly by their heavy fragrance. And ahead of her, now that she was down, she could see a pretty little summerhouse and beyond it a lily pond.

The summerhouse was hexagonal and completely closed in beneath its pointed shingled roof though there were windows on all sides. She tried the door and it opened inward on well-oiled hinges to reveal a tiled floor and a leather-covered bench all around the wall. That it was sometimes used was obvious. It was clean. There were a few books strewn along one side of the bench. But surely it was not someone’s completely private retreat. It was not locked.

She went inside, leaving the door open so that she could breathe the rhododendron-fragrant air and listen to the birds singing, and so that she could get an unobstructed view of the pretty, well-kept lily pond, its water dark green beneath the roof of tree branches, the lilies a startling white in contrast.

It was a little heaven on earth, she decided, sinking onto one of the benches, folding her hands in her lap, and allowing herself to relax for the first time all afternoon. She pushed aside homesickness, loneliness, and heartache. It was not in her nature to harbor negative feelings for long and these ones had oppressed her for altogether too many days. Here were peace and beauty to nurture her spirit, and she would accept the gift by opening herself to what was offered and giving it a chance to seep into her soul.

She inhaled deeply and then relaxed further. Her eyes closed after a couple of minutes, though she was not sleeping. She felt both happy and aware of being blessed. She lost track of time.

“A pretty picture indeed,” a voice said softly from the doorway and she was jolted back to unpleasant reality just as if she really had been sleeping.

Horace was standing there, one shoulder propped against the door frame, one booted leg crossed over the other.

“Oh,” she said, “you alarmed me. I came for a walk, found the summerhouse, and sat down to rest for a few moments. I must be getting back.” She stood up and realized that the summerhouse was really not very large at all.

“Why?” he asked her without moving. “Because Step-mama may have some errands for you to run?

Because your grandmama may need someone to fetch her more cakes? The garden party will continue for some time yet, and we Harewood guests will be staying even after everyone else leaves, you know.

We are invited for dinner. Relax. You will not be missed for some time yet.”

That was precisely what she was afraid of.

“It is all very picturesque, is it not?” she said brightly. And very remote and secluded .

“Very,” he agreed without removing his eyes from her. “And would be even more so without its bonnet and cap.”

She smiled. “Is that a compliment, Mr. Effingham?” she asked. “I thank you. Will you stay here a while?

Or will you walk back to the house with me?”

“Judith.” He smiled at her, revealing almost all his perfect white teeth. “There is no need to be skittish—or to call me Mr. Effingham . I saw you leave the party because you were feeling alone and neglected. You go unappreciated here, do you not? It is because Stepmama treats you like a poor relation and encourages the impression most of the guests have that you are your grandmama’s companion. And because you have been forced to wear this heavy disguise. I am the only man here, apart from your brother, who has been privileged to catch a glimpse beyond it.”

She silently reprimanded herself for dressing the way she had on that day he had arrived with Bran. He would have shown no interest in her if he had seen her only as she looked now. She could think of no sensible answer to his words.

“You are not quite unappreciated, though,” he told her.

“Well.” She laughed. “Thank you. But I really must go now.” She took one step forward. Another would bring her into collision with him. But, as he had done on the wilderness walk, he stood his ground and did not move aside for her to pass. “Excuse me, please, Mr. Effingham.”

“I daresay,” he said, “you had a very strict and narrow upbringing at the rectory, did you, Judith? A little dalliance can be very entertaining, you know, especially when the party is so dull.”

“I am not interested in dalliance,” she told him firmly.

“That is because you have never experienced it,” he said. “We will correct that gap in your education, Judith. And could we ask for more ... picturesque surroundings for the first lesson?”

“Enough of this,” she said curtly. She was truly alarmed now, since he seemed to be a man who would not take no for an answer even when it was firmly given. “I am leaving. And I would advise you not to try stopping me. Uncle George and Aunt Louisa would not be pleased with you if you did.”

He chuckled and sounded genuinely amused.

“Little innocent,” he said. “Do you really believe they would put any blame on me? And do you really believe you would tell?” He took one step forward and she took a half step back.

“I do not want this, Mr. Effingham,” she said. “It would be ungentlemanly of you to come one inch closer to me or to speak any further on a matter that is thoroughly distasteful to me. Let me go now.”

Instead of letting her go, he lifted one hand, pulled open the ribbons of her bonnet, and tossed both it and her cap onto the bench behind her before reaching for her. Half of her hair fell down over one shoulder, and she heard the sharp intake of his breath.

