Your Wicked Heart (14 page)

The remark robbed Spencer of his next words—and, much to his bitterness, of his anger as well.

Goddamn it.

She had told him the impostor did not stutter. And he had known Charles too long to misunderstand the immensity of that news.

A sigh seized him. The wet breeze brought the taste of salt. Reluctantly he spoke. “She said you were different with her. That you spoke fluently.” Now that he considered it, the news did not even surprise him. If anyone could work such a miracle, it would be Amanda, who uncovered wonders where others saw only the commonplace.

But Charles hardly deserved her brand of magic. “What possessed you?” He shook his head. “What could possibly have possessed you to undertake such a fraud?”

A soft touch on his sleeve. He shrugged it away.

“P-please.” Charles stepped around to face him, blue eyes beseeching. “I j-just—wondered. What it w-would be like to be
you.
F-for a day.”

A hard laugh cut his throat. “Oh, yes? And yet you failed to experience the main aspect of it: cleaning up after
you
.”

His cousin’s jaw squared. “Y-you think it s-so easy? To b-be your cousin? To live in. Your shadow.”

Spence shrugged. “Am I meant to weep for you?”

“Y-you were always the.
Special
one. E-even my own f-father—”

“Christ!” Spence took hold of the rail, squeezing hard. “Jealous of the beatings, were you?”

“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 wrest 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.