It was the last thing she consciously heard or saw for what seemed forever and was perhaps a minute, maybe two. She struck out at him blindly, flailing both fists, stamping with both feet, sinking her teeth into whatever came close to her mouth—but not screaming, she realized afterward. She had never been a screamer. Yet it was strange how, mindless as she seemed to be, a part of her took a step back and watched almost dispassionately as she struggled in a panic for her freedom and as Horace overpowered her quite effortlessly, laughing softly most of the time, cursing once or twice when she struck him.

And then her body was pressed to his, her dress half ridden up her legs, one of his wedged between them, her hands imprisoned against his chest, his horrid wet, open mouth seeking hers. It was the moment when her conscious mind returned. He fully intended to ravish her, and she was essentially powerless to stop him. But she would not go down meekly. She struggled on, panic returning as she became aware that her twistings and turnings were doing nothing to free her, but were only further amusing and inflaming him.

And then suddenly, without any warning, she was free, gazing in terrified incomprehension at the great monster who had just lifted Horace bodily away from her and was still growling menacingly as it turned and flung him outside. The monster resolved itself into Lord Rannulf Bedwyn as he went outside after Horace, lifted him from the ground with one hand, and slammed his back against a tree.

Judith reached out blindly for the nearest windowsill and clung to it.

“Perhaps it escaped your notice,” Lord Rannulf was saying—still in a harsh growl, “that the lady was unwilling.”

“This is rather extreme, is it not, Bedwyn?” Horace said, trying unsuccessfully to brush off the hand that held him by both coat lapels. “She was being coy rather than unwilling. We both know that. .. Oofff!”

Lord Rannulf had drawn back his free hand and driven his fist into Horace’s stomach.

“What we both know,” he said in a voice that suggested his teeth were half clenched, “is that to call you a worm, Effingham, would be to dishonor the insect kingdom.”

“If you fancy her yourself... Oofff!” Horace sagged forward as another blow landed to his stomach, but Lord Rannulf’s left hand held him firmly in place.

“You can be thankful,” he said, “that we are on my grandmother’s land with a garden party in progress.

It would otherwise give me the greatest pleasure to send Miss Law away and give you the thrashing you deserve. I guarantee that you would end up unconscious and bloody on the ground here, your features permanently rearranged on your face.”

He dropped his hand and Horace, looking visibly shaken, stood away from the tree and started to restore his coat and shirt to rights.

“You think so, Bedwyn?” he said with studied nonchalance. “Dear, dear, and all over a wench who is simply panting for the attentions of anything in breeches.”

Lord Rannulf clearly kept in mind that the scandal of a fight must not ruin Lady Beamish’s garden party.

Not one of his blows was aimed at Horace’s face. All were directed at his body above the waist. Judith clung more tightly to the windowsill and watched, only half noticing that Horace, though he waved his fists ineffectually a few times, did not land even one blow. It was not a fight, though Horace was free to make it into one if he so chose. It was punishment. It ended only when Horace was on his hands and knees on the ground, retching horribly into the grass between his hands.

“You may wish,” Lord Rannulf said, his voice only slightly breathless, “to excuse yourself from staying for dinner, Effingham. It would make me sick to see you at my grandmother’s table. You will stay away from Miss Law in the future, do you hear me? Even when I am not in the vicinity to observe you pursuing her. I will find out, and next time I will thrash you to within an inch of your life . .. z/you are fortunate. Get out of my sight now.”

Horace stumbled to his feet, clutching his stomach with one hand. He was pale to the point of greenness.

But he looked at Lord Rannulf before turning and stumbling away.

“I’ll get even with you for this,” he said. He switched his gaze to Judith. “I’ll get you for this.” His eyes blazed with hatred.

And then, finally, he was gone, and Judith realized that her knuckles were white from the death grip she had on the windowsill and that her stomach was fluttering and her knees shaking. Lord Rannulf was straightening his clothes and then turning to her. It was only at that moment that she realized she should have been using the time to put herself to rights, but she still could not release her hold on the sill.

“I am sorry you were a witness to that violence,” he said. “I should have sent you back to the house first, but you would not wish to be seen like this and have everyone knowing or guessing what had happened.”

He came inside the summerhouse when she did not reply.

“You were putting up a fierce fight,” he said. “You have spirit.”

He took her hand from the sill then, prising her fingers gently away from it, took it on one of his, and chafed it with the other. His knuckles were reddened, she could see.

“It will not happen again,” he said. “I know men like Effingham. They are bullies with women who will not worship and adore them and cowards with men who call them to account. I do assure you he fears me and will heed my warning.”

“I did not invite any of that,” she said, her voice shaking quite beyond her control. “I did not come here with him.”

“I know,” he said. “I watched you go around the side of the house, and then I saw him go after you. It took me a few minutes to extricate myself from the company I was in and to disappear without notice. I beg your pardon that I came so late.”

She could see her hair—on both sides of her face. Her dress, she saw when she looked downward, had been pulled forward in the struggle so that its modest neckline now revealed the tops of her breasts. She lifted her free hand to pull it up and discovered that her hand was shaking so badly that she could not even grasp the fabric with it.

“Come.” He took that hand in his too and lowered her to sit on the bench. He sat beside her, still holding one of her hands, his arm pressing reassuringly against her shoulder. “Never mind your appearance for a few minutes. No one else will come here. Rest your head on my shoulder if you wish. Breathe in the peace of the surroundings.”

She did as he suggested, and they sat like that for five, perhaps even ten minutes, not speaking, not moving. How could two apparently similar men be so different? she wondered. Lord Rannulf had issued an invitation to her after the stagecoach accident, a most improper one, and had proceeded to act upon it. What made him different from Horace, then? But she had answered the question already. And she still believed her own answer, perhaps now more than ever. He would have ridden on alone that day if she had said no. He would have left her at the posting inn if she had said no to the move to the one by the market green. He would have allowed her to sleep on the settle in the private dining room there if she had said no. No, actually he would have given her the bed and slept on the settle himself. She knew he would have. Lord Rannulf Bedwyn was quite prepared to flirt with and even sleep with a willing woman, but he would never ever force himself upon an unwilling one.

And yet he would dishonor marriage vows by taking mistresses? It did not fit what her instinct told her of him. But she was—oh, of course she was—in love with him, and so it was natural that she would idealize him. She must not begin to believe that he was perfect.

She lifted her head and drew her hand from his and leaned away from the support of his shoulder. He did not turn his head, she noticed gratefully, while she adjusted the bodice of her dress and, in the absence of a brush, smoothed her hair back as best as she could, secured it to the back of her head with as many hairpins as she could find, and shoved the whole mess beneath her cap and then her bonnet.

“I am ready to go back now,” she said, getting to her feet. “Thank you, Lord Rannulf. I do not know how I am ever going to repay you. I seem always to be in your debt.” She held out her right hand to him.

It was quite steady, she was proud to see.

He took it in both his own again as he stood. “If you wish,” he said, “you may excuse yourself from dinner and the entertainment afterward by saying you are indisposed. I will see to it that you are sent home in my grandmother’s carriage and will even send a servant to stay with you if you fear you will be molested there. Just say the word.”

Ah, it was tempting. She did not know how she would be able to sit down to dinner and retain her composure and converse with whoever was seated to either side of her. She did not know how she would be able to bear seeing Lord Rannulf seated beside Julianne, as he surely would be, talking and laughing with her. But she was a lady, she reminded herself. And though she was only a lowly member of Uncle George’s family, she was a member nonetheless.

“Thank you,” she said, “but I will stay.”

He grinned suddenly. “I like that way you have of lifting your chin as if inviting the world to bring on its worst,” he said. “It is at such moments that the real Judith Law steps onto the stage, I believe.”

He lifted her hand to his lips, and for a moment she could have wept over the brief loveliness of the intimacy. Instead she smiled.

“I suppose,” she said, “there is a little of Claire Campbell in Judith Law.”

She would not take his arm, though he offered it. The occasion had drawn them close, but there was no more to their amity than that. He had saved her and comforted her because he was a gentleman. She must not refine on his behavior more than that. She must not cling to him. She clasped the sides of her skirt and plodded up the slope toward the stables.

“I will go back the way I came,” she said when they reached the top. “You must go a different way, Lord Rannulf.”

“Yes,” he agreed. And he strode off toward the front of the stables, leaving her feeling unreasonably bereft. Had she expected him to argue?

She hastened past the paddock and the kitchen gardens, shuddering at the realization that she could be returning under vastly different circumstances if he had not noticed Horace following her. It did not bear thinking of.

But why had he noticed? She had been convinced that she had slipped away without anyone’s seeing her. Yet Horace had seen and Lord Rannulf had seen. Perhaps after all she was not quite as invisible as she had begun to believe.